Skip to main content

Photograph

 "Do you remember when did you click your first photo?", I asked him this morning.


"Well probably in my 11th standard", he mused.


"When did you click yours?", he enquired.

"Well this is going to be a long story!", I added sheepishly.


I was in eighth standard when my parents took me on a trip to Kolkata. On a sultry July afternoon as we were sitting in the lawn overlooking the Victoria Memorial, I suddenly had the urge of freezing that moment. My father back then was a proud owner of a camera that none dared to touch. When I asked him to let me click a snap, he hesitated a great deal but couldn't possibly say no.I could feel my heart beating aloud as I pressed that tiny silver button. My mother's pastel saree complemented the towering presence of the monument at the backdrop. My father's furrowed glance clearly suggested that my intrusion was unwelcomed.


But, that very day I had realised that photographs had the power of transforming the mundane into something beautiful. Each photograph has a story to tell. A story which lies embedded until discovered.


On my recent trip, as I was walking through the streets, he clicked some photos which have stories to tell. Probably I will need to think of turning it into a series because I have so much to talk about. For today, let me attach a photo which though totally has no loose ends connected to what I wrote, still made me remember this story.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Life on wheels

The one thing that I always had dreamt of as a kid was to have a caravan that could take me to places.I always wanted a gypsy styled life. The idea itself mesmerized me to the extent that I kept dreaming of it the whole time not even realising how it was time which kept on rolling but I stood exactly at the same place, my dreams could never concretize. What was laughed at as a childish game was so important to me that I keep doodling it in my memory till now. I see a meadow, lush green with those small daffodils growing by, perhaps Wordsworth's daffodils! Then I see a girl, her wild unkept hair sailing in the gentle breeze. She has a smile which speaks of solitude, and her heart , well that's swelling with happiness as he looks at her caravan, after all she finally has a life on wheels. What more could she wish for, what more  can anyone wish for? It's not always that we get to live a life we conceived as a kid, life keeps on deciding our track. From what we liked doing...
2 comments
Read more

What do you want to be?

While I was in my 10th standard, almost everyone I met wanted to know what I wanted to be. This question always perplexed me. From the lens of a fifteen year kid who was not yet sure of the changes which awaited in the near future, this question gave me nightmares. I would constantly sit by the mirror and ask myself, what actually would be my answer. My friends always had fancy answers at their disposal. They would confidently chirp whenever any one asked about it. What amused me most was, my friend who had no inkling to study Biology wanted to be a doctor and another friend who detested the idea of even cooking noodles, wanted to be a chef! But whenever they spoke about their wishes, they would always sound confident. And there I was, fumbling for words which refused to escape my lips. It was not until I entered Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya to do my plus two, I found my voice. The teachers there have a different way of viewing life. For the first time, I no longer felt the classroom...
2 comments
Read more

Grandpa and me

I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents.  It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could...
2 comments
Read more