This time last year, the husband and I were about to set off on our
Indian adventure. I get such a wonderful feeling thinking about our trip, how carefree we were, finding our way around an unknown place, being blasted by sights and smells and people and sounds that still linger when I close my eyes and imagine the sticky humidity of Mumbai's streets or the delicious nectar of sweet, street lassis.
I was browsing through my photographs today and found the final set of portraits which I never posted (see Faces of
India Part 1, and Faces of
India Part 2).
I was attracted to this woman at the
Monkey Temple in Jaipur by her bright clothing (I have a weakness for spots!). The red and lime green next to that strip of blue wall was too enticing. She was happy enough to oblige although gave me a blast afterwards for not paying her.
I took this picture at the gates of the
Jama Masjid, the incredible, large mosque at Fatehpur Sikri. I remember it being sweltering hot, well into the forties. People moved slowly as if the air itself was made of a different substance. There was no exchange between me and this young man but I think he felt it was easier to be part of the picture than try and move out of it. The hand up to the chin makes it.
Voyeurs on the streets of
Jodhpur, encountering scenes of the everyday which seems magical to our foreign eyes...
An old soul watching the barber go about his work. There's something about him that told me he was not the next customer waiting for a clean shave (too many years had gone into that wise beard).
The father of this little girl asked me to take her photograph as we walked passed their shop on a night stroll through
Pushkar. I don't like to use flash but it was the only way to capture this little thing (the other attempts are blurs across the screen). So I don't really like this photograph but I kept it because of the expression on her face. A little goddess in this funny, dusty town.
We bought a beautiful throw (which has found home on our bed) from the shop in Jaipur which this man worked at. There were only two sewing machines, and a large workshop filled from floor to ceiling with fabric. The man behind this machine took having his photograph taken very seriously - moments before he was laughing and chatting to us. We even joked with him about it once the picture was taken.
I think this is a lovely image of guards outside a palace in Delhi (the husband actually took it so I won't claim it as my own). The pale yellow and blue, the flash of orange, the stark shadow down the right face.
Another male seamstress we passed on a manic, thriving street in Old Delhi. Taken a moment out of his work to look up with just a hint of a smile.
As I mentioned, it is a strange thing taking pictures of people you don't know - be they strangers or stars of a fleeting encounter. You walk that precarious line of invasion versus engagement. I was clearly a tourist anyway, with my blonde hair and fair skin so the camera wasn't the give away. I found taking these pictures was a way to bridge that gap between visitor and local - for a brief moment, to become part of their world.
