This series is a quiet exploration of how artists and makers live their presence - through land, lineage, and the textures of daily life. We follow what grounds them, what invites slowness, and how they create in conversation with the world around them.

Daksha's world is one of quiet gestures and grounded attention. Between Assam and Manipur, where he spent his early years, time moved differently, gently. That rhythm has become the pulse behind how he cooks, creates, and cares for space.

Now living and working as a designer and culinarian, Daksha returns to the rituals that shaped him: the intimacy of shared meals, the honesty of seasonal markets, the tactile wisdom of working with his hands. Whether he’s setting a table, preparing a stew, or crafting a foliage-laden tablescape, his work reflects a tender dialogue between memory and material.

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Q Can you share a moment when something ordinary felt sacred?

Cooking a meal, especially in silence—has always felt sacred to me. There’s a meditative rhythm in chopping, stirring, tasting that quiets the mind. Setting the table—choosing plates, placing a small flower or fruit, even for just one or two—turns it into something ceremonial. It becomes a ritual of care, of creating space. A way of grounding myself, and a reminder of how much tenderness the ordinary can hold.

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"In Assam, there’s a phrase, lahe-lahe. It means slowly, gently…"

‍Q How has growing up in your hometown shaped the way you relate to space, food, and creativity?

I grew up between Assam and Manipur, where everyday life moved at a different pace. There was an unspoken rhythm to things, not rushed, not forced. In Assam, there’s a phrase, lahe-lahe. It means slowly, gently and it shapes the way people approach everything, from cooking to conversation.

Local markets were a big part of life, not just for buying things but for observing, listening and learning. Food wasn’t anonymous—you could see where it came from, and even who harvested it. Bamboo shoots, wild herbs, greens that had just been foraged, fish wrapped in banana leaves. Everything is fresh and seasonal. This awareness has shaped my respect for ingredients and their source.”

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Homes were not rigid or compartmentalized. The kitchen spilled into the courtyard, food was prepared together, with a deep sense of sharing. Spaces were lived in, not styled.

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ON CREATING

I need to feel grounded before I begin and I like to move slowly when creating. I care about where things come from and who makes them. Whether it’s setting a table or weaving a textile, I find myself returning to those early ways of seeing and being present.

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Q What rituals or gestures anchor your day – in work or in rest?

Making a cup of tea or coffee mid-day is my pause. Boiling the water, choosing the cup, stirring—these small acts slow me down, adding shape to the in-between moments.

Q How do you begin creating? Is it instinct, memory, place  or something else that leads?

My process is intuitive. It often begins as a feeling that needs somewhere to go—a form of catharsis for what I’m carrying. Memory usually appears first—a shape, a flavor, a mood—and then instinct takes over. I follow it without overthinking, making space for something to move through me.

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Q What is one of your favourite memories around food?

Eating grilled river fish with hot sticky rice and a bit of spicy ametpa—a kind of chutney in Meitei. It’s such a nostalgic meal for me. I remember having it when I wasn’t well, almost like a kind of convalescent food. Simple, grounding, full of warmth.

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The fish would be lightly charred, the rice steaming, the ametpa sharp and comforting all at once. Even now, that combination takes me straight back to a quieter time—when care showed up in small, thoughtful plates of food.

Q How does the land – what’s growing, what’s in season – inform your creative and culinary choices?

The food I cook is always shaped by the seasons—sour, fresh vegetables and spicy chutneys in summer; slow stews with mustard greens, cabbage, bok choy, and roots in winter. Whether cooking or setting a table, I let the market guide me. I build around what’s available, keeping things flexible and honest. It keeps me connected to what’s real, rather than forcing something out of context.

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"Everything is in motion. I don’t need to grip so tightly."

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‍Q If your work had a message, not for the world but for yourself, what would it say?
There is no rush. No rush to prove anything. Good things take time and they’ll unfold in their own way, at their own pace. It’s already written, in a way, so all I have to do is just show up.

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Q Do you find yourself returning to certain materials, colours, ingredients, or textures over and over? If so, what is something you are currently exploring and what pulls you towards it?

When I do tablescapes, I’m consistently drawn to foliage-heavy settings—lots of greens, layered textures, and then occasional, thoughtful bursts of colour. I love working with White. It carries a certain serenity, especially amidst all the green—it offers the eye a place to rest.

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In food, I always return to traditional recipes. I’m not the biggest fan of fusion. I like ingredients to stay whole, honest, and rooted to their source. There’s a reason these recipes have worked and lasted—they hold memory, community, and a quiet wisdom that I deeply respect.

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Q What’s something you’re currently unlearning or softening into?

For a long time, I leaned into spontaneity and intuition—which I still value—but now I’m inviting in a gentle sense of organization. I’ve realized that structure doesn’t have to take away from creativity and can aid in supporting it. I’m learning to hold both—freedom and form—without feeling like one negates the other.

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