The Metamorphosis : #Photography

The story of a night…


I love this little corner of my city. The tiny stretch of land offers you so much that you could spend a lifetime admiring its beauty. I’ve been doing it for 10 years now and I am still as wonderstruck as a 10 year old child.

Here are some of the photographs that try to capture a tiny inch of this unparalleled elegance.

The earth that blooms with sweat and fire….

Indira Gandhi Stadium. On Sundays, you’d find it teeming with hundreds of people, of all ages and castes, burning their calories and wisdom in the great fire of human zeal. There are two tracks – antique, and haphazard as they were made by people trampling over the same circle of earth over and over – the external one used by fat and diabetic middle aged men and women wishing to somehow regain their youthfulness, while the internal one often by young boys wanting to grow into strong men who could carry the weight of the nation on their shoulders. No government has ever given a rat’s ass about this place, despite using it twice a year for pompous display of culture during national festivals. Anyways, the running never stops. The fire never dies. Everything’s in motion here, even the clouds.

The tricolor…

The sunset colors the sky saffron. Under it, white patches crisscross the green fields. Nature has painted the tricolor on its infinite canvas, asking us to be proud of ourselves. The glory of this country stretches over to the skies. What could be more patriotic?

The transition…

And the transition begins. The sun has left this side of the world, but its ghost lingers, as if it wants to be remembered for some more time. Memories are quite like the sunset – dying but beautiful.

The night approaches…

The ghost is finally purged. The spirit begins its journey to the west. Fresh clouds arrive, bringing with them the darkness that is here to stay. The shops are already lit up with fancy lightbulbs. Ah! humanity has no time to appreciate the beauty of darkness.

The venus…

That tiny white dot is Venus. It shines like hope – small, but it’s there, right there. The sky is wearing prussian blue, and soon, it’ll be silvery, if the moon breaks the clouds and comes out alive.

The moon…

And the magic begins. The silvery spirit is out, peeping through the clouds. It’s under this sky Shakespeare wrote about love and tragedy. It’s under this sky people composed songs and died for their lovers. This is the most romantic shade of nature. Oh the moonlight!

Disneyland mela.

They celebrate happiness like nobody else. The fair glimmers with joy, the light is there only to act as a metaphor. It’s been years since the inception, the tiny Disneyland still attracts people like moths.

Rain and Photography

few pictures and few stories…

The much-awaited Monsoon finally reached my city. As I woke up to a cold morning, the earth smelled like rain. The rhythmic beats of the drops, the icy breeze that blew the curtains halfway, and the absence of a blaring sun – it was so dreamlike.

I got my phone and clicked random photos. Though they are not of high artistic value, they do look good.

The rawness…

The shacks serve as lodging for students. These late-teens come from the aphotic zones of the country, where life unfolds slow and harsh, in search of this glimmering city, which is an aphotic zone for us. My sunlight is Delhi, which is dark and dingy for the people who’ve flown away to a brighter place. Light, I think, is a subjective reality.

The companions of my parents…

The parking lot of my little bungalow. Standing elegantly on its exquisite brickwork flooring is Dhanno – my mother’s scooty – who receives more love than all other members of the house combined together. Dhanno has been with us for years now, and has an equal say in every decision of the house. She’s covered in a lavish shawl with fine threadwork, and her butts are wrapped in transparent plastic, which, I assume, is the latest fashion in the bike world. In the background, that dying thing is my father’s bicycle, which is older than me (3 years). It does not have a name. It still works, though if you add the repairing costs over the years, you would understand why we could never buy a Pajero Sport.

Glide…glide….glide…and fall…

The coconut fronds lashing in the air. The dense trees jiggle in the wind and the sheets fall on the sheet, and the nature’s instruments play in sync, and my heart sings and sings and sings.

The baked earth over the unbaked one…

The insides of my under-construction house. Yeah, we are building a new home. A better one which can accommodate more of my mother’s dreams. But I like it this way – unfinished and raw. That’s more like me.

A half-baked story….

My proposed study. Right now, the workers have occupied this place, so all the stuff you see here belongs to them. The rack with the water camphor is actually for keeping our suits when we get rich. With this level of planning, my mother could run finance ministries of two countries and still have enough time to watch the Maha episode of Ye Hai Mohabbatein.

Down the memory lane….

My old house staring at me. No my love, I haven’t forgotten you, for love is not so simple, and I am not that heartless.

Safarnama : Qutub Minar #2

The final lag of the journey…

The tall tower stands alone. The stories it has lived and the times it has seen – it won’t tell the shallow men down here. It talks to the birds, who have built their homes on its shoulders, for whom the imperativeness of it is much more than what it is to us, the humans. The tower isn’t dumb, it’s just not interested in talking…because we aren’t interested in listening…

We sat on the steps of the Sulabh Sauchalaya building, waiting for the torrent to fade out. Meanwhile, Shivam clicked us from four hundred and forty four different angles, the dedication level only matched by the Nat Geo people who go to the Congo Basin with their clunky DSLRs and die chasing primates. Mishra was getting bored, and so he decided he would rather take a leak. 

“Can’t believe peeing is a taxed activity. “I remarked. They didn’t pay attention to my intellectual observation, and kept on posing for Shivam, who had probably gone crazy from so much rain. After an unending wait, we decided to take an auto. 

I wasn’t made to sit on a lap, but the area occupied by my buttocks was smaller than what they deserved. Rohit wasn’t even visible – he was probably buried behind Amit. The auto raced down the flooded road and the cold wind hit our bodies, and it felt like this was going to be epic day. Just as I was done thinking about the epic day, Hemant’s dad called and before picking up, he asked us not to use profanity till the call was over. But midway though the conversation, a big SUV dashed by, splashing a Tsunami into the auto, wetting Mishra’s jeans and his hand and his phone and my jeans and my hands and my phone. Hemant hung up a century later, and then I broke into howls of profanity. 

Fifiteen minutes later, we reached our destination. 

the path that leads to the past…

Mishra was sent to buy tickets which costed Rs.15 each for the nationals. We pooled in and gave him the cash. He returned only a few seconds later, informing us that the price had doubled. Mishra is a jinx, I tell you. 

We bought the tickets and went in. The ruins of the Sultante, the heritage left by the invaders of the west, who had made this place their home, was standing right in front of our eyes, a bit dull and a bit old. Before we could enter the place, Shivam started clicking selfies. 

The first monument we went to was Alai Minar, which, had it been completed, would have measured double the height of Qutub Minar. It was constructed with massive stones, the edges rough and unpolished. The unfinished towers always tell a whole story. 

Alai Minar….

“I don’t think the monument is talking to me. “Mishra pointed out, trying to contradict the words of our favorite history teacher who said, “the monuments talk when you go near them.” But it wasn’t Alai Minar’s fault at all – Mishra is so jinxed that even if a tower could talk, it won’t talk to him.

The monuments don’t talk like people. They have their own whispers, which can’t be heard but only listened to. I could see elephants and carts around, and labors and people, witnessing the gradual splendid construction of a monument, which would halt just after the death of Alauddin Khilji. 

We clicked plenty of photos and then moved towards a tomb. The walls around had texts embossed in urdu. The people posed beneath an arch and clicked photos. I wondered if the monuments would ever talk to them. 

the tomb…

Then we moved to a Madarsa. It was a group of dank, charred rooms that smelled of batshit. I visualized kids taking taaleems here, which was very difficult to visualize, and then my eyes caught “Brijesh loves Rinku” engraved in the poor wall in a crabby handwriting. If you do similar things in China, they will make soup out of you the next day. They’ll hang your skeleton in the museum and place a label outside the case that’d read – Homo Habilis

each of those bricks have a story to tell…

Mishra sat on a stone outside and closed his eyes. 

“I’m feeling the past guys. “He claimed. “Somebody sat on this stone. It was a sultan. ”

I was pretty sure the stone was cursed or something. If it wasn’t, it would be now.

We then walked into a small graveyard. There were sad old tombs, and the whole place was so melancholic. If you eliminated the crowd from your minds eye, it would even appear scary. 

We went to a desolate garden after that. 

the garden…

We clicked photos and wondered which plants were replaced and which were still surviving from the era of Iltutmish. Then, we went on a sloped piece of land. 

the land where Sultans walked…

As I stood at the crest of the small plateau and looked around, the legacy of the Sultans spoke to me. The path I had travelled was travelled by a king centuries ago. In an era devoid of internet and bullet trains and hurry and pace, the Sultan would take a leisurely walk in the evening with his Begum. They’d talk about life and love and birds and trees. They’d appreciate nature. They’d kiss under that tree, they’d sit right here, and watch the birds flying back to their nests, they’d lean on each other’s shoulder and watch the dusk…..

on the top of the world….

I started feeling nostalgic for some weird reason. 

We raced down and clicked a flurry of photos. Then we went towards the sundial. On the way, we saw a Chinese family of 5. Each of them wore a hat. There were two white girls, wearing skirts that were shorter than my underwear. They owned the most distracting pair of butts in the entire universe.

We then went to another tomb, before we got to the sundial. A white lady was looking for it, asking people about it. She seemed confused. I showed her the sundial. She thanked me. 

At last, we reached the Qutub Minar.

the tower of Qutb..


A 73 meter high tower, built by two Sultans, was now a home to pigeons, but inaccessible to humans. There was some comfort in that realisation. 

People looked so stupid. All they did was clicking photos. I was no different, I had to get a new DP. 
It was over soon, the epic day. We jumped into the train and sat on the gangway floor and shared the pictures. Amit opened his lunchbox and most of them refused to eat because it was Sawan and the lunchbox was filled with scrambled eggs. So I ate full. 

On the train, I could see myself, or a part of me that I’d left, in those gardens, walking down the paths with slow calm steps, free from the rush and the worries of the 21st century. 

That’s all.