On memories that will never be forgotten

"The truth is..." she paused " I am searching for broken pieces of my soul in every frame, every shot. In a way, I am trying to collect all the scattered pieces and sew it all together to remind me of the kind of person I used to be, I could be."

"You know, each soul has a beginning and mine came to life when we parted. Then I understood pain and what it means to be broken and alive" "And I'd do it all over again, no questions."

Conversations

We sat at the edge of the horizon, staring at the bright lights dancing on the surface of the blue sea. I asked her, "so what made you this way?" There was a long pause. She lifted up the palm of her hand against the sun and began to watch its light streaming through the gaps of her fingers. "You know" she said, "Things are never the way they seem to be". She then continued " I met an angel once". "He lived in a desolate land, lifeless and barren. He was beautiful, his smile would light up the darkness around him. And his presence radiated warmth, enough to melt the coldest iceberg. We met in the desert northern wind and He told me stories of red, blue and yellow, purple and magenta. He added rainbow into this clear, invisible glass house I lived in.

We spent our days telling each other stories. And in the nights we lay down on the cold grass, watching the stars and travelled into each other's soul. As much as our stories were shiny and bright, the soul lived in this lowly earth, grey and dull. And they needed something to hold on to, something to hope for, to live for and to die for. So with each passing second we stitched words together and built ourselves a glorious castle decorated with moments, pieces of songs and dreams. This castle will redeem us, it will bring our souls out of the depth of darkness into this bright shimmering light of stories that we've told our selves. We will be transformed into the beauty that we have believed in.

There was a moment of silence after she said this. I saw the clouds gathering at the far end of the sea and I could smell rain in the breeze . "So what happened next?" I asked. And she said, "One winter season, as we were walking on the snow, he let go of my hand" "He told me that he needed to fly away, that he could no longer build this castle with me. Because if he were to live in this beautiful, glittery paradise we've created, he would have to become something that he was not. He would need to deny the darkness and desolation, which was the only world he knew. And if he let go of it, he might as well cease to exist. Then he left without much fanfare, quietly as he came"

She then touched the small of her back, where her wings used to be. She gazed straight towards the sea and said to me "It is not until you have lost everything you have, everything you have ever loved that you understand how free you are"

I looked up, and the first droplets of rain kissed my face

No ordinary love

In my life certain things are meant to be.

Like how I met my first love as he walked across the hall, time stood still for an eternity and a microscopic second. And how many years later when all has ended, our path crossed again in this tiny little café. Small words of hellos and pleasantries exchanged. Awkwardly. Suddenly I found my self gently holding on to this yellowing memory, frayed edges and all. It made sense there and then that it was all worth it.

It was the wedding season when I arrived at the city. The air was filled with sunshine, music and laughter. At every street corner were processions of women in their colourful saris, henna painted hand. An image of beauty.

He stood out from the crowd as he sat by the bridge of lake Pichola. I saw him from a distance and he acknowledged me by pointing at my camera and asking me to take a picture. I understood what he meant but decided to walk away without so much of acknowledging him with anything other than a faint smile. His legs were nothing but two stumps and he waited by the bridge for some spare change from any passers by who cared enough.

Most people did the same thing as I did. Walked away. After all this is India. You see beggars at every turn and in a little while your soul grew this calloused hard shell...if you're not careful. There was something different about him. Enough to make me walk back and rationalise that it is okay to exchange money for a photo. A picture of someone who makes a living through the mercy of his fellow human beings.

So I went over to him and gave him some money. I took a few steps back and a couple of shots of him. It turns out he spoke english well enough for us to be able to communicate (I learned afterwards that he also speaks French and German which he picked up on the streets). He told me his name is Hanuman. That he is not from this city but from the south. That he came here because it's the tourist season and he could earn better money here. That he used to be a bus driver until he lost his legs in an accident. That he is married. His wife works as a labour, but work is hard to come by. That when he is not begging here, he also drives auto rickshaw in his home town. That he is thirty years old.

He then asked me how old I was. I felt a strange sensation at the pit of my stomach. Mostly guilt, some part was sadness and another part anger. Rolled into one they hit me like a gigantic wave leaving me feeling uncomfortable.

It was only a few days before my thirtieth birthday. We may have the same age, but surely he has fought more than I have in our thirty-year residence on planet earth. He has lost more than I ever have, struggled more and perhaps, gained more, although what he gained is invisible to bare eyes. And for all of the above I have nothing but respect for him.

I asked him if he has any children. "Two daughters, and they go to school" he said with a smile and pride in his eyes. In a country where female infanticide is rampant, where bride burning and dowry practices is still a part of day to day life, his faith and love for his daughters gave me hope.

As I was about to leave, he offered to buy me a cup of chai. I politely refused, thinking how could I possibly accept a token of his generosity, a part of his hard earned income. It's funny how human thinks sometime. When in fact he has given me so much more than the little money I have given him.

Shivam

It was a warm, sunny late afternoon. The sun has just begun to change its colors from a cold white to a glorious orange tone. It was my first day in Pushkar, first of the two short twenty four hours that I would spend in this part of India. In this country everything seemed to arrange itself artistically without much deliberation. The way the barber set his chair and mirror against the cyan wall, the way the two little boys played marbles on the dusty ground and the way the light shone into the empty tea house right in front of me.

The man sat outside of this tea house, on a white plastic chair whith his gaze tired and burdensome. As I walked pass he stopped me and asked me to take a picture of him. Full of prejudice, I said to him "nehi ruppee" and he nodded. His wife was inside the tea house and I asked if she wanted a picture too. She carried a weight of sadness and pain in her eyes.

He invited me inside for a cup of chai. I comply. It was dark, there was a mattress at the end of the room, and a little boy sitting at the edge of the table.

His name is Shivam. He is 8 years old and he has cerebral palsy. He made sounds but could not speak. Even then his father understood the meaning of his every move. The way he tilted his head, the faint smile on his lips, the look on his eyes. He was interpreting to me what they all meant as he looked at him. Proudly.
Shivam didn't mind me and my camera. He couldn't sit still for a second, just like any other eight year old boy. And I clicked away.

They had three other chidlren before him but they all passed away. I saw enough anguish and heaviness in the lines that marked their faces that I did not ask how. I looked down at the steaming cup of chai. Shivam wrigled. He wanted to try some of my chai. I motioned the cup towards him when his mother told me that he is only allowed to drink milk. We sat there for a little while longer. Communicating in broken english and hindi.

She was about to prepare dinner. They asked if I wanted to have some chapatis. I politely refused and told them I should probably get going since it's getting late.

He asked me to tell my friends of his tea house. I nodded. And gave him some money. Which he did not ask for. Which amount to nothing, in the bigger scheme of things. Of his son's medication, future, security.

So I walked back to my hotel, carrying a fragment of love encapsuled in the greatness and simplicity of Shivam and his parents. It gave me enough light to find my way back home.