Forty-five days is indeed too long a period for an impulsive photographer to stay indoors resisting the prickling fingers to press the click button? I eyed the whole bulge of the camera kit huddled in one corner, untouched, unclicked, not sure when I get up to feel strong enough driving to the city outskirts – to chase the morning Sun, the late wintry breeze.
I’m a more visual wayfarer, feel relaxed deep inside when I’m in the outdoors, backpack making my breath heavy, hiking as unworried as farm animals grazing in the openness. Photography has been, for sure, a refresher for both my body and build-in artistry. Once I stepped out, tripod pitched, I get carried away in a magical sensation where my feet craves for shimmering profiles of nature and my eyes to listen to the little sights the camera lens hold: the sunsets, the sunrises, the skies, ponds, trees, and blades of grasses – all, seen holding hands in harmony, emerge more romantic, shy and alluring, and much bigger, brilliant than they are!
Celebrating the time off, I breathed some energy into my lazy feet that Sunday morning, a few days back. Where I saw myself at the foot of a hill; over a thirty minutes’ drive from where I live. Over the hill, I knew about an ancient temple.
I circled the temple expanse for about two hours. The camera perched on the tripod focused not on the decorated towers, pillars, and arches of the temple complex, but below at the hill’s foot the careless creeping of the suburbs. Early in the morning, it’s the city hidden under the blanket of fog and partially allowing the golden rays to slash down and lay as a yellowish veil upon the wanton concrete splurge – the boxed residential structures.