Born in 1942 in a part of India that is now Pakistan, Raghu Rai’s path to photography wasn’t straightforward. At 24, he joined The Statesman newspaper a year after first picking up a camera. His life changed in 1977 when Henri Cartier-Bresson nominated him to Magnum Photos. From there, Rai moved between India’s leading newspapers and magazines, balancing work as an editor and photographer while capturing his country’s people, landscapes, and well-known figures. His vision later expanded globally, with work across Europe, America, and Southeast Asia, and exhibitions spanning numerous countries.

His career highlights include his documentation of the Bhopal disaster, portraits of Mother Teresa and the Dalai Lama, and extensive wildlife work. Combined with awards, exhibitions, and roles with World Press Photo and UNESCO, Rai’s influence places him as perhaps the most important photographer to emerge from India.

Rai’s images of India rival, and sometimes overtake, the layered complexity of Alex Webb. His frames brim with life yet remain balanced. “It has to be multi-layered to capture the complexity of India. It need not be one decisive moment, but several decisive moments. That’s what I try to capture in my photographs. You have to remember India is not one country or one culture or one time. You look at that picture of Delhi and it could have been taken 200 years ago.” But his beginning wasn’t easy.

“I was working in civil engineering, because that was what my parents wanted me to do – it was a government job, and everyone wanted a government job in India in the 1960s. But I hated it.” A photo he took, published by The Times in London, gave him an escape: “when this picture was published, it was like a revelation. I thought, ‘That’s it, I’m going to be a photographer’”

He argues Indian photographers are uniquely suited to capturing their homeland.“ Almost every photographer in the world comes to India at some point because, on the surface, India is a very easy country to photograph. But India is not something you can just walk into and understand as an outsider. I can walk around and sniff around and my photography is life itself. It’s not a style; it’s a way of being.”

This realization began in the 1960s as Rai roamed the streets of Calcutta. “Even a breeze blowing, what it does to you and the entire space around you. That is what is magical.” While newspaper work felt fleeting, he sought more permanence.“ Early in my career, I discovered that daily newspaper photographs tend to die a daily death so I had to look for deeper meanings to create work that had a deeper understanding that could stand alone.” For Rai, photography’s purpose is clear: “the purpose of street photography, or any photography, is to document the times we live in now. This could be documenting the lives of famous people like Indira Gandhi or Mother Teresa but, for me, the real purpose is to photograph the lives of ordinary people.”

On December 2, 1984, the world’s worst industrial disaster unfolded in Bhopal. A chemical leak exposed the city to methyl isocyanate, killing between 4,000 and 8,000 and injuring hundreds of thousands. The next day, Rai arrived with his camera. His most searing image, Burial of an Unknown Child, remains one of the most iconic documents of industrial tragedy. “I found thathaving their stories told, through Magnum and other important magazines of the world, brought some relief to the victims and their families.”

Decades later, Rai returned to Bhopal for Greenpeace’s Exposure: Portrait of a Corporate Crime, chronicling the disaster’s long-term aftermath. “It is important to be a witness and at times it's very painful. At times, you feel very inadequate that you can only do so much and no more."

Rai’s portraits of historical figures are equally vital. His relationship with Mother Teresa lasted nearly fifty years. Convinced her prayers were essential to her story, Rai persuaded her: “if I can't photograph this, then how can I establish this connection and share it with others? My story will remain incomplete. ”

He also followed Indira Gandhi, India’s only female Prime Minister, from 1967 until her assassination in 1984. “Indira Gandhi was at the peak of her career and in a certain way her growth coincided with my own.”

Rai wanted his images to endure: “I began to ask myself, does this picture stand the test of time by itself, for itself?” Finally, Rai’s book A God in Exile gathers four decades of images of the Dalai Lama. “He left an indelible impression on me - gentle, gracious, humble and full of wonder. It is peculiar to say such a thing, but I got the strange yet pleasant feeling of being equals, despite his position.”

Rai embraced change, shifting from black-and-white to color and later from film to digital. “I am against style. If style emerges from your personal life, your experiences and your need to photograph, then I understand it. But too often style is just copied, and you end up with rubbish.”

Today, he carries only one camera and lens, preferring simplicity and invisibility: “I don’t want to look like a photographer. I want to look like somebody who walks in and walks out.” His collaboration with his daughter Avani also reshaped his practice. Their shared work grew from tension into respect: “Today, I can say Avni is the song of my life. She knows how to go beyond the parameters set by editors, to do things instinctively. That’s where the magic happens.”

“If people can connect with my pictures and enjoy them, that is enough for me. It’s like you are walking down the street and you smile at someone and they smile back. There is nothing given and nothing taken. It is just like a little nudge; a recognition of humanity and life. That’s what photography means to me. It is my profession, it is my religion, it is my karma – it is my life.”