My childhood was spent in our ancestral house. The building, with its columns and corners fascinated me. My childish imagination would try to find its way into the labyrinth of the past. Even now, when I see an old-fashioned building, an abandoned architecture, I can feel the stories it has to tell, the memories it has to share. For me, these buildings are characters of my narrative. Discarded cars that are not driven anymore, decaying furniture, balconies where nobody would ever stand – they all become parts of this narrative. 

The small details of the architecture show the passage of time. I try to guess the everyday lives of those who once lived there. Here still remain the shreds of their past, their little joys and sorrow, small triumphs and great losses. Only the people are gone. Tracing their stories leads to yet another thread to yet another story. Those who probably ruled the area are lost in oblivion; those who are gone would never come back. The ruined walls, the broken windows still bear marks of those who lived there for some time and then, one day, left.       

This country is now developing. Here cities are being rebuilt every day. Arrogantly new architectures coexist with the skeletons of the old ones. It would not be long before they would vanish forever to give way to the modern. But what happened to those who once lived there? May be the promise of a different life in a different place had lured them away. After all people leave or have to leave the comfort of stability because of so many reasons. Our history is actually the history of a constant exodus. Their abandoned homes remind one of the sense of dislocation.

The subject of my black and white photographs is an overwhelming emptiness and dislocation. Absence. Each print is like a separate paragraph of the same story. I have tried to experiment with the concept of the fluidity of space and the linear movement of time.