I collect moments the way I collect things — quietly, before anyone notices. The kind that makes you stop mid-conversation because the light just fell a certain way, or a smell took you somewhere you hadn't thought about in years. Drawing is how I hold onto those moments — the mundane ones, the fleeting ones, the ones that words always seem to arrive too late for. It's my journal. My way of locking a feeling between pages before it slips away

I am drawn to nature, to people and their stories, to culture, to the feelings that sit just outside language. Flowers. Old walls. The way a market sounds in the morning. These are the subjects I keep returning to — not because I've chosen them, but because they keep choosing me.

I paint with oils, acrylics, and watercolour ink — and carry the same hand into my digital work. I paint standing up, always with music on. For me, painting is a little like dancing — there's a rhythm to it, a physical conversation between body and canvas.

I've practiced Kathak for years, and I think the two have always spoken the same language: both are about moving through feeling, both leave something behind.

Even as a little girl, I was picking things up — odd, whimsical, forgotten things — and I still have most of them. Objects that have a past. Textiles with a story stitched in. The kind of pieces most people walk past and I cannot leave behind. I collect the way I curate — with intention, because meaning is everything.

This same instinct runs through every project I take on — whether it's a home, a hotel, or a brand. I'm not interested in decoration for decoration's sake. I believe in slowing down, in choosing things that age well, in surrounding yourself with objects that were made to last and meant to be cherished. Handcrafted. One of a kind. Functional, but never just functional. The kind of curation that doesn't date — it only deepens.

Everything in this studio and this store has been chosen with that same care. I hope some of it translates to you.This way of seeing — slowly, intentionally, with feeling — is what eventually made it impossible to work any other way.

I spent years trying to fit myself into job descriptions that were never quite right — and for a while, I tried. I really did. But there's only so long you can shrink yourself before something gives. So I stopped. Quietly, without a big announcement, I decided to work only on the things that genuinely move me — projects rooted in craft, in meaning, in stories worth preserving.