To be a photographer is to own a special eye; to capture something that is aesthetically visualised and emotionally registered. But there are instances when the subject overwhelms that eye. Last week, out of the blue, I was commissioned a shoot. I had no idea what the story was. All I was told was that I was to go to a place in Ghaziabad called Hindon Vihar. Something terrible had evidently occurred there.

It soon transpired that a three-day-old infant girl, placed inside a polythene bag, was found discarded in a junkyard in the Hindon neighbourhood. When I arrived there, I was lost in a clutter of poorly-built houses, lined by drains filled to the brim with running sewage. Garbage was strewn all around and smoke from burning rubber waste pierced through my senses.

I didn’t have difficulty finding the address. The little baby had already gained instant fame in the neighbourhood. Moments later, a minute, fragile, wrinkled creature was brought to my attention. As I photographed the baby for my newspaper, I took her tiny pair of feet into my palm and tried to picture her ten years hence. A wave of sadness and pity passed through me.

But life moves on, and so does work. I took photographs of the tiny form and, when I was done, formatted my camera card for my next assignment. Ironically, it turned out to be a job involving the photographing of sweet little girls, dressed attractively, and performing a ballet at a large auditorium in Delhi. Their affluent parents had their eyes glued to the stage, flashing happy smiles laden with pride. Some with their hi-tech cameras frantically tried to capture every passing moment.

... contd.