When seeing Becomes Darshan:
Understanding Raghu Rai's World View

My understanding of Raghu Rai did not begin with a conversation, but with an image—one that has been indelibly imprinted on my mind. It was a black-and-white photograph from the 1984 Bhopal tragedy of a dead child lying in the rubble, eyes open, a hand gently bidding it farewell. That image did more than document a moment, it confronted me with the weight of human suffering and the consequences of corporate greed. It also introduced me, quietly but powerfully, to the man behind the lens.

 

From that moment, Raghu Rai became part of my personal gallery of inspirations—someone who revealed to me the value of human life through his photographs. Yet I often found myself wondering what it must have cost him emotionally to witness and document such heart-wrenching tragedies. Years later, when I interviewed him, I asked him just that. His response was simple, yet unwavering: “If you want to share a tragedy with the rest of the world with the same intensity and truthfulness then you can't colour it with your emotions." This reflected the philosophy of a man deeply committed to his art and to a truth he held sacred.

 

In the course of my many conversations with him while writing his biography, I came to understand that he was far more than a creative force—he was a man of deep sensitivity and quiet humility. For Raghu Rai, photography was never merely a profession. “This is not my profession. This is my ishq. This is my madness,” he would say matter-of-factly. It was this intensity of feeling—this complete surrender to the act of seeing—that gave his work its unmistakable power. Whether he was photographing the Bhopal tragedy, Bangladeshi refugees, political figures, or ordinary people on the street, his images seemed to hold within them an energy that went beyond the visible.

 

He often spoke of photography not just as dekhna (receiving), but as darshan. “Photography is dekhna, but it is not just seeing. It is darshan karna, which is seeing the divine essence.” For him, to look closely was to connect with smallest details of Nature and his life which revealed to him glimpses of spiritual truth. His philosophy demanded complete immersion. Without total dedication, almost a kind of madness, he believed one could not reach the deeper truth. This intensity found resonance in Mirza Ghalib's lines he often referred to: “Ragon mein daudte phirne ke hum nahin qail, jab aankh hi se na tapka to phir lahu kya hai.”  He would say Jab aankhi se na tapka to phir tasveer kya hai. It is perhaps this emotional honesty that allowed his photographs to speak so directly to the human spirit.

 

A great lover of classical music, my conversations with him were invariably accompanied by the exquisite mastery and layakari of Bade Ghulam Ali Khan singing in the background or a flute or sitar playing, lending a gentle rhythm to the stories he shared: the upheaval of Partition, his mother’s enduring lessons in dedication, his adventures as a photojournalist, his love for his family. He often spoke about his spiritual mentors—Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, and his revered Guruji, who had facilitated him in his pursuit of divinity. 

 

Trust is very important in any biography. So in the initial one year, we had conversations about his mentors and his passion for his craft, pursuit of divinity. I did ask him about his childhood but never probed into his personal life as I was there to document his philosophy and not offer sensational titbits for the consumption of certain readers. But as he began to trust my discretion, he opened up some more. He talked about his first marriage to Usha and his despondency when it broke up. He talked about his whirlwind romance with Gurmeet (whom he lovingly called Meeta) and his attachment and pride in his children, Nitin, Lagan, Avani and Purvai. In the final conversations he began to talk more and more about his brother S Paul, and his fractured relationship with him. This fall-out with his creative mentor and brother caused him a lot of anguish. All his overtures to stitch the relationship came to nought. But he always strongly believed that if it was not for his Bhaisaab S Paul and Cartier Bresson , he would not be the photographer he was.  

 

Despite his stature as a photographer and the fact that he was feted as one of the greatest photographers globally, he was not arrogant. He was one of the most grounded people that I have ever seen.

 

One day I asked him if he was arrogant about his work and the pinnacle of success that he had achieved. His response was immediate: "No!" he said, "Never!" "I believe that divine moments are God's gift to us. If you are doing good and instinctive work and if I don't acknowledge that and respect that, I am denying myself the joy of experiencing the divine moment. So it is my habit to complement everyone for any good work they have done." He told me that if he read an article that he liked or a piece by another journalist, he would always send them a message saying, "You enrich my world. Your creativity into my creativity is a multiplication in creative space. If you begin to cut yourself off from each other, some part of your vision will reduce. You will no longer be the same powerful, rich, ongoing mad guy because you are wasting your madness in negative energy." He often said that there is enough space for everyone in this world, for all creativity to be absorbed . 

 

I found myself face to face with a man who is as guileless as a child. He had shrugged off the outer veneer that all of us don as we go out into society, a mask that protects our vulnerabilities and those of others. He has done that without sloughing off his sensitivity to the outside world, a sensitivity that is ready to embrace divine and precious moments that for Raghu Rai are a God-given gift. I remember speaking to Syed Naqvi about Raghu Rai and asking him what in his view was the essence of Raghu Rai. Without hesitation Sayed Naqvi replied that it was his sensitivity and innocent nature. He told me about how once they were travelling back together and stopped when they saw some beautiful Banjarans on the roadside. Raghu Rai started to photograph them. Seeing his interest in these beautiful Banjarans, their headman walked up to Raghu and offered them (Banjarans) to him in lieu of some money. Raghu was aghast in shock at how the purity of his passion had been misconstrued. There were tears on his cheek, says Syed, as he sat in the car and they resumed their journey. That is Raghu Rai for you.

 

Even after creating an extraordinary body of work, he remained restless in his search. “While I've captured much of nature in still photography, some things are better conveyed through film. But one can only do so much. The other day I jokingly told my wife that I might have to come back to this planet to fulfil my unfinished purpose.”

 

There was, in him, both fulfilment and longing—an acceptance of what had been achieved, and an openness to what still remained. To have worked with him was to witness not just the journey of a great photographer, but of a man in constant dialogue with life, truth, and the divine.