I was born in a small town in Pakistan, where life was simple and cameras were rare. The only ones I had ever seen were big, chunky film cameras — always across a room, always in someone else's hands. I had never held one. Never looked through a viewfinder. Never pressed a shutter.

Then, when I was ten years old, my uncle and aunt arrived from the United States. Tucked into their luggage was a small, red digital camera — something I had never seen before. In a small Pakistani town in the nineties, nobody had anything like it. Most people glanced at it and moved on.

I photographed everything. Quiet corners. Everyday faces. Ordinary routines that nobody thought worthy of a second look. And somewhere in all of those photographs, I found something I have carried with me ever since.

Sometimes, holding that little red camera, I used to wonder about the magical place it had come from. Little did I know that years later, I would be standing in that very place — holding a red camera of my own, capturing the most important days of people's lives.

I studied mechanical engineering, built a career, and kept a camera in my hands through all of it — photographing people and their stories in every free moment I had.

I remember the way the room felt. The weight of the day. The joy that moved through everyone in it. The way two people looked at each other when they thought nobody was watching. A wedding carries an emotion that very few moments in life can match — and standing there with my camera, I knew immediately. This was the story I was meant to tell.

What my years in engineering gave me was something most photographers never develop: precision. A technical understanding of light, of optics, of why a photograph works — not just a feeling for how it looks. I have an artistic eye. But I also have an engineering brain. On your wedding day, that combination means nothing is left to guesswork. Every frame is composed with intention. Every moment is seen before it disappears.