There are, I am told, easier ways to spend an afternoon than standing at the edge of a crocodile-infested river in Maharashtra, balancing one’s dignity and camera with equal uncertainty. Most sensible people might opt for tea, perhaps a biscuit, and the distant safety of a veranda. Naturally, I chose the riverbank.
It was one of those places where the water moves just slowly enough to make you suspicious. The sort of stillness that suggests something beneath the surface is either deeply philosophical or mildly interested in your legs. I decided not to investigate which.
The subject of my photographic bravery was a small, rather unassuming boat. It floated about with admirable calm, as if entirely unaware that it had been selected for artistic greatness. Or perhaps it knew and simply didn’t care. Boats, I’ve noticed, tend to have that sort of personality.
Positioning oneself for the perfect shot in such surroundings is a delicate affair. One foot forward, one foot slightly back, and a quiet internal negotiation with fate. There is a particular awareness that creeps in when you realise that your composition might be excellent, but your exit strategy is not.
And yet, that is precisely where the joy lies.
Photography, for all its technicalities and increasingly expensive toys, has always been less about the photograph and more about the absurd lengths one is willing to go to take it. The fiddling with settings, the minor triumphs of getting light just right, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’ve risked at least mild inconvenience for a decent frame. In my case, the inconvenience came with teeth.
Over the years, tools have changed. Once upon a time, one lugged around a camera that weighed as much as a small child and required the patience of a saint. Now, one casually pulls a rather expensive fancy mobile phone from one’s pocket and produces images that would have made one’s younger self deeply suspicious.
And here lies the curious part.
Somewhere between the riverbank and the editing screen, I realised that photographs taken on my top-end mobile looked remarkably similar to those taken on my far more dignified camera and ultra wide lens. This is either a testament to technological progress or a quiet insult to my years of learning camera settings.
Possibly both.
The real amusement, however, is not in the comparison but in the process itself. The slow walk to the spot, the mild anxiety, the constant adjustment of angles, and the occasional glance over one’s shoulder to ensure one remains the observer and not the observed. It is in these moments that photography feels less like a hobby and more like a small, ongoing adventure. And perhaps that is why it never quite grows old.
Cameras evolve, sensors improve, and lenses become sharper than one’s wit, but the fundamental pleasure remains unchanged. It is the pursuit, the journey, and the quiet, slightly ridiculous commitment to capturing a fleeting moment that no one else particularly asked for.
If you happen to glance through the photographs on this page, you might notice the boat, the river, leaves / shrubs and a certain deceptive calm. What you will not immediately notice is which images were taken on the mobile and which on the mirrorless. I would invite you to try and tell them apart.
Though I must warn you, the crocodiles were not nearly as interested in the distinction as I was.
