This collection is deeply personal to me because it began with a question I could never stop thinking about: how does something that once lived deep beneath the ocean eventually rise into the mountains?
The answer, I realised, is time.
Nature does not force transformation. Waves shape rocks slowly, quietly, over years of movement, pressure, erosion, and patience. And I think human life works the same way. We spend so much time trying to control where we are going, when sometimes we simply need to allow life to shape us into who we are becoming.
For years, I had been curious about wild clay and natural materials, but living in a city like Mumbai never allowed me to fully explore that instinct. During a solo trip to Himachal, something shifted in me. I began collecting clay, soil, sand, silt, rocks, and volcanic textures from different landscapes — not with the intention of creating a collection, but simply to experiment and understand the earth more intimately.
Over the next few months, I collected nearly fifty different variations of natural material. I brought them back with no fixed concept, no expectations, and no pressure to create something perfect. I just wanted to listen to the material and see where it would take me.
As I worked with these forms, I realized I was unconsciously trying to connect two worlds that have always stayed with me — the ocean and the mountains. The ocean has always felt familiar to me, almost like memory. But it was my solo journey to the mountains that completed something emotionally missing within my work. Suddenly, the pieces began making sense together.
This collection is not about perfection. It is about surrender, erosion, patience, and becoming. Every form carries traces of time and movement. I did not want the pieces to feel manufactured; I wanted them to feel discovered — as though they already existed within the earth and simply revealed themselves through the process.
I believe we are all shaped like rocks in the ocean. Slowly. Repeatedly. Quietly.
And maybe that is why sabar — patience — became the emotional anchor of this collection.
