❝Loving you scares me to bones, but I shall rather love you to pieces, than let you go and be in pieces.❞
Viraj, an emerging sensation among photographers, and Kashi, the beauty and brain of the oldest city of India - 'Kashi', are not meant to be to...
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5th April 2014
In the crowd of hundreds, I was alone.
Masked eyes, upward tilted lips, proud chest, and carefree shoulders was how I looked like every day now, standing with an untouched wine flute in my hand and my eyes dancing across the grand, glimmering hall. The people present there were a blend of artists, photographers, singers, and who not. They all held pride, confidence, and celebration for me. Ironical! Everything appeared so fabricated.
Them. Even I.
"Viraj?" I turned towards my left, averting my stare from the posh crowd, when my associate, Tanmay, sought me. "Man, you surely know how to hide in plain sight! I've been searching for you for some fifteen or so minutes and you're here, standing like a lone man in foyer."
I didn't reply. Just offered him a smile and a small shake of my head in a non-chalant way. And moreover, he didn't need, or searched for any response. Tanmay knew me more than anyone present in that room. He was aware exactly what ran through my mind, or in my veins. Whose thoughts had me this distracted, that I didn't mind missing out on my own success party. He wasn't close to me by any means, but being in the same group while we traveled all over the world in search of variety of clicks, Tanmay effortlessly took an important spot in my life.
Success party, my mind zoomed back in.
With attention came rushing slight bit of guilt too. It was an event organised for me after all, with people from my professional background swarming in this grand hotel of Benaras. The agency did warn me, though subtly, to not screw this event. Having attached the title of international sensation to my name, it now became important for me to not tarnish my own image anyhow. Moreover, it was the eve of my photography showcase.
Every click of mine, except for the two, hung across the walls. The most of the crowd hurled praised at my latest showcase; the portrait of Menka. There were stories, some tales, a few interpretations, experiences, some talked about the unseen edges of the portraits, and a handful simply brushed past all. I could feel the warmth of words, the string of narration they weaved. I wanted to mingle with the crowd and hear what they had to say about the portrait of a naked, malnourished child whose eyes were as wide as the hunger in his belly. What could they have thought of those two men inside the frame by the farthest end of hall, whose shoulders slumped with responsibilities and unhinged ambitions as the city of dreams, Mumbai, closed in? The portrait of a widow who clutched the ephemeral hope inside her haunted eyes while her hands rested on her stomach––a womb that never got a chance to house a life. I almost walked up to the crowd when they took my name more times than I could count.
Viraj, Viraj!
Viraj, a sensation among portrait photographers worldwide. Some called it an overnight success, a few scoffed and buried my success under the rug of corruption. I named it an elixir.
