I grew up in the 70s — a time when Britain felt like it was falling apart. Economic crisis, political unrest, and deep social divides dominated the news. Strikes, blackouts, and the rise of extremism weren’t just distant headlines; they were a part of everyday life.

I went to Mark Rutherford School in Bedford, where I was subjected to racism on a regular basis. As the only Indian boy in the school, I was powerless, regularly called the ‘P’ word and mocked for my culture, language, and the food I ate. I still remember, to this day, sitting in an English lesson while boys at the back of the classroom casually laughed and joked as they passed around hate-filled National Front leaflets. The teacher, an elderly woman called Mrs Groves, arrived in the classroom and simply told them to put it away and look at it at lunchtime. I sat there at the front of the class, incredulous, thinking, Miss — you have no idea what they’re looking at.

Racism hurt deeply, but I didn’t have a voice. I lived in fear, in the shadows — it was the only way to survive. The ’70s was a time when racism was shockingly widespread and accepted in society, with the National Front reaching the height of its electoral support. Their youth wing, the Young National Front, actively recruited disillusioned teenagers, fuelling hate and spreading racist propaganda in schools and playgrounds. Football matches also became fertile recruiting grounds for the far right — absolute no-go areas for someone like me.

I sought solace in music, particularly The Jam, who seemed to capture my feelings so clearly. Their song Down in the Tube Station at Midnight epitomised everything I felt. It’s incredible to think that such a powerful anti-racism protest song was banned by the BBC.

I learned about injustice from an early age but had no voice, no power to change anything. My protest was silent, so I focused on education as my salvation, despite the difficulties I endured.

My journey in photography didn’t begin in a studio or classroom but on the streets of London — in the chaos of the Poll Tax Riots. I was 22, holding a camera I barely knew how to use, standing between furious protesters and rows of riot police, my heart racing, adrenaline surging. It was terrifying and exhilarating .

That day wasn’t just about capturing images — it was about witnessing truth, holding up a mirror to society, and finding my purpose. It ignited my need for storytelling and cemented my desire to use photography as a tool for change — to help make the world a better place for everyone. Something I had always wanted to do.

A Curious Beginning

Growing up, I had no idea what I wanted to do in life. I loved making things and was always curious about how they worked. I’d help my dad with DIY projects around the house and learned to sew with my mother. I was creative but also fascinated by science — an odd mix that baffled my parents, teachers, and even me.

I ended up with a mediocre science degree — the only subject I was good at. The experience taught me one thing: there was no way I wanted to have a career in science. I left university with no direction, drifting through equally mediocre jobs and wrestling daily with my lack of purpose.

I didn’t grow up with a camera or ever consider a career in photography. My parents valued education and encouraged traditional careers like medicine, engineering, and law — none of which appealed to me. Photography felt out of reach due to its cost, and I would never have asked my parents to make that sacrifice. As a result, photography didn’t even figure on my radar — it really was the stuff of dreams.

But despite that, I remained fascinated by the alchemy of art and science that photography offered. At 22, I bought my first camera — a Minolta 7000. It had autofocus, albeit slow and noisy, but I loved it. I photographed everything and everyone I could.

Finding My Voice

It wasn’t long before I grew tired of photographing friends and family. I wanted to capture real life beyond the familiar streets of my small market town, Bedford. On 31 March 1990, I boarded a train to London to photograph the infamous Poll Tax Riots.

That day changed everything.

I found myself in Trafalgar Square, caught between furious protesters and determined riot police. I tried to capture as much of the action and emotion as I could.

I realised, I had found my voice. And, most importantly, I had discovered my passion.

I returned to Bedford with handfuls of film and no clear idea of what to do next — but I was eager to share my story with anyone who would listen. A friend suggested I contact a local newspaper. To my surprise, they published several of my photos and ran my story — I was thrilled.

When I went to collect my negatives, they offered me the chance to work for them. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, but I knew I couldn’t say no. They asked if I had a darkroom — I didn’t — but I told them I was setting one up. I enrolled in a photography evening course at Bedford College and learned darkroom skills as fast as I could.

A short while later, I called them back, half expecting them to say, “Who are you?” But they remembered my pictures, and I started freelancing for the newspaper, covering news, sports, and features on evenings and weekends. I couldn’t believe it — I was working as a freelance photographer.