A Journey Through Blue: Reflections from "The House Blue"

The blues in my life seemed to spill into Sunday as well. It was Mother’s Day—one of those days already soaked in emotion—and I found myself walking into a workshop at the Bangalore International Centre. I hadn’t anticipated how deeply it would stir something within me.

The exhibition was titled The House Blue (link)—a deeply personal narrative crafted by the artist Mritunjay Kumar. Through this evocative collection, Mritunjay invited us into his life, offering glimpses of the home he had known all his years—government quarters in Bokaro Steel Plant where his father worked for forty years. The photographs were captured on the very last day before they had to vacate that space—a space that held the textures of his childhood, the echoes of family laughter, and the weight of silent goodbyes.

When his father retired, they were given a year to leave. But within just three months, his parents had packed up and moved out. Mritunjay was home for some paperwork when suddenly his father informed him: “As all your work and mine are done now, I’m handing back the keys tomorrow.” That sentence, that sudden finality, was a jolt to Mritunjay. What he thought would be a slow farewell turned into an urgent grasp at memories. So, he picked up his camera and captured the remnants of that life, the shadows of familiarity, the stillness of rooms once full.

What is home?This was the heartbeat of the exhibition. Can home be something other than walls and windows? Could it be a person, a feeling, a memory? What does it mean to lose a home—to migrate, to be displaced, to let go?

Each visitor was invited to leave a small note—a reflection of what "home" meant to them. These little slips of shared memory formed a living collage in the exhibition, connecting strangers through a universal yearning.

The story behind the exhibition was equally powerful. For nine months, the photographs simply sat on Mritunjay’s bedroom floor. He didn’t know what to do with them, until a friend, Anish, a theatre artist, gently encouraged him to write. “Let it out,” he said. And through writing, Mritunjay began to heal, to discover, to see.

His journey had taken him from Calcutta to Bombay and finally to Bangalore. From a ticket collector at Howrah Station, to a Data Scientist, to advertising—and now, to the soul of his work: Documentary Photography. He works extensively with tribal communities and NGOs, bringing unheard stories into light.

I was fortunate to be part of his workshop, Shared Memories: Personal Archives as Collective Storytelling. Each of us carried a single photograph—one of deep personal significance. We were paired with strangers, and in those few minutes, we shared the stories behind those pictures.

My partner, Himanshu, young and gentle in demeanor, listened to me with such grace. As I opened up, I felt something shift inside me—lighter, freer. And as he shared his own journey through the lens of photography, a quiet bond was formed. It’s incredible, isn’t it? How a simple act of storytelling can create trust, belonging, and healing.

After our exchanges, Mritunjay asked us to observe five minutes of silence—a pause to honor the stories we now carried for one another. “You are now responsible for this story,” he reminded us. “Lift it with care.”

We then shared our partner’s story with the group, recounting it in our own words. And in that re-telling, the original storyteller could add missing pieces or clarify intent. Mritunjay guided us gently, showing how often we photographers reject a picture because it doesn’t feel ‘perfect’—and yet, in that rejection, the story might be lost forever.

The workshop was not just about photography. It was about memory. About healing. About realizing the power of our personal archives—our stories—to enrich the lives of others. It taught me that storytelling is not just communal, it’s sacred. And that beauty doesn’t lie in perfection, but in presence, in truth, in the courage to share.

In that space, I learned that when we choose to remember together, we begin to build something greater than ourselves—a community woven with empathy, resilience, and shared hope.