I’d love to start from the very beginning of your journey. If we were sitting together in your studio right now, how would you tell the story of how everything started for you as an artist?
I get asked a lot when I “started” being an artist, and I never have a straightforward answer. I like to say I’ve been an artist since the day I was born. Honestly, I think everyone is. People just forget as they grow up. I’ve been drawing and colouring since I was little, like most kids do, except I never really stopped. I’ve always been creating - drawing, painting, experimenting. At different points, I pivoted to other creative outlets: crochet when I was around ten, then embroidery, then even cake decoration. I’ve always needed to make things with my hands. What pulled me back into drawing in a really focused way was actually K-pop during COVID.. I wanted to recreate portraits I saw other artists posting online, so I picked up a sketchbook and started drawing every day during the pandemic. From there, things naturally evolved. I moved from portraits to experimenting with different subjects and styles. Looking back, it really just comes down to practice and time, the more you show up for the work, the more it starts to feel like your own.
I know that at one point you were studying architecture, which is already a very creative field. Can you tell me more about that phase of your life, and what was happening internally when you began to question that path?
That phase of my life was literally three months ago, which makes it funny to talk about it like it was some distant era. I’ve always been incredibly indecisive about my future, wanting to do everything and nothing at the same time. But those dreams were always hypothetical. They lived in my heart, not in my “real options,” because they weren’t considered real jobs. At one point, I decided I’d do law but eventually landed on architecture as a compromise: a “real” career that still allowed room for creativity, drawing, and design. I remember my professor, Sheil, telling me I didn’t belong in architecture and that it would make me miss colour. I laughed, because I knew he was right but I also felt like I didn’t have a choice. I convinced myself that if I gaslit myself hard enough, I could enjoy anything.I was very wrong. By my second semester in Architecure, I was exhausted, confused, and constantly anxious. Every day I woke up with this sense of panic - I should be working, I’m falling behind, I’m wasting time. The plan was to just get the degree and then do whatever I wanted after. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that at this rate, I wouldn’t have any passion left by the time I graduated. I imagined myself at 25, burnt out and soulless, wondering what could’ve happened if I’d just defied expectations. So after multiple breakdowns and a couple tubs of ice cream with my friends, I finally sat down with my parents and said it out loud: I can’t do this anymore.
Listening to you, I feel like that kind of inner conflict you described is something so many people can relate to, that tension between what we feel drawn to and what we believe we’re “supposed” to do. And I think it’s something that often shapes us more than we realize.I’d love to move into your process for a moment, because there’s something very clear and intentional in your work, even when it feels spontaneous. When an idea comes to you,whether it’s an image, a feeling, or a small detail you notice…how does it begin to take shape? Could you walk me through that journey, from the first spark to the final piece?
Recently, I’ve discovered a niche that I feel deeply drawn to: South Asian, or Desi, experiences and imagery. It feels incredibly underexplored across most forms of media, which is exciting because it means there’s so much room to create. I’m constantly noticing small, specific things that feel unique to the Desi experience - objects, food, moments - and whenever one of those clicks. From there, I start imagining compositions in my head. I can almost always see the artwork before it exists, but the challenge is figuring out how to translate that mental image onto paper. Once I have that internal clarity, I move straight to the canvas. I don’t do a clean or precise sketch beforehand, just a loose indication of where things might go. From that point on, I let the painting lead. I figure things out as I paint, responding to the colours, the forms, and the feeling I want the piece to hold. The process is very intuitive and fluid, it’s less about executing a rigid plan and more about allowing the artwork to become what it needs to be as I work through it.
And finally, are there any personal rituals, habits, or specific environments that help you enter your creative flow? Something that prepares you mentally or emotionally before you start working?
My ideal state for working is when I’m completely alone. No one watching, no one filming - just me, a good YouTube video or podcast in my headphones, usually late at night with a single yellow lamp on. That kind of quiet makes it easier to disappear into the work.
Listening to you, I can almost imagine that quiet, intimate space and it makes me think about how that way of working might translate into the feeling of your pieces. There’s a strong sense that each piece is not just an image, but a fragment of something larger, almost like we are witnessing a detail of a wider, unseen story. I’m curious if this resonates with you, and how you think about what is shown versus what is intentionally left out.
I only really noticed it as I kept painting. Over time, I realised that all my pieces could be connected into one larger body of work, almost like a single exhibition. They share a common thread, a quiet storyline rooted in Desi cultural niches. That’s really the story for me: fragments of Desi culture seen through the lens of a third-culture kid trying to reconnect with her roots. Each piece holds a moment, an object, or a feeling, but together they form something more continuous, an ongoing conversation between where I come from and where I exist now.
Your visual language feels deeply rooted in culture, yet very personal at the same time. I would love to understand how your background, and in particular elements of Islamic culture, naturally enter your work rather than being “applied” to it.
I really like this question, because a lot of Islamic art today tends to centre around Qur’anic calligraphy. That work is undeniably beautiful, but for me, Islam holds so much more than text alone. I’ve always been drawn to how Islam quietly shapes everyday life in the small, mundane moments that carry a sense of peace and intention. Those moments are deeply tied to how I understand Islam and its emphasis on balance and serenity. My background as a third-culture kid plays a big role in this as well. I’m Indian, but I moved away very early in my life, from Saudi Arabia to Dubai. Dubai is where I feel I grew up - it’s where my memories are, where my friendships were formed. Even so, I stayed connected to my culture - just not in the same way as my cousins or family back home. That distance created a different kind of relationship with my roots.
Because of that, my work naturally blends worlds. I consume a lot of Western and global media, and I find myself putting that visual language into conversation with Desi and Islamic themes. That intersection - between cultures, places, and ways of seeing - is where my style has formed. It’s less about tradition as something fixed, and more about tradition as something lived, remembered, and reinterpreted.
What you said about this intersection between cultures, places, and ways of seeing really stayed with me, especially the idea of tradition as something lived and reinterpreted, rather than something fixed. I feel like that sense of connection between different worlds is also something that strongly emerges in your work. Staying on this, I couldn’t help but notice the presence of calligraphy in your pieces, which feels both visually powerful and symbolically layered.What drew you to integrate Islamic calligraphy into your work, and what role does it play for you visually, conceptually, or even spiritually?
What I find most interesting is how people respond to it. Those who are Muslim, Arab, or Urdu-speaking often feel an immediate emotional connection, while people who don’t know the language are still drawn to it, mesmerised by the forms, curious about the script, and wanting to know what it means. I love that duality: the way the same element can feel deeply personal to some and beautifully unfamiliar to others. Also, calligraphy’s always had a strong tie to islam, so it’s amazing to be able to give an ode to it.
There is also a strong sensory dimension in your work, not just visual, but almost tactile and even evocative of scent. The fabrics, textures, and objects you depict seem to carry memory. Is this something you consciously explore, or does it emerge naturally in your process?
I actively try to make my paintings evoke memories - of moments, experiences, and people. I want them to feel like nostalgia, like a quiet sense of belonging. There are certain fabrics, textures, and objects that can instantly transport you back to a very specific time in your life, and for many people with Desi heritage, those references are surprisingly shared.
Things like thick floral quilts, Persian carpets, sliced fruit laid out on a plate, or that warm yellow light that instantly makes you miss home. Those details carry emotion without needing explanation. When I paint them, I’m not just depicting objects, I’m trying to recreate a feeling, a memory that people didn’t realise they were holding onto until they see it again.
I couldn’t help but notice recurring elements like fruits, dates, pomegranates, which feel rich in cultural and symbolic meaning. Do these elements hold a deeper significance for you beyond their physical presence?
They do! All these fruits mean a lot in Arab and Asian cultures. They remind people of grandmothers cutting and peeling fruit, or Ramadan evenings with everyone around the table grabbing a date for iftar. I love how food brings people together, and I really wanted to capture that feeling in my work.
A particular work that really caught my attention is “Rooh Afza.” Here we are faced with something very grounded in everyday life, a bottle, a product, yet it feels loaded with cultural meaning.
For someone from a different cultural background, this might just look like a still life. But to me, it carries memories, traditions, and a shared experience. Rooh Afza is a drink syrup - you mix it with water or milk, and it becomes this rose-flavored drink. What I love is how it’s become synonymous with Ramadan: every iftar, most Desi households have cold Rooh Afza ready, often with basil seeds in it. People call the seeds ‘tadpole babies,’ which I always find funny. That one bottle lasts my family at least three Ramadans! I painted it because it’s something so ordinary, most people wouldn’t think it’s worth painting, but I love highlighting these everyday things that connect so many people.
It’s so beautiful that in the end, it all comes down to connection. About that, I often feel that an artist’s work is never completely isolated, but always in dialogue with the world around them, whether consciously or not. I’m curious how you perceive your own work in relation to the society you live in today. Do you feel connected to it, in contrast with it, or somewhere in between?
As someone who consumes a lot of media, I’m really aware of how Muslims and South Asians are portrayed - and it’s always been disappointing. My goal is to make South Asian culture popular and romanticized in the same way Western culture is, because it’s just as intricate and beautiful. As a young, female, Muslim, hijabi, Indian girl who grew up in the Middle East and also calls it home, I know I’m just one of millions with layered, complex identities - and they deserve to be seen too. I don’t like labeling my art as ‘Indian’ or ‘Muslim,’ because it isn’t just that. It’s mine. I have multiple labels as a human being, and my art is simply that, MY art.
I think you’re definitely doing that. And since we’re coming toward the end of our conversation, I’d love to shift slightly and ask you something different. There is also a more practical side that often remains unspoken, especially for young artists. Turning art into something that is not only a passion, but also a sustainable path, can be both exciting and complex. How are you experiencing this transition?
I’m still new and figuring out how to make this sustainable in the long run, because I truly want to do this for the rest of my life. People often say you shouldn’t turn your passion into work, because then you’ll hate it, but I don’t really agree. I’d hate to spend my life doing work I despise just to have free time to pursue something I love. Life is short, and I’d rather invest all my time into what I want to share with the world. There’s so much in the art and design world that I haven’t explored yet, and so many opportunities waiting for me, so I’m really hoping it all works out.
We’ve reached the end of our conversation, but I’d love to ask you one last, slightly more personal question. If one day someone were to look back at your work as a whole, beyond individual pieces, what would you hope they truly understand about you, not just as an artist, but as a person?
I want people to feel my love for depicting the ordinary aspects of culture - or sometimes, the things that are missing. My work reflects the mix of cultures I’m part of: where I’m from, where I grew up, where I live now, where my friends are from. I have so many layers to my identity, and I try to be as authentic as I can, I don’t want to fall into one label. That’s what I hope my paintings convey to others.
Beyond me, I want people to see parts of their own story and culture that they don’t often get to see. I want to show that Muslim women are so much more than how media portrays us - layered, intelligent, complex. And I want to celebrate Desi culture, showing that our art is something to be proud of, and hopefully inspire more people to create their own art too.