The heart ached

A lump in the throat.

Eyes well up.

Time passed on,
Memories faded,
A glimpse in the water,
It flowed downhill.
In the garden of smiles,
An alabatross landed.
Spoke of the lost world,
Gestured a blessing. 
A saddened lost soul,
Promises of a glass half full.
Flowers and scents adorned
The broken throne of the bygone. 
Scattered and tattered, it was strewn,
Mercilessly across the visciousness 
The  ghastly wounds deepened,
With each gavel hitting the ground. 
Walking in the deep water,
Drinking a wicked potion,
Climbing on a ledge,
Breaking the monotony.
The thoughts clamoured,
The tears dried up, 
A rope in hand and 
A smile on the face. 

Photography-I know nothing!

Back in the day, I remember hurling abuses at people who would try capturing moments on a miniscule 2-inch screen on their phones. “Get a real camera!”, I’d yell, while I haughtily guarded my Canon that spewed out digital imprints that looked marvellous(at least to me!) on a computer screen. I did not know the make or model or the pixel or the zoom strength or the lens-type or any photographical terms that the camera offered. All I knew was that when you see an ominous raven perched atop a crude crucifix, against an eerie grey sky, while the usually mercurial sea was harrowingly calm, you must incarcerate the image in the Canon. I’d photograph any anomalies I bumped into, people or things. My choicest motif, or muse, if you must, were always malingerers. To me, these derelicts symbolised an avalanche of desolation and delectation, equanimity and anxiety, all disgorged from their wrinkled faces. Alas! Most shirked away from the contraption in my hands and mostly me, in the fear that I would ask their life-story, which I would have, given a chance.

Straying back to the concern on hand, I believe some shrewd technological minefield must have heard me yelling about getting a real camera and he/she must’ve thought, “That’s a great idea! Let’s combine the real camera with a cell phone.”, and voilà! Out came the iPhone and the works. Then everyone was bitten by a rare-until-then bug, the shutterbug. Everybody was out photographing birds and bees and pretty girls and most devastatingly, themselves. The latter, was excruciatingly annoying. Terms like “selfie”, “selfie-stick”, “pouting”, “duck-face” and “peace sign” plummeted me to trichotillomania.

I remember reading a meme that read something like, “Every primate has a DSLR hanging from their necks now”. The tripods and the androids and the cyclops and the assortment of lenses and zoom-in and zoom-out and the exposure and the bokeh and apertures and focuses and all the blatherskite around something I thought was an effortless recreation made me put away the now-stone-aged Canon and, like many from my generation, adopted the monkey-see-monkey-do technology that was embedded in the cell phone, the opulent camera.

Years passed on, the earth took leaps around the sun, and I, all the while, lived under a proverbial rock. When I decided to emerge from the Tophet to take a load off, the precious camera had undergone metamorphosis, more advanced than flying cars. I decided to let things be and took to an easel and a paintbrush in hand and followed the precarious “Monet” way of imaging. If only I could keep a steady hand!

N.B. Absolutely no offence meant to any aspiring, amateur, professional or recreational photographers! All in good humour. 🙂 Click!