By Prachi Palod, Class XI C
There was something about photographs that had fascinated her. She’d go through her collection of photographs, reminiscing her childhood and teenage quite often. Maybe that was why it didn’t come off as a surprise when she finally pursued photography and became a closet photographer, shying away from sharing her work. Being labeled as her best friend, almost everyone wondered and voiced if I had seen her work. I had, of course. It came under the perks of being her best friend. She’d show me pictures of people mourning in seclusion, girls with zits and freckles, men gazing into the void. The pictures screamed for themselves, depicting emotions, a wide range of emotions.
With time, curiosity had gained the best of me. On a particularly cloudy day, we decided to go to a nearby café. It wasn’t easy, still isn’t, for me to go through a day, enduring the lousy human kind without a cup of coffee.
The manager directed us towards the table near the window. Making ourselves comfortable, I placed my order after she had, to the young waiter.
Soaking in the vintage environment that the café had wanted to create, I asked her, “Why is it that you never showcase your talents? You must already know that your photography will earn you fame and money. People are curious to know what hides inside that fancy camera of yours.” I had not meant to sound shallow and worldly, but I had never been the think-before-you-speak person. She looked out of the window, observing people and replied, “You know, back when I was a kid, my mother had written this article on Wabi Sabi.”
I gave her a blank look.
She continued, “It’s a Japanese word understood as ‘a way of living that focuses on finding beauty within the imperfections of life and accepting peacefully the natural cycle of growth and decay.’ She had gotten hold on to this word through some book. I never bothered to know which. But, I swear I tried to unravel the mystery that the word held for me, you can bet, to no avail. I never wanted to be the girl with that ugly pimple or the girl with no parents. I wanted to attain perfection, never realizing that my criteria of perfection just included people’s perspectives and judgments about me. Does that make sense?” She frowned, looking at the window intensely, as if it had all the answers to her questions.
Never bothering for a reply or confirmation, she carried on. “But people like to hang out with pretty people. One can’t ignore the fact that they’ll always befriend beautiful people. That’s the thing, yeah? Marks on a test, likes on your Facebook profile picture, brand tags in your wardrobe, these things don’t define you; what you do does. The books you read, the people you meet, the music you listen to, the goals you have, these things define you as a person. And you aren’t always going to associate with people who love the same popular song that you do. There are always going to be a handful of people who detest it. To them, your choice will be categorized as flawed. And at the same time, these people will find belongingness and peace when with each other because their choices match.
I am yet to fully comprehend this theory of mine and that’s why I click pictures, to capture the imperfect yet flawless moments, to freeze time, to hold on to love and to restore my faith in humanity. And till the time these photographs don’t convince me, how can I convince the world that imperfection is after all beautiful? That it’s okay to stand out, to be different? I want my photography to make people shed off their masks and be who they are. I want them to take receipt of mortality, to adapt to changes and I want the abstract ideas to leave an imprint on their souls.
But I am afraid if I can’t do that for myself, people won’t be able to either. We’re all cowards, aren’t we? Scared of being judged too harshly, battling loneliness and experiencing the feeling of not being pretty enough, smart enough, witty enough. I want my pictures to make people wear their flaws and opinions on their sleeves. And I don’t want to be led down.”
Her voice held passion and eyes, a glint.
It started to rain, the pellets slapping themselves against the window and gradually sliding down. It was then and there that I realized why I was friends with her. Her imperfections blended well with mine. And sometimes that’s just what someone wants to realize. To know that they are not as alone as they might think they are.
