My breaks in Calcutta are always full of colour. This one was taken at a toy-themed puja pandal in the older part of the city. The dolls looked bright and yet somehow out of a scary music video. Like someone was very high when they thought of this.
If you are driving to anywhere in India, you can never miss them. Silent under brilliant skies.
And then the spaceship landed. I ignored history to capture the extra-terrestrial light. The umbrella, someone told me, is not really as old.
Adorned with sacred vermillion, saffron and the industrialised coloured powder, these are the feet of Vishnu.
The Elephant God follows you wherever you go in India. And wonders you with his cool, casual, mutant charm.
The first time I saw this picture was in school. The text book was called "An Illustrated History Of India". Many years later, when I landed up exactly at the same spot, I just had to recreate it. 
For the last one month, I have been trying to make the weekends count. Away from telemarketers, bills, clients, artworks and the sickness of city life. And when you are presented moments like these, it all becomes so worth it.
The placard says 'Love All'. You can find him at the same place every morning. Standing with his prayer beads and a message in the pouring black rain of Bombay. Smiling at the angry commuters in their air-conditioned tin cans. Hoping. 
At an hour's drive from home lies a country that's so beautiful, I am afraid to let it touch me completely. In this country, there live little children. Yet untouched by iPods, tele-tubbies, pokemon and clean, potable water. And amazing things can happen here. For instance, a piece of wood can become a toy. And I with an expensive looking camera, an intruder.
Found on a walk through the serpentine streets of a city I called home for 17 years. Two days before the new year. I was instructed to take a lot of pictures. But the images in my head didn't make space.
Some evenings are indistinguishable from each other with heaviness. Then there are others.
Tear the plastic wrap. Scratch at the sheen. Switch off the neon lights. And you will find that the beautiful people are just like you and me. Sometimes, far more beautiful than you imagine them to be.
Like a photograph so old that no one remembers where it was taken. Like a memory so brittle it's not recollected, lest it's destroyed. Like an old book with a stranger's name on it.
I hate it when people overstay their welcome. Emotionally or otherwise. And I know because there have been times when I have done just that.
I have a habit of looking up. Especially at times when I am bored. Or thinking negative. Each time I see something different. Sometimes, I have a camera.
I forget my name. Yeah, it's.. Joshi. Devidutt Joshi. I take care of this Forest Guest House. For years now. What? You need a heater..? Sorry. The fuse is shot. I can light a fire though. In my hut. If you are interested. Er...you are hungry? Food is out. My neighbour killed a lamb today. I cooked some stew. And will be more than happy to share it with you. Uh...is that a camera? Will you take a photograph..? It's for my daughter.
First impressions at the Forest Guest House in Kausani. It was 5 degrees and the sun was welcome. Not everywhere though.
The morning sun felt good. The shivering had subsided and had paled into an ocassional whimpering twitch. A warm cup of tea later, one felt the need to explore the environs a little. The curtains were pulled back. The cigarette was lit. The stubborn latch dispensed with, the windows were thrown back. Deep breath.
They say if you want your wish to come true, you need to tie a bell at the door. At the deserted temple in the middle of the forest. Excited, I scouted around for an hour and a half.
"Why are you always in the girl's room?", they ask. Amidst the perfumed clutter that is so unique to the species, she has just woken up. She wants a cup of coffee. I want her. We strike a deal.
Nicotine runs scarce. The long fingers scurry to the pockets for a quick fix. The spot boys run to make tea. A long satisfied silence ensues. Shared with the photographer.
Sunday Morning 7.00 am. At the gates of the Pink City. As the last crease is ironed out, the kodachrome handler yawns. And makes a note with the lens. The iPod shuffles to Nick Drake, as if on cue.
The first day. The last shot. A sudden gust of cool wind interrupts the proceedings. From where I stand, I can be anywhere. But a few miles outside of Jaipur.
A little rest on the cool concrete of the city. A slight pause before we move on to the seemingly bigger things in life. Like a career. Success. Investments. Higher tax returns. Bigger houses. Shinier cars. Sexier women. The perfume of money. The high of lights. The stink of newsprint. And maybe even a little love.
