The first polaroid she holds in her hands is that of her parents, standing along the shore of the Juhu marina, which she dug out of a green trunk. Aged, with a spray of gray and bronze yellow along the sides, the photo is a banner to her parents' past.
Strings of light bulbs adorn the background, while chaat and finger food stalls lead the view to the newly wed couple. Until then, she didn't know that her mother too had succumbed to the movie fashion trends of the 70s and had gotten one of those floral print sarees that were threaded with silver, at random. Her father has bell bottoms on and his thick square glasses are two sizes too big for his face. Her parents don't hold hands, she notices and are modestly positioned next to each other; her mother gives away a big, awkward smile like always, but her father's effort to smile wide, shows easy in his eyes.
And they want to invent time machines?, she thinks. Right there, nestled in the hollow of her palms is a time tunnel to the precise moment in the twisted thread of their lives.
What makes this polaroid special?, she wonders. Indulging in that moment, she sieves through regular postcard style pictures, for a while. Under the spell of those reflections from another time, she picks up other polaroids to arrange them in the shape of a fan on the floor. The white stretch of borders around the polaroids, a window to those memories.
After a long moment, she senses the thrill of beauty ripple down her back. In the way light hurried to etch images on the white frame, in the microsecond the shutter had been released.
On that polaroid, there is still the light that had circled the young night, around the marina. The light that her parents held inside. The light that people, places and things echo. The darkness that stood mute, in testimony.
By the end of the night, as the sun rises in her windows, she concludes, there is beauty, because there is light. But, also because of the black, that waltzes along in a silent, spectral dance.
**00**00**00**00**
Lavanya and she ready themselves for a snap in front of the Korean language and cultural center. The camera is a gift to Kushi from her parents on her 18th birthday, but it shifts easily between their homes when Lavanya wants to use it. She reflects, if the camera has its own itinerary, choosing its owner on its whim, for today it takes Akash for its master, letting him mold his fingers to its boxed curves.
Lavanya holds up two fingers, as a V and frames her eye, her smile too wide to be cute. Kushi peeks from Lavanya's side and rests her chin over her friend's shoulder.
"Hana dhul sehtt (one two three)" Akash counts down to the time freeze.
Click and a wheeze, before their first day at the language center is imprisoned on a white card, forever.
But, even as Akash's finger releases the camera button, a tall man dressed in formal suit whips past her. Unawares, her focus shifts, as her head turns to keep up with him.
Minutes later, when they review the polaroid, Lavanya makes a face at the photo attempt. The beginning of her distraction, left as a streak of blur in the picture.
**00**00**00**00**
Still writing...as this is a long post.
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