“I bet I can take a better picture than you can” she said, defiantly, a
challenging smile playing on her face.
I looked down at her and smiled. I had gotten used to her throwing the gauntlet from time to time.
It was like this. I was a photographer on a freelance assignment. Not much money in this one, but seemed like a great opportunity to visit Imphal. The capital of the eastern state of Manipur, one of the seven sisters – the forgotten easternmost part of India.
The publication also informed me that the writer would also be there for the three- day shoot. I shrugged my shoulders. “Whatever.”
I thought in a way it would work out well. She’d create a story and I’d substantiate it with the photographs. Win-win. Right?
Having asked for an aisle seat I was unceremoniously dumped into one of the middle seats. With the overhead cabin space full my 6 foot frame was cramped in the centre with my heavy camera bag on my lap.
When she came across to the row where I was sitting, she gave me a somewhat amused look. I was not amused. That was probably the beginning of three days of irritation. But how was I to know.
My anger melted when she offered me her aisle seat. At some point, she suggested that I keep the camera bag under the seat back in front of her so as to allow me some leg space. I readily agreed.
She laughed. Apologized. “I didn’t mean it that way! I’m sure you’re great at what you do. It’s just that landscapes don’t move me too much.” She added hastily, “I mean, they seem so inanimate… as if… there’s just no one around, you know? Kind of lonely?”
We debated lightly on that. But she steadfastly maintained her ground. Landscapes were lonely. Landscapes were not alive. Landscapes didn’t move. And didn’t move her.
As she listened with interest, I warmed up further to the subject. “For instance, sunsets allow you a very, very small window of time. Miniscule. Lose it and you’ve lost your picture forever.” “And sunrises?”
“You know what Ansel Adams said?” “No”, I replied.
“You don't make a photograph just with a camera. You bring to the act of photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard, the people you have loved.”
True, I thought.
The next day we were going for a recce.
"No”, I said, back to my irritable self, “And I don’t want to know”. We went back to the hotel in stony silence.
I looked down at her and smiled. I had gotten used to her throwing the gauntlet from time to time.
It was like this. I was a photographer on a freelance assignment. Not much money in this one, but seemed like a great opportunity to visit Imphal. The capital of the eastern state of Manipur, one of the seven sisters – the forgotten easternmost part of India.
The publication also informed me that the writer would also be there for the three- day shoot. I shrugged my shoulders. “Whatever.”
I thought in a way it would work out well. She’d create a story and I’d substantiate it with the photographs. Win-win. Right?
Wrong.
I met her on the flight. Having asked for an aisle seat I was unceremoniously dumped into one of the middle seats. With the overhead cabin space full my 6 foot frame was cramped in the centre with my heavy camera bag on my lap.
When she came across to the row where I was sitting, she gave me a somewhat amused look. I was not amused. That was probably the beginning of three days of irritation. But how was I to know.
My anger melted when she offered me her aisle seat. At some point, she suggested that I keep the camera bag under the seat back in front of her so as to allow me some leg space. I readily agreed.
She started the conversation. “So you’re a landscape
photographer, I heard”. She looked at me curiously like I had something growing
on my face. “The sunrise-sunset types.” She threw her head back and laughed.
"That’s a very
supercilious comment, young lady!” I said drawing myself to my full height. Not
too difficult, considering. But a tad uncomfortable, in that tiny aircraft
seat!She laughed. Apologized. “I didn’t mean it that way! I’m sure you’re great at what you do. It’s just that landscapes don’t move me too much.” She added hastily, “I mean, they seem so inanimate… as if… there’s just no one around, you know? Kind of lonely?”
Inanimate? Lonely? I had never thought of my landscapes that
way. To me, the beauty came out in the spectacular silence of nature. A glowing
sunrise. A red hot sunset. A sky that was tinged with myriad colours. A snowcovered
mountainscape. Undulating sand dunes in
a desert. Craggy hillsides that brought out the brutal harshness of nature.
And the human touch? I was there, was I not? Behind the lens? How
did the picture get taken in the first place! Humppph!We debated lightly on that. But she steadfastly maintained her ground. Landscapes were lonely. Landscapes were not alive. Landscapes didn’t move. And didn’t move her.
“Human kind cannot bear very much reality” she said, almost to
herself. Over the next two days a lot of quote wisdom was going to come my way. I wasn’t quite prepared.
“What?”
“T. S. Eliot said that.” She pondered a bit. “I think I don’t
like landscapes because it’s all so stark, so real. Maybe I can’t take it” She
looked wistful for a moment, then she challenged me again.
“But what kind of ‘lighting’ do use for that?”. She made air
quotes with her fingers for the word lighting. “Nature does it for you, doesn’t
it?”
I smiled a wry smile. Okay, I thought. The usual
not-knowing-much about photography types. These smart phones with their
whatever x megapixel cameras. And of course the extra smart people with their
smart phones. Like this one here.
I sighed, took a deep breath and told her all about the
exposure levels and adjustments you made to make the most of the lighting that
Mother Nature provided. Yes. Nature did
provide the lighting but only the good photographers knew when to take the pictures. How
to make the most of the light. What to
do in certain light conditions. As she listened with interest, I warmed up further to the subject. “For instance, sunsets allow you a very, very small window of time. Miniscule. Lose it and you’ve lost your picture forever.” “And sunrises?”
“Aha!” I was beginning to enjoy my expert status now. I
spoke of aperture settings, where to place the camera, image stabilizations, ISO
settings, and the works. I thought her eyes glazed over a bit in between as I explained
depth of field and other important aspects including timing. The all-important
moment.
She seemed far away. “You know what Ansel Adams said?” “No”, I replied.
“You don't make a photograph just with a camera. You bring to the act of photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard, the people you have loved.”
True, I thought.
The next day we were going for a recce.
We met for breakfast then started out. The city, if it could
be called that was abuzz with life. Everything seemed normal. Till we were on
our way back early afternoon. Till an army truck passed by.
“Quick!” She said. “Take a picture of that tank”.
“No!” I protested. “We’ll shoot at the lake when we get
there. Besides I am here to shoot landscapes. Not moving trucks. And that’s
what I’ll do.”
“Do you know what Golda Meir said?”
“No” I said, edgily.
“Don’t be so humble. You’re not that great.”
How could 40 kgs. of nothing rile me so much, I thought.
We went back to the hotel in silence.
“Tomorrow I am going to the lake early to shoot the sunrise.”
I said at dinner, shortly. “Very early”. I emphasized.
“I’d like to come”.
“4 am then. I’ve organized a car. Dress warm”.
She nodded. Said good night and walked away to her room.
At 4 am she was waiting down. Sufficiently bundled in warm
clothes. We got into the car in silence. She carried some papers. Obviously she
had done some research on the lake in question.
As she got out of the car when we reached, she took out a
small digital camera from her bag. I almost choked.
She looked defiantly at me.
“Even I can take good pictures”.
I smiled.
“I bet I can take a better picture than you can” she said, defiantly, with
a challenging smile on her face.
“Yes of course” I said, smiling. My irritation of the
earlier day was replaced by amusement. I was going to enjoy the day.
It was still dark as we made our way up to a vantage point
from where we could see the lake. The sun would rise from the other side.
As we reached the top we saw a wizened old man brewing tea
on a kerosene stove. He was still pumping up the stove when we reached him. His
deeply furrowed face glowed in the light but it was impossible to guess his
age. His eyes had a young twinkle in them and he smiled broadly as he handed us
the aluminum cups of the steaming brew. We sat on the rickety wooden bench and
sipped the hot tea silently.
Then we waited for the sun to come up.
I had set up the camera and I was clicking away even as the
first ray seemed to appear from behind the horizon. From deep within a light
was appearing and the darkness was slowly melting away at the horizon replaced
by the pinks and pale yellows of the early morning light. Mesmerized, I
photographed almost every single ray. I wasn’t going to miss anything.
In those moments, I was one with the sun, one with its
tiniest movement as it rose slowly majestically up the horizon, one with
nature, one with myself. It was only a
few minutes after dawn that I realized she was nowhere to be seen.
As I scanned around I saw her. She had curled up on the
bench near the tea stall and was fast asleep. The old man looked at me then
looked at her and smiled indulgently. So much for sunrise and sunsets and all
that talk and questions about lighting.
I gently shook her awake. Now I was in my element. Proudly I
displayed some of the gorgeous takes of the early morning.
She smiled. Didn’t say a word of appreciation. Hummph I
thought. Hardly someone who’d understand great photography.
“Do you know what Thoreau said?” she asked, a little later on
our way back."No”, I said, back to my irritable self, “And I don’t want to know”. We went back to the hotel in stony silence.
It was only after a few days that I got a large envelope in
the mail.
Inside protected with two thick cards was one of the most
beautiful photographs of sunrise I had ever seen.
On the far horizon a burnt pink sky was heralding the first
rays of dawn. The waters of the lake glistened pink. In the foreground on the
left was an old man, the old man at the tea stall! A part silhouette, his face was
bowed in devotion his hands joined in prayer, with reverence at the first rays
of the sun. From one side the soft morning light played with his deeply furrowed
face, lighting every line, every wrinkle with a kind of mystical beauty. The
rest was just darkness.
As I looked at the photograph it seemed to speak to me. It encapsulated
an entire message. That of the smallness of the human being against the
vastness of that endless lake. That of the darkness of the night dispelled with the gloriousness of the rising sun. And
that of hope – with the dead stillness of the lake compensated with the life
the old man brought to the picture.
Behind the photograph was a post-it note.
It said,
“It’s not what you look at, it’s what you see
– Henry David Thoreau”.