A personal tribute by film critic and author Utpal Datta to legendary photographer Raghu Rai, capturing an intimate encounter, artistic influence, and the timeless power of photography that transcends death, memory, and human connection through still images.

The airport that morning was strangely quiet. An early flight to Delhi. Security done. Nothing left to do but wait. I had settled into one of the long rows of seats when my eyes fell on something — a man sitting in the row ahead. A large bag rested on the seat beside him. He had leaned back, his face tilted upward, eyes closed. He looked like he was asleep. But I recognised that face.
Raghu Rai.

I said to myself — go on, say something. At least offer a namaskar.
I had picked up a camera in the final years of adolescence. And from around that same time, I had been hearing this name — Raghu Rai. The first time his name and his work truly entered my consciousness was through the cover photograph of Amjad Ali Khan's L P record, Darbari. That photograph had been taken by Raghu Rai.

Learning Through His Lens
A black-and-white image. In the background, the vast, sweeping desert of Rajasthan. And in the foreground, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan is seated on the floor of an old fort, completely lost in his sarod — absorbed, unreachable. Beside him, a simple man dressed in Rajasthani attire, watching the maestro with an expression of boundless, quiet wonder. All around them, only emptiness. No drama. No artifice. And yet, the photograph reaches into some corner of the chest and stays there. That was my first meeting with Raghu Rai.

In the years that followed, my interest in photography deepened — not just in taking photographs, but in looking at them. And it was through Raghu Rai's work that I learned two things. The first was a perfectly balanced frame. The second was the pulse of life that could be felt within a still image.

Even in a photograph that does not move, he had breathed life into it. The face of a person staring helplessly at the camera — the silent plea blazing in those eyes, the turbulent feeling trapped inside a motionless body — these were the things that made a photograph alive. That persons were not merely a subject. They were living.

And then there was that famous photograph of Indira Gandhi — her face on the funeral pyre, the sun setting slowly behind her. A photograph of a lifeless body. And yet it was not simply a record of death. It was testimony to the end of an era. It made you feel as though you were standing in that very moment, watching Indira Gandhi from close quarters. Only Raghu Rai had that power.

Every photograph he took was a masterclass. His photographs of the Taj Mahal have been collected in a book. I came across that book after visiting the Taj Mahal myself. After going through it, I remember thinking quietly — the marble of the Taj fills the eyes, but Raghu Rai's camera captured the soul of that marble. Every worshipper of beauty ought to see that book at least once.

A Conversation to Remember
And now, here was that man, sitting right in front of me. The man who had, for so many years, lived inside the photographer within me — who had taught him and given him something to reach for. I wanted to offer a namaskar. But his eyes were closed, and I couldn't decide whether to call out or to simply stand there. So I stood, uncertain, beside him.
Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked up.

I offered a namaskar. He smiled. He lifted the bag from the seat beside him and invited me to sit.
He had come from Shillong — had started before dawn, he said, which explained the drowsiness. He offered this as a small apology, smiling as he said it. And in that smile, I understood something — the greater the artist, the simpler the person.
I asked tentatively, "May I ask you one question about photography?"

He laughed and said, "I don't know anything except this subject." Don't ask one question. Ask as many as you like.
And so the conversation began. Then came an announcement — the flight was delayed. The conversation continued. At one point, he got up and left for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two cups of coffee.
Until the time we boarded, we talked, and for stretches of time, we simply sat in silence together. That silence, too, was a kind of conversation. That a person of such stature should receive me with such warmth and ease — that experience left me richer than I had words to express.

What Remains Beyond Death

What I learned from that exchange is difficult to put into language. Some things live only in the feeling they leave behind.
He is gone now. But the moments his camera's eye caught and held — those will remain forever. Death can end a photographer. But it cannot end what he saw through his lens.

Rest in Camera, Raghu Rai.
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