| 015 | No Plans for Today | 24 × 30 cm | 2026 |
| [MOCKUP — grey-ground book view: cover single page, rest paired into spreads; demoing full-bleed, centred, and top-aligned layout modes at 24 × 30 cm, white page.]                  | |||
| 014 | Notes on Waiting | 48 pp · 14 × 21 cm | 2026 |
| [PLACEHOLDER DESCRIPTION] A small book of photographs made at bus stands, jetties and railway platforms across Goa — people mid-pause, between departures. Forty-eight pages, thread-sewn. Available directly from the imprint; write to enquire.    | |||
| 013 | Tin, Tin in Kashmir | 70 pp · 30 × 28 cm | 2019–2025 |
| Tin, Tin in Kashmir threads two survivors of empire through the valley — the chinar, the thousand-year plane tree now numbered and whitewashed at the ankle like a thing under arrest, and the corrugated tin roof, light and unscrewable, the shelter of everything built quickly and not meant to last. It reads Kashmir as a single corrugated surface — silver where it is new, red where it is old — and finds in rust and in the negative the same stubborn chemistry: two ways the material world keeps a record in a place asked, year on year, to forget.                                                                       | |||
| 012 | Terassippi | 8 min · Single Channel | 2025 |
| Terassippi is an eight-minute work of cameraless cinema — a portrait of a town that was built rather than filmed. A narrator assembles his world piece by piece — brickwork painted to simulate warmth, a supermarket of calculated reflections, a car heavy as a hearse — while admitting he cannot feel the thirst or rain he renders. When the calculation fails, water enters the simulation, and the film lets its world drown. Shown at ‘The Barge’ during the Serendipity Arts Festival, December 2025. | |||
| 011 | Sixty Kilometres of Coast | 96 pp · 24 × 30 cm | 2025 |
| [PLACEHOLDER DESCRIPTION] The full length of the Goan coastline photographed in a single dry season, north to south, printed at full bleed. Ninety-six pages with a folded map insert. Distributed internationally; order through the distributor link.     | |||
| 010 | Market Walls | Mapusa, Goa · March 2025 | 2025 |
| [PLACEHOLDER DESCRIPTION] Eleven prints pasted on the outer wall of the Mapusa municipal market, photographed daily as they weathered through the month. The documentation photographs shown here are the work; the prints themselves were left to the wall.     | |||
| 009 | River Light | 64 pp · 17 × 24 cm | 2024 |
| [PLACEHOLDER DESCRIPTION] A first gathering of photographs made along the Mandovi over two monsoons. Sixty-four pages of black-and-white work, sequenced as a single walk from the river mouth inland. Produced as a portfolio reference copy; not for sale. Not for sale    | |||
| 008 | The Laughing Man | 12 min · 2 Channel · 9:16 · 16mm CCD | 2023 |
| The Laughing Man follows a single figure — a man in dark round goggles — across sixteen vertical sequences, shown edge to edge as one continuous strip. He climbs sea rock, wades through undergrowth, stands against falling water; there is no dialogue, only foley — the landscape speaking in its own sounds. When the goggles come off, they drift in the shallows, the world reflected in their black glass. Made as part of the group AVC. | |||
| 007 | Goan Roadkill | 42 pp · 16 × 18.5 cm | 2022 |
| In Goan Roadkill, the iconic coconut palms of Goa are recontextualized as literal roadkill along the state’s expanding coal transport corridor. Chopped from underneath by the concrete columns of a new flyover, these trees have been violently pushed from the roadside into the center of a multi-track highway. Stranded in the median, they stand as accidental, decaying sculptures—a stark visual record of an ecosystem sacrificed for heavy industry and automated commerce. Out of print                                     | |||
| 006 | Lemon Sour Diesel | 60 pp · 21 × 28 cm | 2019 |
| Lemon Sour Diesel takes its title from the cannabis strain of the same name, interleaving found web text — the strain’s advertised genetics and effects, and a chorus of anonymous user reviews — with a drifting sequence of photographs. Interiors, still lifes, animals and half-lit landscapes accumulate without caption, held against language that slips between sales pitch and private testimony. The book sets the flat certainty of online description beside the reticence of the photographic image, letting each unsettle the other.                                           | |||
| 005 | Girl Scout Cookies | 46 pp · 21 × 28 cm | 2019 |
| Girl Scout Cookies borrows its title from the cannabis strain of the same name, interleaving found web text — the strain’s marketed effects and a chorus of anonymous user reviews — with a wandering sequence of photographs. Mannequins, coloured-light interiors, still lifes, animals and stray landscapes accumulate without caption, held against language that drifts between pharmacological promise and unguarded confession. The book sets the vernacular of the internet beside the quiet of the photographic image, letting each unsettle the other.                                | |||
| 004 | Coloured People | 64 pp · 14 × 18 cm | 2017 |
| Coloured People is an homage to the most homaged photobook of all, Ed Ruscha’s Colored People (1972) — same 14 × 18 cm, same 64 pages, same deadpan specimens floating on white. Ruscha’s coloured people were cacti. These are Indians — filed under ‘coloured’ long before any camera arrived — photographed smeared in actual pigment, so that the old label is finally, cheerfully accurate. Everyone here is coloured twice: once by the census, once by the smear. And the title picks up a ‘u’ on its way east — the British spelling India was left holding, quietly correcting Ruscha’s American in the empire’s own hand. Not for sale                      | |||
| 003 | Rapunzel | 40 pp · 17 × 25 cm | 2016 |
| The book represents hair as a portable space for intimacy, privacy and sexuality.                                | |||
| 002 | Hill of Poisonous Trees | 45 pp · 27 × 25 cm | 2016 |
| Hill of Poisonous Trees moves between two kinds of surface. First the marks — scratches, crude drawings, the graffiti of hands scored into the walls of a place emptied and left to itself. Then the stone: ancient temple reliefs where battle is carved with tenderness and mastery, war made beautiful and made permanent. Eight hundred years lie between them, and nothing lies between them at all. Less a record of a place or a time than of a single unbroken human activity — the making of ruin, and the marking of it — the book sets the crude hand beside the master’s chisel and finds them at the same work. Mutual destruction, it proposes, is not an event we remember but a thing we are always doing; and the surfaces, high and low, keep the score. Not for sale            | |||
| 001 | Joker | 396 pp · 29.7 × 42 cm | 2016 |
| Joker was conceived as an anti-object — a book set against the preciousness of the photobook — and became one by mistake. A document field filled incorrectly swelled the file to A3 and 396 pages; it was never meant to be this big. The error, once discovered, was not corrected but obeyed: the photographs — boulder fields and black interleaves, the incidental ground of the street — were entered page after page like sums, and what arrived was a ledger. The title names the wrong value dealt into the field, and the hand played anyway. Shortlisted for the MACK First Book Award.                         | |||