"He told me his stories. The old man, whose hut was too small to fit in both of us, asked me to take in some rest, while he waits outside. It was raining and I wasn’t that tired to hit the bed. He poured me in some kind of soup to beat the cold. He said it was hard to find people around in his place. He kept on looking me and my things, which cautioned me tune to a forecasted robbery. But the old man wasn’t that kind. We sat in the rain, talking about many things. Knowing his main attention was towards my camera; I opened it for him and handed over. As I kept on sliding the pictures, he soon ended up with happiness, filled with tears. He said he knew photographers well. He said he know them since his childhood. They once visited his place to capture his father’s dead body. At that time, he was too small to know the reason and was told that his father died of some cancer.
But why would he get shot in his head, was one question that was answered many times, when many of his friends’ fathers died, mostly in the similar way. Soon the place turned to a desert. His only schooling was to learn slogans and aiming through tubes. And why he felt happy looking into my camera, He said it went beyond his expectations. All through, he was just expecting me to be like the same photographers who accompany policemen. But in it he found, nature , family, children and happiness. He said he isn’t married, and never loved anyone other than his mother. For hours, it was quite thought provoking, his stories of gun and thorns. Though he never fired or killed someone, things worked out little when this was in his hands; he said unpacking a pistol from his wet kerchiefs. It was rusted. Like many of his kind, the battle will never be won.
But to this his only answer is, the only way forwards is way inwards.
It was dawn by then, he left me to fetch some food. And yes, I have come to know by then, I was in middle of writing his story. The story of independence, the real that is fake, the fake that’s real.
-Aroon Che
But why would he get shot in his head, was one question that was answered many times, when many of his friends’ fathers died, mostly in the similar way. Soon the place turned to a desert. His only schooling was to learn slogans and aiming through tubes. And why he felt happy looking into my camera, He said it went beyond his expectations. All through, he was just expecting me to be like the same photographers who accompany policemen. But in it he found, nature , family, children and happiness. He said he isn’t married, and never loved anyone other than his mother. For hours, it was quite thought provoking, his stories of gun and thorns. Though he never fired or killed someone, things worked out little when this was in his hands; he said unpacking a pistol from his wet kerchiefs. It was rusted. Like many of his kind, the battle will never be won.
But to this his only answer is, the only way forwards is way inwards.
It was dawn by then, he left me to fetch some food. And yes, I have come to know by then, I was in middle of writing his story. The story of independence, the real that is fake, the fake that’s real.
-Aroon Che
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