There is a rather comforting predictability to life when one spends half of it observing the grand, chaotic circus of human behaviour. Whether it is watching a stray cow contemplate the existential dread of crossing a mountain road at a hill station, or observing the peculiar habits of urban dwellers by the Arabian Sea, the world rarely fails to entertain.
A few evenings ago, I decided to take my trustiest, most temperamental two-wheeler out for a spin. I was floating along near Shivaji Park beach when, on a whim—the sort of sudden impulse that usually leads to either great photography or terrible life decisions….I decided to pull over.
Now, Shivaji Park beach was, as per sacred Bombay tradition, utterly filthy. However, it possessed one saving grace…it was mercifully uncrowded. For anyone attempting to capture the Bandra-Worli Sea Link without having a stranger’s elbow firmly lodged in their lens, this was practically a miracle.
Naturally, photography is less about snapping a shutter and more about exercising the patience of a saint. I stood there waiting for the sun to perform its evening ritual, praying for the sky to blush with the right shades of crimson while waiting for a few cooperative boats to float gracefully into frame.
While the sky took its sweet time, I amused myself by taking an inventory of the local flora and fauna—specifically, the humans.
To my right, there was a loud, joyous Durga procession. A splendid affair of drumbeats, red powder, and enthusiastic dancing. They belonged to the sand and the tide. Further down, perched precariously on the algae-covered rocks, were the ubiquitous seaside couples, huddling together as if trying to shield their romance from the sea breeze. Nearby, a member of the Gen-Z specimen was glued to her smartphone, clearly convinced that a illuminated glass rectangle offered far superior company than the vast ocean or any actual living person within a five-mile radius.
Everyone fit into the tapestry quite nicely. And then, I spotted the anomalies.
Standing right near the parapet just before the slippery tetrapods to the rocks was a couple who looked entirely, spectacularly out of place. They were clad in modern, rather expensive-looking attire. The woman wore a bright stroke of vermilion in the parting of her hair—the universal Indian signpost for “I am officially shackled for better or worse to this gentlemen with me”. The man, fittingly, bore the mildly haunted, chronically stressed expression of a husband navigating life’s grand complexities.
Yet, despite his tortured visage, they were entirely mesmerised by each other.
In a city that moves at a breakneck speed…where everyone is perpetually rushing toward some unseen finish line…this pair stood absolutely still. They spoke in quiet tones, completely oblivious to the deafening drums, the rotting seaweed, the mobile-addicted girl, or the rest of the world staring at them.
They didn’t belong to the gritty reality of modern Bombay. No, they looked like refugees from an entirely different era. A time when life was embarrassingly simple, when people meant what they said, and when dishonesty hadn’t yet been elevated to a survival skill. They possessed a genuine, quiet charm…a rare commodity these days, much like free parking or an honest politician.
There is a curious law of composition in both life and photography. Every now and then, after hours of staring at awkward angles and hideous lighting, you happen upon a frame where every element lands in absolute, effortless harmony….a scene so inexplicably right that any attempt to alter it would be an act of vandalism. Looking at them, one couldn’t help but feel that nature had struck a similar bargain. They weren’t merely two people standing together; they were a meticulously composed masterpiece in a gallery of chaotic doodles. They fitted one another with the crisp, undeniable logic of a perfectly timed snapshot….as if the universe had spent a good deal of time adjusting its focus just to get the two of them precisely right.
A voice in my head nudged me: Go on, walk up to them. Ask them who they are. Ask them how on earth they managed to salvage a bit of pure, unadulterated happiness in this mad, cruel world.
But then, wisdom intervened. Some questions are far better left unanswered. Like good photographs. Why dissect a miracle.
The light finally faded, the boats aligned, and I got my photograph. I packed up my gear and ambled back to my scooter, leaving the couple right where they were: wrapped in their private bliss, an unsolved mystery left behind on the edge of the tide.
