I sneaked out early summer morning on Sunday last week; with a suspicion how treacherously the blaze of hotness will consume the moment I step out with the gear to shoot for my photo blog.
I had in mind the disorienting humidity; thus decided not to venture too far away from the city. Instead, I moved about avidly looking in the local fruit market and the eking out a living way of the men and women who thrived at the popular mango market – the biggest in our state.
At the first hint of leaking sweat crawling all over my face and back, I figured, I could pack up. Thankfully, later, I was allowed a three-hour pause by a friendly, warm breeze. Hundreds of stallholders displaying their seducing ware – the king of all fruits the mangoes, the whole place was perfumed with the tantalizing fragrance of ripened fruits. Every shop, every cubicle, no inch spared on the pavement; I could see, stacked and displayed at their irresistible best – the sweet, ripe plum mangoes.
Once back home, as I was processing the raw photographs, there was something that disturbed me while scanning the whole string of frames. Sort of I didn’t notice while on site, perhaps, I was so preoccupied to snap as many as I could focus before the heat wave descended.
Yes, I could make it, quite disconcerting, they are the old men –standing in the hot sun, waiting for the right bargain, shinning white hair protecting their bald scalps, their backs hunched with age, foreheads lined with worries, not sure how much they would take back home and will it be enough to feed the waiting family back home. I guess if I stop for a while, they have many stories to tell, yet they waited still with their listless eyes, allowed me to capture their silent narratives.