When the sun will rise,
But there will not be,
Thousands of feet above the tree line. Less of oxygen and more of enthusiasm. Difficult to gauge if it’s a travellers paradise or pilgrimage.They call it the land of high passes!
Where winds are wild,
and wilder is the desert.
The land of fluttering prayer flags, arid secrets, where sunsets and sunrises write on the mountains with a blue ink of clouds (care less, about my bizarre poetic expressions)!
It is beautiful. It is treacherous. Treacherous.
Ladakh, is what we are talking!
Here’s What Happened:
As an instinct, it was going to be about “rampant photography”, on account of my first ever pilgrimage.
whenever we stopped,
wherever we stopped,
however we stopped,
I would pounce with my camera and break into a thousand pictures.
A rubbernecker, who is an amazing, like
fucking-really-amazing cinematographer, was travelling with us. Eavesdrop on our conversation:
Him: Hey, would you take a picture of me?
Me : Sure.
Him: ***Grim face on***
Setting the camera aside, I look at him. Grim face on, still!
Me: Why that face? Wouldn’t you smile?
Him: Ask that to the mountains too. Even they should smile before a picture. Even they should be “ready” before the picture. The light, the clouds, the reflections, should make the mountain smile.
Why do you think, eccentrics, wait for hours, sitting in front of a mountain? The wait for the mountain to say, “NOW”!
Whenever I look at a photograph, I wonder about the moments exactly before it was captured.
What were the thoughts of the photographer? Was it shot by chance or did he hold his breath still? Did he lie flat on the burning marble or cold ice for long?
How fast did he run to take another shot at life? Did he smile when he pictured the shot in his head before pressing the click button?
A photograph becomes a moment, even before captured!
Quick Downpour: Trekking Deo Tibba. This picture was captured in Seri (Himachal Pradesh), rained like fucking rabbits… (google that). Was stationed there for 2 days. Nothing to be done, until… 🙂
Here’s what it is: Seri welcomed us with a “warm” hailstorm! There is a moraine zone that one needs to wade through to reach Seri. Now, this moraine zone is stark and beautiful, in it’s own isolated existence. It is one hell of an oxymoron of a place. So picture this:
There’s bright sun. Sunny enough for you to even paint your eyebrows in sunscreen. You are trekking in a valley full of wild flowers with a revolting river sprinting along. You are walking on the edge, when suddenly, it rains. And how… as if hell broke loose!
Dreamy and drenched, you look around. Little rivulets flowing straight out of rocky boulders. It is hard hitting. You are hopeless! You are awestruck!
No sooner than you sink this, the story turns into a fairy-tale! The moraine zone unfolds as a surprising meadow. “Seri” is what they call the place!
It has been two days now in Seri. You are time-lapsing between clouds and random thoughts. Drinking loads of tea, smoking bidi… endlessly. All this with just one constant: Rain!
It is then! When an unforeseen sun, greets you in the evening and you run! Run with your camera! Run like children of the wild! This is what you capture! And you smile!
I stumbled upon it on Facebook. Such an interesting take!
Kind of pricks till the end…
While on the Ghats in Rishikesh, one fine evening, as the outer and inner Ganga flowed together, I made a small discovery…
Between pulling it together
Letting it go
There’s something called
Letting it be…
When the rains washed it all
When the clouds still carried secrets
Around the smouldering spark of the bonfire
In the dark
I saw you!