Photographs are a visual record of the ephemeral transition of time. Each moment has essence of its own, the meaning for us to ponder.
This weekly photo series is an attempt to preserve such tiny fractions of time and to carve meaning out of them.
Photographs are a visual record of the ephemeral transition of time. Each moment has essence of its own, the meaning for us to ponder.
This weekly photo series is an attempt to preserve such tiny fractions of time and to carve meaning out of them.
Every Wednesday evening, a few homes leave their door ajar. People from walks of life join for a collective hour of silence and reflections. In the hour of collective silence, a few find an escapade from their daily routine to have a conversation with themselves, maybe a few others simply savour the pensive silence. Meditation in itself is hard to define.
When the sun simmer down a bluish tinge is brushed over the Lake Pichola. Mountains at one edge and the city of the Udaipur at the other, while the magnificent Havelis turned into 5-star hotels at the centre of the lake, the lake seems to be straight out of a fairytale.
Matheran is India’s smallest hill station. Situated in the Western Ghats range in the state of Maharashtra, and easily accessible from India’s largest metropolis Mumbai, Matheran makes a perfect getaway for seekers of nature and solitude. Matheran is an eco-sensitive zone and no vehicles are allowed except emergency vehicles. The mode of conveyance is horse riding, or one may choose to walk, which we did. Although a toy train used to ply from Neral to Matheran, due to a technical snag, it was not functional.
Dawki, the border town of Meghalaya with Bangladesh, is situated at 70 km from Shillong towards the south. The other side of the border lies the Tamabil town in Bangladesh.
The border is mostly busy with the trucks transporting stones from India to Bangladesh.
“If you go down in the streets today, baby, you better
You better open your eyes,
Folk down there really don’t care, really don’t care, don’t care, really don’t
Which, which way the pressure lies
So I’ve decided what I’m gonna do now
So I’m packin’ my bags for the misty mountains, where the spirits go now
Over the hills where the spirits fly” – Led Zeppelin
Pondering at the edge of the mountain, the three peaks of Dauladhar range from which Triund gets its name (Tri = Three/ Und = Peaks) stood in front of me majestically, and I looked back. A few tents studded across the meadows. The day hikers preparing to return back and the crowd became thin. I trod on the rocky mountain observing the vastness of the mountain and the expanse of the Kangra Valley. There was an eerie silence, for which I have traveled solo a few thousand miles.
