Portrait- Yellow dress

Like a lily she stood in the drizzle
Under that glistening green leafy tree
With one hand on her waist
What a sight of absolute authority
In a sunshine yellow tattered dress
Talking to a stray dog
I saw her from across the second compartment
Of a moderately crowded train
Across the vacant and filthy railway tracks
A little girl she was
In a small dumpster colony
Ready to lead the world
Her innocence and grace rescued by the huge tree
She was probably giving instructions to the dog
Who seemed to be paying a lot of attention
I just had to put a frame around them
For this was my second portrait
Never to be clicked
Always to be carried around

First Portrait: Here

Portrait- Lady with the orange flower

Have you ever noticed that there are some faces, some people who silently scream to be a portrait. They have all the things in the world which would make them a photographer's dream come true (Picture Perfect, as they say). Well, I am no photographer. And I have possibly the worst camera in the world. And thankfully, I don't lug it around except to capture cliches, most of the time.

Today's Portrait: This tiny Maharashtrian woman (It is my assumption that she is Maharashtrian). In a silk saree, orange in color, with a dark green border. The most distinct feature-An orange flower in her hair, neatly tied into an imperfect bun. Thick rimmed spectacles, a Hindi newspaper in hand. She was short, not stout at all and clearly must have seen more than 60 years of this life. A face that you can never forget and a face that you can never ever remember, try as hard as you might.

Muttering in between her heavy session of newspaper devouring. Her skin was wrinkly like a drained up sky. Hand heavily tattooed with undecipherable stuff, made all the more undecipherable by her untidy wrinkles. When her station came, (it was Charni Road I think), I couldn't help wondering about her portrait. How perfect she would be as a lifeless picture in a professional digital camera. Thank god, I did not have a camera with me.

She got off, pulled her saree up a little bit. One of her legs must have been injured during one of her great adventures, or hardships. Actually she struck me more as an adventurous spunky bossy woman rather than one who would just be happy doing daily mundane chores. She had tied her leg with a brown make-shift bandage and covered it with a cheap blue plastic bag on top, as if giving a warning to the rains.

She walked towards the bridge, and before I could see more of that magnificent old lady, who was a perfect portrait, she disappeared. Thank god, I did not have a camera with me.