Photo that captures a story

I’d love to see something like this in person.

“You don't make a photograph just with a camera. You bring to the act of photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard, the people you have loved.” -Ansel Adams


I recently went to NYC to celebrate Holi /ˈhoʊliː/ होली. It is a festival mostly celebrated in India & Nepal celebrating the beginning of Spring. Holi festivities mark the beginning of a new year to many, as well as signifying the victory of good over evil and for many a festive day to meet others, play and laugh, forget and forgive, and repair ruptured relationships. I had a great time learning to dance Punjabi and following the beat of the drums. Everyone was dancing with strangers as we would spread color on one another and just laugh with the joy that filled our bodies.. the whole day felt very light & free. There’s something beautiful about spreading smiles & human connections; it does wonders to the soul.. Here are just a few photos I captured to show the world a little glimpse of what Holi looks like.. Enjoy.


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A Road in India

I love how this post captures an Indian street. 🙂

thoughts in my solitude

Source : Source :

The cyclewala glances at the scooter-wala,

Envious of the other’s comfort,

The scooter-wala glares at the car-wala,

Furious for the water splashed on him,

The car-wala observes the man walking on the road,

Thinking about the exercise he never does anymore.

The auto-wala curses a fellow auto-wala,

For moving too slow,

The bus-wala blares the horn loudly,

Angry at the traffic he is greeted with,

The man walking on the road looks up at the airplane gliding through the clouds,

Wishing he was able to fly,

And up above the heavily polluted layers of air,

The man flying the big airplane,

Dreams of the days on his cycle and smiles.

© Anjali Mukherjee, 2014.

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The forest and the flower: A Shift in Perspective

America, now, is like a flower, and India a forest in the distance. And my vision – the way I few the world – shifts. This moment, the flower is in focus and the forest blurry; that moment, the flower blurs and and the forest, now, is vivid.

With the switch of focus my perspective shifts, even in the viewing of my own skin: In the context of the flower, my hands are pale as a sickly ghost; in the context of the forest they’re a god-like buttermilk.

From My Stairwell in the Evening

It was evening. On the stairway looking overlooking the city, I began to feel cool. The temperature had descended with the sun and, so, what had been one-hundred and fifteen fahrenheit at the heat of the day was now only 80 and the air felt soft and restful on my skin. The city beyond the cement of my stairwell was slowly succumbing to dusk, and the bright, though sun-faded clothing on the roof-top patio’s clothes-lines fluttered in the breeze that came now, as it did every evening at this time, from the east. The great tattered sheets of paper from a many-storied building far to the North (It was to my left since I was looking east and basking in the evening’s soft wind) which was perpetually unfinished was flapping in that blessed breeze also, like my hair. It (the east wind) had a way of washing over the city at night that felt cleansing in a double sense, like an ablution. This was the time of the evening prayers. They would come from the Hindu temples as well as the Mosques, and so from my stairwell I heard them, in the distance, singing and wailing, and I too offered my prayers up. And in India, in places and times as these, you can almost feel your prayers, sometimes, as if they were rising up, like incense, to the every-deepening purple sky.
It was that evening, after a month of waiting and watching, that I saw – for the first time – some monkeys, on the roof across the way and further down: The smaller looking up at the larger who was moving its tail slowly and fluidly as it licked its leg.


The valley and mountains were a collage of greens: bright, young green grasses beside the river; deep, mature mountain pastures; dark green pines, stories high and thick with needles; silver greens that shimmer in the elfin leaves.


The Road

The street was baked and dusty. The sun burned. The dark skinned Indians stood or squatted along the sides of the dusty street or walked slowly – the women with the long ends of their patterned saris or one end of their brightly colored chunnis tossed over their heads as a form of shade. The street all smelled of long baked earth and spices of curry and sweat. The white, thin cows walked slowly like the people did and riffled through roadside trash piles with their black noses. The road was like a spit which turned the people on it slowly so that they would be roasted evenly on all sides, and the road was like a straw through which the sun slowly sucked all of the coolness and life out of the people of the earth, This was the road I walked on in the heat of the day, and the sunlight burned my eyes.

“Can you promise I will come back?”

“No. And if you do, you will never be the same.”

– Gandalf to the Hobbit