In November 2018, the road from Delhi to Jaisalmer unfolded like an ancient scroll—sunburnt, vast, and endless. What began as a simple bike ride soon turned into a dialogue between man, machine, and the desert’s eternal silence.
From Delhi, we traced our way through Nagaur, where the air began to dry and the earth turned to ochre. By the time Jaisalmer’s golden fort appeared on the horizon, the city seemed less like a destination and more like a mirage that had finally taken shape. Every mile ahead carried the warmth of sandstone, the hum of the engine, and the echo of old folk tunes that drifted across the Thar.
In Sam Desert, the world paused. The dunes shifted under moonlight, their contours whispering stories of travellers who came before us. Shadows became subjects, stillness became rhythm, and light—harsh yet poetic—became the language of every frame I captured. It was here that photography stopped being about landscapes and became about solitude.
The return journey through Jodhpur and Pushkar was a slow descent from silence back into motion. Blue walls replaced dunes, and temple bells took the place of desert winds. Yet, every photograph from that ride carries a trace of the desert’s calm—a reminder that the greatest distances are not measured in kilometres but in the depth of moments we gather along the way.
These images, taken across six days of open roads and quiet horizons, are not just documentation of travel. They are meditations on space, light, and time—on how the desert teaches you to see more by showing less.