The airport that
morning was strangely quiet. An early flight to Delhi. Security done. Nothing
left to do but wait. I had settled into one of the long rows of seats when my
eyes fell on something — a man sitting in the row ahead. A large bag rested on
the seat beside him. He had leaned back, his face tilted upward, eyes closed.
He looked like he was asleep. But I recognised that face.
Raghu Rai.
I said to myself — go
on, say something. At least offer a namaskar.
I had picked up a
camera in the final years of adolescence. And from around that same time, I had
been hearing this name — Raghu Rai. The first time his name and his work truly
entered my consciousness was through the cover photograph of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan's
L P record, Darbari. That photograph had been taken by Raghu Rai.
A black-and-white
image. In the background, the vast, sweeping desert of Rajasthan. And in the
foreground, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan is seated on the floor of an old fort,
completely lost in his sarod — absorbed, unreachable. Beside him, a simple man
dressed in Rajasthani attire, watching the maestro with an expression of
boundless, quiet wonder. All around them, only emptiness. No drama. No
artifice. And yet, the photograph reaches into some corner of the chest and
stays there. That was my first meeting with Raghu Rai.
In the years that
followed, my interest in photography deepened — not just in taking photographs,
but in looking at them. And it was through Raghu Rai's work that I learned two
things. The first was a perfectly balanced frame. The second was the pulse of
life that could be felt within a still image.
Even in a photograph
that does not move, he had breathed life into it. The face of a person staring
helplessly at the camera — the silent plea blazing in those eyes, the turbulent
feeling trapped inside a motionless body — these were the things that made a
photograph alive. That person was not merely a subject. They were living.
And then there was
that famous photograph of Indira Gandhi — her face on the funeral pyre, the sun
setting slowly behind her. A photograph of a lifeless body. And yet it was not
simply a record of death. It was testimony to the end of an era. It made you
feel as though you were standing in that very moment, watching Indira Gandhi
from close quarters. Only Raghu Rai had that power.
Every photograph he
took was a masterclass.
His photographs of
the Taj Mahal have been collected in a book. I came across that book after
visiting the Taj Mahal myself. After going through it, I remember thinking
quietly — the marble of the Taj fills the eyes, but Raghu Rai's camera captured
the soul of that marble. Every worshipper of beauty ought to see that book at
least once.
And now, here was
that man, sitting right in front of me. The man who had, for so many years,
lived inside the photographer within me — who had taught him and given him
something to reach for. I wanted to offer a namaskar. But his eyes were closed,
and I couldn't decide whether to call out or to simply stand there. So I stood,
uncertain, beside him.
Then, suddenly, he
opened his eyes and looked up.
I offered a namaskar.
He smiled. He lifted the bag from the seat beside him and invited me to sit.
He had come from
Shillong — had started before dawn, he said, which explained the drowsiness. He
offered this as a small apology, smiling as he said it. And in that smile, I
understood something — the greater the artist, the simpler the person.
I asked tentatively,
"May I ask you one question about photography?"
He laughed and said,
"I don't know anything except this subject." Don't ask one question.
Ask as many as you like.
And so the
conversation began. Then came an announcement — the flight was delayed. The
conversation continued. At one point, he got up and left for a few minutes.
When he returned, he was carrying two cups of coffee.
Until the time we
boarded, we talked, and for stretches of time, we simply sat in silence
together. That silence, too, was a kind of conversation. That a person of such
stature should receive me with such warmth and ease — that experience left me
richer than I had words to express.
What I learned from
that exchange is difficult to put into language. Some things live only in the
feeling they leave behind.
He is gone now. But
the moments his camera's eye caught and held — those will remain forever. Death
can end a photographer. But it cannot end his photographs.
Rest in Camera,
Raghu Rai.
(The sketch of Raghu Rai was made from a photograph by Vikramjit Kakati)
Published in The Daily Eye | 28th April 20 |
