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When I started taking these pictures, more than turning a pack of neglected dogs into a photographer’s subject, I was trying to form a frame around my own vulnerability.
The Raindogs project—a forthcoming book and exhibition—started with a skinny, solitary, migrant worker from Bihar whom I encountered every morning, his back always turned to me, gazing at the horizon across the sea on the Dream Beach end of Vagator. Though I photographed him most mornings, one day all the elements conspired in unison—the fishing boat, the bird, the dog that mirrored his posture and a portentous monsoon sky creating a sublime canvas of longing and life in those bleak times.
As I continued walking the empty shores with my camera, documenting the dogs abandoned and forgotten, they were everywhere—thin, skeletal and hungry, their eyes hollow with the weight of survival. With the tourists gone and no one to leave behind scraps, they scavenged endlessly, digging into the sand or sniffing at the garbage washed ashore. Accustomed to relying on humans, they were reduced to ghosts of their former selves. But they were resilient. In them I found a strange beauty—a defiance of sorts.
Some started following me along the shoreline as they had nowhere else to go. I fed them when I could, but the
