My love for mountains began the moment I first saw them as a kid, in books and movies. I've always found myself drawn towards them. But it was at the age of seven, when my family had decided to go on a holiday to the foothills of the Himalayas in one of the North Indian states, that I first saw mountains so closely in all their glory. Witnessing these peaks, covered with the many trails of massive glaciers, turning golden with the changing light made an impact on me unlike anything I'd ever seen. A lot of my love and sense of wonder for the natural world was shaped by this specific moment. It was through their gigantic scale, our tiny reflection against this vast landscape, and that feeling of awe, that opened up a universe of its own to me. As a kid, this felt like one of those moments where my knowledge and perception of the world just expanded beyond what I'd ever imagined: that there are still so many places far beyond the human reach (on our very own planet), and that there is so much more to the world than just the cities, schools, cars, cartoons and toys that had made up such a large part of my small time on Earth so far. From walking through the thick forests surrounding the many villages, running with my sister and cousins across the dense apple orchards, rafting over rapids of the many ice-cold rivers (that merged as one), to finally hiking for over six hours to the sacred ancient stone temples far up among the peaks, I still can't believe that it was all part of a single trip. A lot of these moments, were often spent silently, observing the scenery. Through that, I developed a sense of comfort knowing that I could always come back to these places and spend more time in their company. To realise that this was all in my own country, made it all the more easier to dream and eagerly plan the next trip. For years after that, it became an annual summer tradition, to return to the Himalayas and explore the many worlds hidden deep within their high valleys. And with each visit, we'd learn about places that captivated us with such deep curiosity, that it was only natural to plan for them the next time.

After spending almost a decade in their company, loving them and eagerly awaiting to return to them whenever I was away, mountains became a place where I've always truly belonged. These tall monuments that have for so long, patiently witnessed our ever-changing world seem to me nothing short of magical. There's something about their grandeur, a sense of mystery they carry so elegantly, as if we were never meant to fully understand them, and yet feel safe and at home among them. So it is only natural to realise why for all of humanity, mountains have constantly been an immense source of inspiration to countless stories, a home for all the mythical creatures across cultures, and a place where we've often ventured into, in hopes of seeking meaning and deciphering our purpose. A place where the innate human urge to uncover the secrets of the universe feels most attainable.

But, it all came to a standstill when the rising temperatures and unbearable summers gave way to heavy rainfalls, massive glacier melts, severe flash floods and large-scale mudslides. Every year, these events became more common and brought with them even more uncertainty. During one such catastrophe in 2013, a terrible cloudburst ended up washing away almost every place we had visited during that first trip. The forests were wiped out by landslides, villages with thousands of residents were submerged by the rising flash floods, and the beautiful valley of apple orchards was now buried deep under the eroded land, leaving no trace of what it looked like before. A single event erased all those places which once carried some of my family's fondest memories. I remember watching the heartbreaking images and videos of this tragedy's aftermath in the news. It immediately shifted the way I viewed the natural world. Places and landmarks which I once assumed to be unshakable titans, now suddenly seemed far too fragile.

When I first ventured into photography, these events largely influenced my approach towards the craft. Of capturing landscapes through a documenting lens. To share how even these endlessly vast and beautiful places, remain so vulnerable and delicate.

Over the years, having the chance to travel, explore and hike among the various mountain ranges of the world, and witnessing the snowy peaks and the many glaciers gently resting across their slopes, I've always carried those memories from my time in the Himalayas. As if they were guiding and reminding me to live those moments, properly. But in an attempt to do so, I would often photograph landscapes greedily, with a constant fear that perhaps this was the last time I (or anyone) would ever see them so perfectly and beautifully, in their true form. Even in moments, when I had all the time to sit peacefully, take in the stunning views and enjoy their silent company, that fear of a fading landscape would take over, and I would spend all that time photographing a single scene a hundred times. In spite of realising this embarrassingly ridiculous way to spend such rare, gifted moments, I would try to internally come up with reasons to simply convince myself and justify this act. Nature has always been my sanctuary, my ultimate cure for almost everything. But viewing these beautiful places through an anxious lens often interfered with that very purpose I so fondly and preciously relied on.

When the time came, I was convinced, this silly approach would even ruin my expedition to Iceland, a place that had been a dream destination for as long as I could remember. Seeing its alien landscapes, the dramatic mountains, and the tall, roaring waterfalls, along with enormous glaciers and stormy waves constantly crashing against the black shores, added so much more to the country's already established mysteriousness. I spent two weeks exploring its north, west and central regions. Excessively photographing places under that brutal spell of compulsive documentation. Even while being among some of the most brilliant scenery I'd ever seen, I was hopelessly focused on how the images turned out, rather than simply appreciating where I was in those moments.

But as luck would have it, everything changed during the final stretch of the trip. The last few days were dedicated to exploring the country's south coast. It was there that I was finally rescued from this terrible curse. Watching that distant glacier grow in scale as our car slowly approached its periphery, instantly healed me. Witnessing Mýrdalsjökull for the first time was a moment I can never forget. It moved me into a state of complete stillness. Not a single thought crossed my mind, not a single muscle moved, nor a single sound disturbed that quietness. It was a moment of absolute peace, leaving me in total awe of this natural marvel. I could once again embrace that solitude, the very joy of being in my own company, surrounded by these beauteous forms and being truly present in that moment. I felt no urge to photograph it in any way.

Despite being only the fourth largest Icelandic glacier, Mýrdalsjökull appears far greater than all its larger counterparts. Simply because one can view its entire vertical rise directly from sea level. Right where it is most accessible, the ice steeply climbs over a towering mountain, the notoriously powerful and active volcano, Katla. And in spite of the common threat of a volatile future eruption, the glacier has managed to captivate visitors with its sheer dramatic scale. Like all great wonders, standing against its vast expanse really does make one feel feeble. An experience I still can't truly put into words.

As we began climbing over one of its southern extensions, the Sólheimajökull outlet, I could feel my blood rushing fast within my veins. The utter thrill of finally walking over a glacier, was something I still haven't entirely managed to comprehend. Although I knew it to be one of the fastest retreating glaciers in the country, for the first time in a while, I did not reach for my camera. I found no need to document it for the sake of documenting it. Instead, I stood there, watching it with nothing but just genuine appreciation, feeling immensely grateful and blessed to be in its company. It reignited my pure love for remote places, so vast and majestic. Once again I found myself living that sense of joy and wonder. A wide smile grew on my face as I remembered the seven year old me. That after all these years, I still find places far beyond the human reach and understanding.

While the lower portion of the glacier is a popular hiking and ice walking trail, its upper reaches largely remain untouched. The thick, hidden ice at the summit rarely reveals itself from the clouds that surround it almost year round. Such sights easily inspire me to venture into a world of imagination. Indulging in questions about what secrets it might truly hold, the ages it has lived through and that curious urge to know, what that place high up above, might look like. Whether beings exist within those freezing crevasses, still unknown to humans. During these moments, I finally find myself being truly present and in complete peace.

Quite funny, how of the thousands of photographs I brought back with me from this land of countless unique encounters, I cherish only a handful among them. They are mostly from that one encounter that will forever stand above all others. Not because it was more beautiful or rarer, but quite simply because it helped me reclaim a part of myself I thought I'd lost long ago: my childlike curiosity. The ability to see the world through eyes that defy the everyday, prosaic way of living, and instead perceive everything around us through an extraordinary sense of wonder: of nothing but playful, vivid imagination. Perhaps that is why, in spite of photographing so many places through a documenting lens, it was only the images that I took purely out of love, fully immersed in those moments, that finally ended up capturing that which I'd always set out to pursue. To share what these places truly mean, and what I believe Nature is truly there for. To find comfort in its ambiguity, to venture deep into the unknown, and through it, find our true selves and live a life of magic.