Cinema entered my life quietly, almost like a memory I was yet to live. I didn’t grow up surrounded by cameras, film sets, or cinemas. I grew up in exile — far from my birthplace of Tibet, in the hills of northern India, in a boarding school supported by the kindness of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the strength of the Tibetan community in exile. 

In that world, there was no tradition of filmmaking — no professional cameras, no idea that one could tell stories through light, framing, rhythm. And yet, something about moving images spoke to me early on, even if I didn’t have the language or tools to understand it. I would catch moments of films — on a grainy screen, in someone else’s room — and hold them tightly, as if they were keys to a door I couldn’t yet open. 

That door slowly opened when I realised what cinema could do: it could hold emotion, memory, silence, and meaning — things I was constantly searching for in exile. I had always felt like an observer, someone suspended between places, speaking in a borrowed language. Through cinema, I began to find a way to speak. 

I came to India at the age of nine. I finished my high school in 2012, and there were many years of struggle that followed. I studied psychology in India and took a short diploma in film directing. At the time, there was no clear path into cinema from my background. I didn’t know anyone in the industry. No one in my community had walked this road. But I knew I had to try. 

In 2017, I arrived in the UK seeking asylum. The process of gaining refugee status took two years — two years of uncertainty, working care jobs, trying to stay connected to the thing I loved most: cinema. It was not easy. Every step required starting from scratch. But I managed to get into Ravensbourne University to study Film Production, and later, an MA in Cinematography at Goldsmiths, which I’ve recently completed. 

Even as a student, I quickly learned that to be part of the freelance world — especially in lighting or camera — you often needed your own equipment. With no support system and very little savings, I invested everything I had into building a basic lighting kit. Not out of luxury, but necessity. It was the only way I could begin getting work, be taken seriously, and stay close to the work I cared about. 

Over time, I’ve built experience in lighting and camera departments across various independent projects. I’ve worked as a gaffer, spark trainee, and camera assistant. One of my most meaningful roles was as spark trainee on Joy, a Netflix film about IVF. I also had the honour of being cinematographer on Romckyk, my final MA graduation film, which was featured on BBC News and screened before the late Pope. Another project close to my heart is Voice of Ragpickers, a documentary I wrote, directed, and produced — it received the Best Documentary award at the YES Foundation Film Festival in India. 

But even with these steps, I still feel how far the journey is. I’ve been navigating the film world for nearly a decade now — always learning, always adapting. I’ve never had a mentor. No one taught me how to ask for help, or how to find it. Sometimes it feels like I’ve built a whole career just by sensing in the dark — but cinema, in its own way, has always been a light. 

What I hope to do through my work is not only grow as a cinematographer and director, but to give something back to the culture I come from. My Tibetan community, both in exile and inside Tibet, has a rich spiritual tradition — but not a strong relationship with cinema. I want to help change that. I want to create films that can speak across borders, across silence, across generations. I want to make visual work that holds emotion and spirit the same way our oral stories do — gently, truthfully, and with care. 

I’ve been deeply influenced by Tibetan filmmakers like Pema Tseden, Sonthar Gyal, and the beauty of the Tibetan film Ala Changso. Their work shows what’s possible — not just for Tibetan cinema, but for a more meditative, spacious way of storytelling. 

For me, cinematography is more than a job. It’s a form of presence. A way to feel and honour what is often unseen — tenderness, struggle, dignity, longing. And ultimately, I want to direct. Not out of ambition, but out of a quiet desire to tell stories that deserve space. Stories from people and places that rarely make it to the screen. 

I believe that people who carry dreams — especially when those dreams are unsupported — are already creating powerful meaning. Dreaming is not about comfort. It is not about success. It is a force that makes us grow as people. It helps us evolve in ways that money cannot buy. That belief has kept me going. 

I know the road ahead is long. But I also know that every image I make is part of that path — one frame, one project, one connection at a time.