For a generation accustomed to taking hundreds of photographs on their phones, the appeal of a photograph that exists outside the camera roll seems almost nostalgic. Yet across Delhi, young people are stepping into compact, unmanned photo booths, picking props, striking poses and walking out with a strip of physical photographs in hand.

With K-pop rules taking over, what is the significance of Korean photo booths among the Delhi youth?

For Ritika, a second-year journalism student from Delhi, the attraction began with K-pop. A fan of Korean music since 2019, she first noticed the booths through their BTS- and Blackpink-themed frames. Her first experience came at Rang De Korea, an event in Saket in October 2025, where she tried one with her friends. “I was pretty impressed because I hadn’t seen photo booths like this before. They had different themes,” she says. 

Since then, the booths have become part of her outings. Whenever she is at a Korean-culture event, she looks for one. Even on an ordinary day with friends, she suggests the booth over simply taking photographs on their phones. “It’s not just taking a picture. It’s also about living the moment,” she says, pointing to the props and themed frames as part of the experience.

That shift, from photographing a moment to creating an activity around it, is central to why the booths appeal to young users. For Shikhar, who works at a political consultancy and lives in South Delhi, the first encounter came through friends during his college days. He remembers discovering a booth at Haus Khas and later noticing one in the crowded Satya Niketan area. “First year college peer pressure made me try it,” he says, laughing that it was one instance where peer pressure turned out to be a good thing.

What stayed with him was not simply the photographs but the process. The booths allow users to choose poses and accessories, while some also generate short videos of the session. “They give you that video, and I think a lot of people go there for that video alone because that’s something you can directly post on Insta,” he says.

George, 21, similarly sees the booths as an activity to share with friends. For him, the fun lies in experimenting with the props and striking playful poses together, turning a few minutes inside the booth into a shared experience.

For others, however, the charm lies in the privacy. Most of these booths are unmanned, allowing users to operate the equipment themselves without a photographer watching. Philosophy postgraduate student Zhavi Tsurho, who first tried a booth in Majnu ka Tila with a college friend, says the absence of a photographer makes the experience more relaxed. “It makes us more free and comfortable, and just be whoever we want to be,” she says. For her, the booth has become part of an outing, something to do after eating or spending time with friends, rather than a standalone photography session.

The privacy, Mansi Vats believes, can also change how people behave in front of the camera. A senior manager in the automotive sector, Vats first became aware of the trend a few years ago but only managed to try a booth in Delhi recently, after finding the crowds at Connaught Place too overwhelming. She eventually went with her sister. “These are cosy kinds of places,” she says, adding that being inside a booth with someone can create a space where people feel less conscious of being watched. The appeal, she feels, is particularly strong for younger users who may be more comfortable creating their own private moments rather than having a photographer document them.

Yet the photographs do not always remain private. The printed strips often make their way onto Instagram and WhatsApp, sometimes accompanied by the short videos generated by the booths. Tsurho posts both photographs and clips, while Shikhar prefers keeping his strips at home but acknowledges the social-media appeal of the aesthetic prints. “The Korean effect of it is also something that social media compounds onto it,” he says.

For Ritika, the physical photograph is what makes the experience stand apart from a phone camera. She photographs the strips and keeps them in a file. Tsurho has gone further, filling her refrigerator with photographs collected over the years. Vats keeps her strip on her desk and says she still looks at it occasionally and smiles.

For Shikhar, the photographs have also become gifts and keepsakes. “Mostly preservation of the memory any way possible,” he says. That physicality appears to be an important part of the attraction. Tsurho says she would not pay for a booth that offered only digital photographs. “Because they give ready-made, hard-copy photographs. That’s why I go there,” she says. For her, the prints turn an otherwise fleeting digital moment into something tangible.

The Korean influence remains unmistakable, from K-pop-themed frames and aesthetics to the broader fascination with Korean youth culture. But the experience seems to have travelled beyond its cultural origins. As Ritika puts it, Korean culture may have introduced her to the booths, but the attraction now lies in the simple pleasure of spending time with friends and preserving it. For Vats, the experience is ultimately “wholesome”, a small activity that can bring people closer and, even briefly, make adults feel like children again.

In a city where memories are increasingly stored in cloud galleries and endless camera rolls, perhaps the appeal of these booths is precisely that they make people pause, pose and leave with something they can actually hold.

This article is written by Sreya S. Motti

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