On Looking Again #1: What I Thought Was Missing

The photographs are better than I remember.

That’s the first thing I notice.

For years, I carried around the memory of being disappointed by that morning. Dee and I had slipped out of our resort room in Kerala before sunrise, leaving Adu asleep, and walked towards the pool with my camera. I must have taken a hundred photographs, but this set was special. Dee sat by the pool while the world slowly emerged from the darkness. The light arrived exactly as it was supposed to. The reflections arrived. The stillness arrived.

Out of the hundred odd photographs, I remember liking very few of them.

Looking at this picture now, I find myself wondering what exactly I thought was missing.

Memory is strange that way. It preserves the dissatisfaction and discards the evidence.

Later that day, I wandered out of the resort and into the nearby village. I met people whose language I didn’t understand and who didn’t understand mine. We smiled, pointed, managed. I found small temples unmarked on Google maps and tour itineraries, though they were no less beautiful than their more famous cousins. By the time I returned, hot, sweaty and thoroughly lost, I felt richer than I had that morning.

Looking back now, I don’t think I was disappointed with the photographs at all.

I think I was beginning to outgrow a certain way of taking them.

The camera had spent years helping me collect beautiful sights. Around this time, I had begun asking it to help me discover something.

The village walk offered that more readily than the resort ever could.

And yet, years later, it is this photograph that has brought the whole day back.

Not the temples.

Not the lanes.

Not the conversations stitched together with gestures.

This one frame.

Perhaps that’s what photographs do best.

They wait quietly for memory to catch up.

Touched by light

Here’s to light. To hear it slowly shuffling across the room you are in, entering through the window like a stray bird with burning wings and giving everything it touches the gift of life. To feel it on your eyelashes, seeing the soul of the world with your eyes closed. To sit under a banyan tree and see it play hide and seek with shadow, its eternal friend. To being with light, as you look back at the years gone by and realize how it has always been about her. Or him, as you wait patiently by his side to open his eyes at the dawn of time. Yes, light can be a person too. 

And yes, it can be you, too. 

To be someone’s light. To see their eyes light up at your sight. Knowing that even after the shadow has consumed you, some part of your light will stay alive in them.

To be touched by light, to be alive, to be immortalized.

-Alok 16/04/24