How a missing wedding album turned into a new life

If you had told me ten years ago that I would own multiple cameras, drones, gimbals and action cameras, and spend my weekends photographing families and weddings, I would have laughed. I wasn't the kid who grew up carrying a DSLR.

In 2013 I fell in love with cycling. Not the casual Sunday ride — the wake-up-before-sunrise, ride-for-hours, explore-roads-you've-never-seen kind. It introduced me to adventure, discipline, and some of the most remarkable people I've met.

In 2014 I volunteered at the Tour of Nilgiris. Watching hundreds of cyclists conquer mountains sparked something. A year later, after my first job at Decathlon, I returned as a participant. I bought my first action camera in 2015 — not to become a filmmaker, but because I didn't want those memories to disappear. I had unknowingly planted the first seed.

I joined Amazon in 2017. I learnt, grew, met incredible people and built a career. In 2020 I left to pursue my own business and spent two years asking one question: what kind of life do I actually want to build?

Then COVID happened, and like it did for millions, it changed everything. In January 2022 I joined Cognizant and rebuilt my professional career. Photography remained a hobby. Or so I thought.

Around 2022 I bought another action camera. Then another. Then another. Every purchase had a perfectly reasonable explanation. It's waterproof. This one shoots better at night. This one has stabilisation. This one is… newer.

Completely logical. Or at least that's what I told myself. I still wasn't trying to become a photographer. I just really enjoyed documenting life.

In September 2023 I met the woman who would become my wife. By December we were engaged. On 29 February 2024 we got married.

Like every couple, we hired a professional photographer for the biggest day of our lives. The wedding was magical. The photographs… never came. Weeks became months. Months became almost a year. Every month my wife asked the same question: did you call the photographer? Any update?

Eventually we tracked him down and recovered our RAW files. But something had already changed. One evening, after that question for what felt like the hundredth time, I said: enough. I'll learn photography myself. From now on our memories will never be left in someone else's hands.

The photographer wasn't the reason I picked up a camera. He was the catalyst. One day I scrolled through Google Photos — one year ago, three years ago, five years ago — and felt something new. Not memory. Transport. I could almost hear the conversations, feel the weather, remember what life felt like.

Then something frightened me. Without photographs, large parts of my life had quietly faded. Birthdays. Trips. Small family dinners. Ordinary evenings. Had I really lived those moments if I could barely remember them?

From that day I decided I wasn't going to take photographs. I was going to preserve memories. Not just mine — eventually everyone else's too.

A camera. Then a drone. Then another drone. Then another camera. An Osmo Pocket 3. A gimbal. Microphones. Lenses. Batteries. Memory cards. Bags to carry the gear. Then bigger bags.

At some point I stopped buying equipment because I needed it, and started buying it because apparently cameras reproduce when left unattended. Fortunately my wife has accepted this completely normal and absolutely reasonable behaviour. Mostly.

I didn't start with strangers. I started with the people I love most. Every walk became a cinematic sequence. Every dinner a documentary. Every vacation a short film. Every ordinary day suddenly felt worth remembering.

Then came my first maternity shoot in November 2025, and soon after, my own wife's maternity session. That felt different. It wasn't about beautiful pictures — it was about documenting the beginning of a family's next chapter.

On 6 February 2026 our son entered the world. Overnight, every day became a photo shoot. Every smile. Every yawn. Every tiny hand. Every first.

I suddenly understood why parents say time moves too fast. Photography wasn't a hobby any more — it was a way of holding onto time. Ironically, trying to preserve memories helped me live them more fully.

I photographed my first Roka ceremony in 2026 and kept assisting and learning from experienced photographers at weddings. Every event taught me something. Every family reminded me why I had started.

I genuinely love this. Not because of the cameras, the technology or social media — but because I get to witness some of the happiest days in people's lives, freeze time, and create memories families will revisit decades from now.

I don't photograph weddings. I don't photograph families. I don't photograph babies. I photograph moments that will one day become someone's most treasured memories.

Because I know what it's like to wait endlessly for wedding photographs. To wish you had taken more pictures. To scroll through old photos and be transported back to a life you almost forgot.

Moments disappear. Memories don't have to. And if I can help one family remember the happiest chapter of their lives — even decades from now — then every camera, every drone, every early morning, every late-night edit, and yes, every completely necessary gear purchase, will have been worth it.