The best things in life are often in the past. Only we humans reminisce and yearn for what we once had.
I’m only human.
I’d never say no to a road trip. On one such trip, we headed to Pondicherry to celebrate my parents’ anniversary—away from all our negative relative trouble.
On the way, I found, dangling from my brother’s rear view mirror, my peace.
I’ve spent restless nights for the sun to come up so I could click a picture.
I’ve zoomed in far more than I should, just to get a clear shot of a waning moon as darkness engulfed it.
I’ve pointed my camera at many places, trying to land a perfect angle. I should have just gaped open-mouthed, instead.
Photography is addictive. I’ve got a great phone that takes stunning images, with a precise focus. Plus, it’s so fancy I need to flaunt it. And I also have a craving to capture scenic, yet uncommon, sights of everyday life.
That’s what makes me flip out my phone every time I’m at a restaurant. Or stop short in the street to click a picture of a witty billboard. It’s what makes me lean over pointy plants and hover over a blooming flower.
It felt therapeutic at first to scroll through photos and pretend I had more memories than I could remember. But then, I didn’t remember those moments because I never paid attention.
And as I went to the terrace this morning, I saw the sun pushing its way through dense clouds, illuminating the sky with orange rays. As the clouds lined gold, a balloon of joy erupted within me. And in an instant, I wished I had my phone in hand.
Without thinking, I wanted to freeze the moment rather than enjoy it. I wasn’t in the present but was thinking about taking it to the future.
It was sad. Nature had given me a glorious sight, and there I was my eyes clouded behind the veil of a camera lens. What’s the point of looking at something and not seeing it?
In truth, photography means nothing to me. I’m no professional, and I don’t intend to be.
I don’t have a fancy camera or the knowledge of perfecting lighting, angles, or aperture.
I shouldn’t mind sacrificing a few photos if it meant I could eat a meal while it’s still warm. It’s fine to stare at the moon for five minutes without panicking over an unfocused photo. And ok to look at the sky, calling out, “Bring me that horizon.”
Sure, I should still get a good photo or two of momos — because they’re too good to resist. But for me, photography is a hobby, and it shouldn’t get in the way of living my life.
I have a thing for momos. It’s a traditional Tibetan steamed or fried dumpling made with flour and stuffing.
And it stuffs my heart with so much joy, it’s comfort food on a whole new level. A friend introduced me to the momos and ever since I’ve been scouring restaurants nearby looking for the perfect plate of momos.
And last weekend, I hit the jackpot. I found a place called the Tibet Memorial Restaurant. Well, it had Tibet in the name, so it had to be good. Sure enough, their’s was by far the best momos I’ve had in my area.
I’ve had tasted better momos in Darjeeling, though. But it could be because a colder climate complements the puff of steam that streams out when you bite into a momo.
It was in the Periyar Tiger Reserve in Thekkady. That’s where I came across this information centre. They had details about popular tourist attractions in Thekkady, including wildlife sanctuaries, safaris, over night camping plans, and more.
This building in particular, had a weird shape that I had to click it. I love curved edges and beautiful outlines. I like the idea that a building can be sharp and curved at the same time.
And I love the mild pointy top of the arch, the 90 degree angle of the doors, the the roof of the building sloping down, and—best of all—the uneven bricks laid along the arch. There are so many different edges in this picture that I had to take it.
We were well on our way to Thekkady when the heat dropped and dark clouds gathered. All around us, coconut trees swayed to the breeze, and plump bushes shook with joy.
We had entered Theni, a small town with a big reputation. Even as you say the name, you’d think spanning pastures, family animals, young girls hanging out in bright clothes, and school boys picking fights with the neighbour’s kids. That’s the picture the media had given us, and as we grazed over the Theni highway, something like a yellow balloon inflated in my chest.
We stopped and got out, greedy for some Theni essence. That’s when this photo happened. The car mirrored the trees on the opposite, along with the street divider line. It was a beautiful place with beautiful weather, and elation beyond words.
