My memories of Mrinal Sen are not distant or formal. They live within the city itself.

I have seen him by the Ganges, waiting as pigeons rose into the air—quietly receiving a moment the city offered. In Kumortuli, moving among unfinished idols. And at B. B. D. Bagh, beside his Ambassador in front of Writers' Building—still, observant, completely part of the scene.

I have also seen him looking at the city from above, from Tata Centre—watching Kolkata stretch out in silence, layered and vast, yet deeply personal.

I remember him once describing Kolkata as his own El Dorado—not a city of gold, but of endless discovery.

There was no distance between him and the city. He did not interrupt it; he allowed it to unfold.

That is the Kolkata I continue to see—quiet, patient, and always revealing itself in moments, captured through my lens.