You came here to see photos, I know. But let me tell you what you’d miss if you saw my latest pictures from India, where I am now.
Before I took up photography, I used to write detailed travelogues about the faraway places I visited on business: Rio, Singapore, Taipei, Caracas. But like many of us, I’ve succumbed to the immediate gratification of a quick snapshot taken with a phone. Unfortunately, pictures don’t do India justice. They may convey the intense and glittering colors of women’s saris, or the deep colors of ceremonial powders, displayed in such perfect cones that one doesn’t dare disturb them through a mere purchase. But pictures can’t convey the constant honking of cars, cabs, trucks, motorcycles, scooters, and the ubiquitous yellow-and-green autos (aka tuktuks, everywhere else) as they constantly jockey for better positions on crowded boulevards or as they wind their way through streets so narrow that pedestrians have to escape into store entries to make room.
Pictures don’t convey the shouts and hawks of vendors in the market as they try to draw attention to their wares with melodic bellowing or staccato-like hectoring like ‘balla-balla-balla-balla’ that sounds more impatient and threatening than inviting.
Pictures don’t convey the close proximity of people, the constant brushes against others as you try to pass on too-narrow sidewalks or enter too-narrow doorways.
Pictures don’t convey the fragrance mix of spices, rotting fruit, exhaust fumes and wet asphalt, the enticing smell of burnt nuts and corn-on-the-cob wafting like clouds above the rolling food carts that meander through traffic, the aroma of fresh flowers being weighed using ancient hand-held scales, the occasional whiff of cow manure, the spicy bouquet of coffee served in tiny cups from corner stalls no bigger than a coat closet.
Pictures don’t convey the fine dust that covers your skin as soon as you step outside, or the cool air wafting out of stores fortunate enough to have a fan, or the heat that stings your skin as soon as the sun breaks through the monsoon clouds.
Pictures don’t convey the drizzle that threatens to turn into a downpour that never comes, or the screech of a bird that is so jarring because it is so rare, or the dogs quietly slinking through the throngs of people, looking for scraps of food and getting no affection.
Pictures don’t convey the near-misses between cars inches apart in heavy traffic, or the flow of traffic around pedestrians crossing the street without any sign of hurry or panic, or of commuters boarding a bus that has already pulled away from its stop, its doors open specifically to allow stragglers to jump aboard before picking up speed, or the haggling that precedes the boarding of any conveyance, or the thousands of smiles flashed at you in the hope of some charity.
All that is lost with photography. What’s also lost is our attention span — we see something, we snap a picture, we move on. Gone are the days of quiet contemplation triggered by a desire to ‘remember the moment.’ Our memory has been outsourced to photo storage in the cloud.
I don’t recall the few pictures I took so many years ago in Rio, Buenos Aires or Provence, but my recollections are nevertheless vivid, indelibly stored in my mind through the act of writing them down. So if you want lasting memories of your travels, maybe it’s time to put down the camera and pick up a pen?
