The call came on a quiet Sunday, carrying news that felt impossible to process — Raghu Rai was no more. In New Town, Sounak Banerjee did not pause to think. He dropped everything and left for Delhi, determined to shoulder his guru on his last journey.

Rai’s home in Lodhi Road had long been Banerjee’s refuge in the capital, just as the master photographer would make himself at home in Banerjee’s Rosedale Garden apartment whenever he visited Calcutta in recent years. The bond between them had grown far beyond mentor and student.

Reaching out

It began with a leap of faith. In 2014, an amateur enthusiast with more curiosity than confidence, Banerjee mailed a set of his photographs to Rai’s office, hoping for feedback from one of the world’s finest lensmen. The response, when it came, was characteristically sparse. There were no detailed comments — only an instruction: do a project on the ghats of Calcutta.

A month later, with prints in hand — Rai always preferred prints over digital images — Banerjee travelled to Delhi to present his work. “That was our first meeting,” he recalls.

On that visit, he also learnt of a photography workshop Rai was conducting in Punjab and promptly signed up. Unprepared for the biting cold, Banerjee arrived without winter clothing. Rai noticed. The next morning, before they set out, he handed over a jacket with quiet simplicity. “Rakh lo. Yeh mera puranawala hai.”
“That was my first experience of him as a human being,” Banerjee says.

Rai, he adds, “took me by the hand and taught me photography”. But it was the warmth behind the craft that left a deeper imprint. “He treated me like a second son.” There were small, telling gestures — a kurta brought back from the Pakistan Literature Festival in Lahore, a waistcoat gifted with the aside that he had bought a similar one for his own son...

A shared journey

It was Rai who nudged Banerjee to leave behind his IT career and pursue photography full-time. “His son Nitin had started one in Gurgaon — the Raghu Rai Centre for Creativity. He told me: ‘Tu bhi kyun nahin karte? How will you manage both IT and photography?’”

That suggestion took shape as the Calcutta School of Contemporary Photography, set up in a family-owned space at City Centre. Rai remained closely involved, travelling to Calcutta to conduct workshops and hand out certificates to Banerjee’s students, lending both credibility and affection to the fledgling institution.

Their journeys together stretched across landscapes — from Ladakh to Ajanta-Ellora caves to Nepal — trekking to far corners with cameras slung around their necks. “I have clicked him in various situations, including once when he was climbing up a watchtower, much to my consternation,” Banerjee smiles.

Home and away

Over time, Rai became part of the Banerjee household. During his stays at Rosedale, he would often head to the kitchen, cooking bhindi while Banerjee’s wife, Sushma, rolled out rotis. The easy camaraderie spoke of a bond that had quietly deepened into family.

“He was so fond of my wife that he included a photograph taken by her on the cover of his unpublished book on Durga Puja,” Banerjee says.

Last year, Rai offered to curate a book of Banerjee’s photographs. “It felt like his parting gift to me,” Banerjee admits, the memory tinged with sadness. The book is now ready for publication, with its cover designed by Rai himself.

Final goodbye

At the end, even in stillness, Rai remained inseparable from his craft. When his body was laid in state for admirers to pay their last respects to, a camera rested on his chest.

“It was my idea,” Banerjee says softly. “He used to say, ‘Main camera ke bina mandir bhi na jaun.’ I suggested to Meeta didi (wife Gurmeet Rai) that his camera should accompany him on his final journey. She agreed.”

For Banerjee, the gesture felt like the only fitting farewell — a final frame for a man who had spent a lifetime seeing the world through his lens, and teaching others how to see it too.

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