Greyscale

The refrain of a song kept playing in my head...which had nothing to do with my present state of mind. Somehow, the melody wouldn't leave me even if the words did, and it had the same unsettling effect. Maybe this song brought a thought to my mind, memory lost in time.

“Then tonight I had this dream,

so horrible I had to scream,

saw the earth naked like the moon....”

I shivered involuntarily, the wind was cold. I wrapped the muffler around my neck, the chill had penetrated into my core being, there was no respite. I looked over the railings, the hills seemed to rise from the mist, it was beautiful but lonely. Glancing at the watch I realised I was waiting for almost twenty minutes. The evening had come without warning, suffusing the salmon sky with its inkiness. I saw her walking towards me, the street lights were lighting up gradually. She had wrapped herself in a pashmina which had lavenders on it, I reached for my camera. She looked at me nettled, I could not understand her apathy towards my passion. Love won over passion as I took her warm soft palm in my hand.

“What took you so long?” I had to act annoyed as well. She smiled without offering any explanation, instead kissed away any further complaints. As I held her, the world began to melt away.

Memories are like people living inside your head...ghosts which haunt your waking thoughts and dreams. I hated coming back to Darjeeling. I could have avoided the trip, yet I found myself in Siliguri one morning, and from there began the ascent to the queen of hills. It was a bright April morning, just after Easter, a fresh spring day, full of blue sky and white fluffy clouds. I seemed to be so out of place, what cannot be altered must be endured...such crappy advice which doesn't even rhyme. The fact remained that I brought this on myself, I should haven't come back. I remembered the last time I had made this climb to Darjeeling, about twenty years ago, how different yet how same it was....I had finished graduation in Scottish Church with Economics honours, was bitten by the bug of photography and my wealthy heritage provided me with enough support to pursue my passion. One uncle of mine had a leisure cottage up in the hills of Darjeeling, he lived mostly in Calcutta. The situations were ripe for me to exploit my talents and gauge them for the benefit of my future. In fact the person I used to be was quite like this day in April, full of promises of spring. I smiled remembering the first camera I owned, Olympus OM1, first of the OM series, a small light weight 35mm single-lens reflex camera.

I was bursting at the seams with enthusiasm and excitement, now I am a mellow and cynical man of 40 years. It seemed winter had set in early inside me while this day in April mocked me.

The first few days passed slowly, I looked around the mall and the seven spots to find inspiration in cliches. It was disappointing, the learning process was slow. I had been taken in by landscape portraiture, I wanted to capture surreal and divine scenes which would be larger than life, grand and detailed, I loved colours. I would set forth every day to find that image which would assure me of

my gift. The cottage where I was staying was a little away from the main city, red bricked and wooden with only a caretaker for company. A spare room in the basement served as my dark room, and I would spent most of the nights there. Usually I would get up early, and venture out to find the perfect scene, and would be done as evening progressed, I had no interest in the city or people much.

One afternoon, found me in the Nathmulls tea room, I was resting for a while with a comforting cup of tea. The day was misty, shrouded in mysteries and possibilities. I had captured some nice shots, and was looking forward to a quiet night in the basement with my negatives. I looked over the crowd gathered in the small room, I caught sight of a girl sitting by herself. I was quite the gregarious kind, I liked conversations and wasn't shy of company. But her sight filled me with strange awkwardness, maybe it was her beauty. She looked up, somehow feeling the intensity of my gaze which embarrassed

me further. I couldn't help but stare, she had such startling grey eyes.

Recovering myself in time, I walked up to her table.

“Would you mind some company?” She looked at me, in a sweet confused way and smiled. I took that as an affirmation, and sat myself across her.

“You are not from here, are you?” She asked in a soft husky voice.

The Alto stopped with a jerk, a queue of cars, jeeps and trucks lined up the winding road ahead. I wondered why was I so rudely awakened from my reverie.

“What's the problem?” I asked the driver. “Road blocked due to landslide.” He replied grimly. I sighed, wondering how come modernity failed to leave it marks upon this hill side. The same old problems of landslide, incomplete repairs, water crisis, economic and political non-reformation and ignorance. The demands of Gorkhaland began sometime in the '80s culminating in the death of more than 1,200 people. The situation has been volatile ever since. The government fails to bring Darjeeling into the main plan, the pleas for improvement remain unheard and violence overlooked. The queue was breaking up, the car rumbled to life, the journey began again. 

After meeting her, the days passed in a daze. We would walk up the winding roads, climb down tea

estates, sit in benches by the mall, watch people go by their business. We were sitting in a bench by the mall one afternoon,when she cuddled up against me, the rain fell softly around us. It was later that day, we went to her house, a quaint little cottage hanging precariously by the side, overlooking the valley. She lived alone. We went to her room, she opened the window by her bed, the view was breathtaking. I began fiddling with my camera. I felt her lips on my neck, startled I let the camera drop on the bed. I held her close, finding her lips so soft and eager, the moment was intense yet so sweet and tender.

The road block had slowed us down, it took more than three hours to reach Hotel Mayfair. It was a sad and boring day...which had left me nostalgic. My wife would be joining me later this week, our son may or may not accompany her. Life had been rewarding....my leisure and work were one and the same....I had a lovely family, my wife and our 5 year old. Yet on this day of April, I feel haunted and alone.

“Do you see the double rainbow? It took me a whole morning to get that right...and those bright yellow wild flowers, some of them blurred and some in focus...” My voice trailed off when I noticed her eyes so vacant and dull. Puzzled I pulled her over to show her some more of my pictures hanging on the wire, left to dry. None of my images could hold her interest, I was longing to see the those grey eyes shine. Frustrated at last, I screamed at her, “What is it you don't like about them?” she looked at me, eyes mute with agony, “I can't see colours...”

....I wonder had I understood her disease better then, would I have left? A rare visual disorder..... for such people even the word grey won't have any meaning, they see the world from gradations of black to white, somethings appear darker or lighter than the rest. I often revisited those moments when I had an inkling of something not being right with us....how she was so sensitive to bright lights....her vacant stare at times and of course her inability to appreciate my vision. Maybe that was the reason....it became so unbearable to me, whatever I would create would remain in the shades of black and white for her. So when I left her, even though it broke my heart and changed the very person I was, I never looked back. After many years of searching for my forte, I finally found my vision in the cobbled pavements of a busy street, the smile of a child and in the wrinkles of an old man, but in grey scale.