Fluffy clouds puffed merrily in and
around the majestic sun which had its belly sagging, and was sitting rather
heavily in its throne faraway in the distance. My tank top stuck to my body in
a very uncomfortable manner. I looked down at my arms and marveled at my skin
which glowed if I may say, rather beautifully in the dusky rays of the sleepy
sun. Groaning, I lifted the canvas bag and flung the tremendous weight over my
sore shoulder. I simply had to call it a day despite not wanting to. The
landscape was losing its light and it would be pointless to remain and beg for
any remnants of nature.
“Anshula! Hurry! We need to get to the
road before it becomes really dark! It’s not safe to travel in the night these
days.”
I took my time. After all, I needed it.
Time…time had to be captured in its essence. It was my job. A job that I had fought
so hard to get, a job I would never part with no matter what it cost me, a job
that had made me who I was. As I neared the 4-wheel drive, I struggled to
transfer my load onto the seat, all the while cursing at my masculine colleagues
who had just burst into a fit of boisterous laughter, completely oblivious to
the help I obviously needed.
Sometimes I wondered if they did it on
purpose, or just had that much of confidence in me. I would have liked to
believe the latter except that I knew for a fact, that they really couldn’t
figure out when they could be of some assistance. I kicked a leg through all
the mess below the seats, then turned to take one last look. It was too
brilliant. The drowsy sun was now diffusing its glory through the sky in a beautiful
pinkish hue, extending its touch to the peak of the highest mountain and the
tip of the tallest tree. I lifted my camera in one hand, and focused the lens
with another. Click!
******
“Can you please get into my office now?”
Mr. Takur’s voice peeled through the telephone.
I clicked the receiver back into place,
then pushed my chair backwards and stood up, sending my pen rolling to the edge
of the table where it danced precariously. I hurriedly extended my hand towards
the pen in an attempt to cup it in mid-air. It fell with a dull thud to the
floor anyway. Sighing, I bent down to pick it up and suddenly turned to look
behind my shoulder. How could it have been anyone else but Charan, with his
thick framed glasses perched awkwardly on his bulbous nose, his lips in a half
open distracted grin, his droopy eyes focused on my back below my waist. I
straightened myself and flung the pen on my desk annoyed. At least it could
have been someone more desirable.
I almost forgot to knock as I placed my
fingers on the door handle, my perfectly manicured nails catching the glint
from all the tastefully nestled lights in every nook and cranny of the office.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Ah, come come, sit. That was some
wonderful piece of work on the forest reserve you did that day. I think it is
time for you to consider new venture.” Mr. Takur spoke in a professional tone,
yet I couldn’t help noticing his eyes hesitantly lingering over the base of my
neck. I cleared my throat loudly and crossed my leg over the other, silently
wishing my eyes could pierce right through him, slicing him up.
“I am happy with the job I have for now,
Sir.”
“I assure you that you will enjoy this
project tremendously. At least hear me out.”
I nodded passively.
On the way out of the office that day, I
noticed the man for the first time, his face covered by his lowly worn cap and
a pair of sunglasses.
******
“More work? So you aren’t going to get
married? Hare bhagavan! You told me
to wait till you finished this. Then you told me to wait till you finished
that. I have been waiting my whole life for you Anshu! And I’m not going to
wait anymore. Pandit Ji will be coming tomorrow, and you’re going to choose a
nice boy from all those lovely photos, and you’re going to have a lovely
wedding end of this year! You hear me? Anshula! You come back here!”
Mother’s voice continued to echo in the
background, like an invisible shadow leaping off the walls.
I hopped up and down frantically, each
spring higher than the first, trying to grasp the bag on top of the solid teak
cupboard. At the slightest touch of cloth, I administered a mighty yank,
sending a spell of dust over and all around me as I tried to muffle a sneeze. I
absent mindedly threw in a number of clothing without giving much thought, a
bar of soap and some fancily bottled shampoo I had whisked from one of those
hotel stays. I balanced a hand torch between my chin and neck dangerously as I
pulled out a towel from a shelf.
Now, for the important part. I walked
over to the two huge bookshelves in my rather spacious room. Running between the lanes. It was a
captivating, almost implausible rendition about life of the less fortunate by
one of my favourite authors, Gulam Hashik. Fiction of course, but I thought it
would do wonders to help me get into the mood before I started working on my
new project. I had to admit, Mr. Takur could very well have given that Ranveer
this opportunity. Whether it was his fascination for my curves, or his respect
for my work, I was going to make the best of it.
******
“Did she see you?”
“No,” he replied in a low, deep voice.
“She walked right out of her house.”
“Don’t let it get too obvious Shyam. You
know how important this is to us!”
He cut the call and slipped the phone
into the pocket of his kakhis. He let his glove glide back on swiftly and
gracefully, covering the tattoo of the eagle on the dorsum of his hand.
******
The traffic was unbearable. The noise,
even more unbearable. Vendors yelling, vehicles hooting, animals moving about
restlessly, the smell of deep fried batter turning my insides out. But there
was no other place I would rather have been in.
“Are we still very far?”
“No madame. We are reaching soon!” was
the driver’s enthusiastic reply.
“Is it just me, or has he been saying
that for the past half an hour?”
Mohit cackled at my frustration and
patted my hand. “Don’t worry didi we’ll
be there before you know it.”
“Mohit? What are we even doing here? In
this city where men are lunging for money and flesh. People are losing sight to
the beautiful trivialities in life, missing opportunities, losing precious
time. We’re chasing the wrong things in life Mohit, the wrong things. How long
or how well can I freeze time inside this?” I picked my camera and held it in front
of me. I guess it was acceptable as long as it didn’t happen to any one of us.
After all, what were the chances that it would happen to me? Nah. Impossible. The
thought was even derisory. But of course I would offer my sympathy to those who
needed it. Oh yes, I would. Mohit was looking loyally at my camera, waiting for
me to finish.
Mohit was one of the very few colleagues
who didn’t drool all over me in the male infested company I worked for. He had
been my assistant for as long as I could remember, and a great help at that.
Photography was something that my family never thought I would adopt. I
wouldn’t say I did either. It came to me. Naturally. I liked it. Capturing the
subtlest of the details, its preciousness and splendor trapped, frozen in the
passing of time, I took pride in the authenticity of my talent. The right
angle, the right light, the right moment.
A knock on the window nudged me
discourteously from my day dreaming. Fiery hair, tattered saree, malnourished
infant. Ah these beggars! Mohit reached across and waved her away. I hardly
took notice at her pleading eyes and the tear stained face of her child. On the
other side of the road, I watched in awe as a tiny man spun a soft cotton ball
from his huge wok. He stuck it together with the other magically conjured
cotton tufts. I took out my camera and waited for it to whirl into focus. Click!
Behind us, the beggar woman diligently
went on from car to car, putting on the same act, to which most people reacted
with disgust. A small boy skipped towards her and tugged at her ragged clothes.
Her eyes lightened up with gratitude and happiness as she raised her rusty old
tin now filled with a few coins up in the air, muttering what she knew of
prayers of thankfulness to the Almighty whom she had never seen before. I forced
back a funny feeling that had cheekily crept into my heart, my camera idle in
my lap.
******
Irritated, I dialed Takur’s number. “Mr. Takur,
my talents are of no use here. This place is a mess!”
“I sent you to capture the lives of
children in the slum, Anshula. Not to photograph Prince William’s new heir.”
The line was cut rudely and abruptly. A child who hardly came up to my knees
came and stood beside me, looking at me curiously. Startled, I inched slowly
backwards and cringed as my shoe sank into what was surely a puddle of things I
didn’t want to think about.
There was a sudden commotion when a
small, dirty looking boy bolted through the lane, spraying Mohit and me with
dirt and muck. It took me all the effort I had not to scream. In surprise or
disgust, I hadn’t decided yet. A man who looked like a vendor was yelling at
him in a language I wasn’t very sure I understood. The boy retreated to a
corner with defiance in his eyes, his hands hiding something behind his back.
Without warning, he shot out from below the arm of the vendor, into one of the
tiny cubicles these slum citizens called home.
People poked their heads nosily into the
small opening, my head being one of it, that too which was being held in an
awkward position as I painstakingly tried not to make contact with the others.
The small boy was hugging something in his arms, his back faced towards us, as
he moved one hand mechanically. The vendor, a pang of pity washed over his
face, guiltily backed away from the door leaving me perplexed. As the child
turned slightly, we were introduced to his shirtless baby sister, who was
munching happily on the snack he had stolen from the stall. My hand hung limply
beside my camera that slung over my shoulder.
******
At the end of the day, I slumped into the
sudden found comfort of the car and looked through the photos. I thought the
natural light didn’t help me too much today. But I had gotten a good shot of
different parts of the slum. And some profiles had turned out quite good too.
Broken roofs, make do doors, dirt and
filth.
Loneliness, despair and helplessness.
******
“Your work is too abstract! These aren’t
moments, Anshula. These are monuments! I don’t want to know what the place
looks like. I want to know what the people are, how they are, who they are. I
want you to catch emotion! Happiness, greed, anger, sorrow…this…this is not
what I want. Please go home today and think about this.”
“Mr. Takur, allow me to say this with
what scanty experience I have as a photographer. Beauty, can be caught in a
frame, but the happiness of a mother the first time she sees her child, the
love between two lovers who have found life in each other and the peace felt by
an old couple who are celebrating their 60th anniversary together,
are moments my camera is incapable of accurately preserving and portraying.
Because although the moment can be seen, it cannot be savored. In life, the
best moments are those that your camera always failed to capture. I hope you
will think about this too. I will be taking my leave now.”
“Hold on, I have something I want to talk
about.” Mr. Takur twirled a small pendant on the table distractedly.
I turned, crossed my arms, and waited.
“Remember the story Thomas covered a
couple of months back? The kidnapping of the doctor’s daughter. I had asked you
to photograph the press conference because the assigned photographer was on
leave?”
“Yes, why?”
“Do you have a copy of the photos? The
police are coming over tomorrow. They want to reopen the investigation.”
I rummaged through my usually neat drawer
and pulled out the file. I quickly glanced through the photos, my eyes easily
overlooking the police officer standing to the right of Mr. Takur, his right
hand on the table, an eagle spreading its magnificient wings over it.
******
When I stepped into the house, Mother was
bumbling about like a bee. Something was definitely not right, or at least not
in my favor.
“You are just in time! Pandit Ji is here,
go and change into something decent for God’s sake! Go, go!”
I watched her literally whiz back into
the kitchen as I looked at myself in the mirror on the wall. Black t-shirt and
a pair of full length jeans. I looked back at the place where Mother had vanished
into the kitchen.
Back downstairs in the living room, I
paid my respects to Pandit Ji as he blessed me in return. I was shown a series
of photos of various men in amusing, almost pathetic “groom-to-be” poses. I
looked up at my mother, her hands held together in a tight clasp, her eyes all
hopeful, watching my lips for an answer, then darting towards my hand to see if
they would take pity on her and pick my future.
I told them I needed some time to think
about it.
Time was bestowed.
******
The robotic voice of the news reader
boomed through the speakers.
“Sources have revealed that the rape and
murder of Maya Takur might have been an inside job. The public are now
questioning their security that has been placed in the hands of the Police
Department.”
There was a lot of yelling in the
background as everyone tried to get each other’s attention. A lucky man was
presented with a microphone and he spoke in a high pitched voice as younger men
tried to push their faces closer to his, chancing at possible fame.
“We trust the police to protect us. If
they start resorting to such shameful behavior how are we to sleep in peace believing
that our daughters are going to come home safe and sound? How are we…”
The microphone was snatched back by an
attractive reporter. “…and do stay tuned for more information after the break.”
It was a sad ordeal. Mr. Takur was a
mess. Of course, I had dutifully visited his family and conveyed my
condolences. Unable to fathom the true extent of the loss. Unable to imitate
grieve of the same magnitude.
I glanced over at the clock. He would be
back soon. I decided to start preparing dinner. He did like to have an early
dinner, and with all that was being thrown at him he could very well do with
some pampering today. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Just two weeks of
being a wife and I thought I knew it all. I was about to press the power button
on the remote when the news came on again.
“This is a screenshot of a video footage
we managed to save from the recording obtained from the crime scene.” A
photograph of greatly pitiable quality flashed across the flat screen. On the
left side of the image was a fuzzy outline of a pair of bare legs and over one
ankle, was a hand.
******
My eyes were puffy and swollen by the
time he walked in. My hand curled protectively over the handle of the knife that
I kept pressing harder and harder onto my back. I watched in teary silence as
he turned the knob and latched the door. As he bent to pick his briefcase a
small pendant slipped out from his collar and twirled innocently.
In life, the best moments are those that
your camera always failed to capture. What if they aren’t the best? What if you
never wanted to see what was in that picture ever again? What if a picture
couldn’t actually tell a story, but merely rekindled the unwanted memories of
only those who were in it? The story was theirs to be told, theirs to be
stashed away.
“Hi sweetheart,” he cooed as he sank
himself in our new arm chair.
“Why?” I asked, my voice hoarse and
hardly above a whisper.
He looked at me cautiously and came
closer. He so very slowly placed his hand on my thigh.
“Why Shyam?”
The eagle soared ever so gloriously on
the back of his hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment