Niu and Piu, with their Dadi (grandmother), Jibhi

As the grandma heads out to usher back her cows after an afternoon of grazing, Niu, in her pigtails runs out of their cottage, with a stride, her tiny feet in her baba’s chappals. Piu, makes a statement in a polka sweater and little crocs, holds on to dadi’s walking stick, and awaits his didi.

I am reminded of siblings, from the last short story I read. Ruskin Bonds’ Blue Umbrella. I am reminded of my own little brother I solemnly prayed for, when I was a 3 year old.

A conversation about the Serolsar lake and Tirthan River, about piping hot Sidhhus, sun and snow at Jalori Pass, how the apple season brings in a flock of tourists, bustling into this otherwise quaint town, is occasionally interrupted by my thoughts and hands fidgeting with the camera. I need to take a picture to be reminded of this moment. And I do not have to know why.

A shy step forward, a little smile, a tiny voice, some glances back at her Dadi, and some giggles later, Niu steps into the frame. Piu stands his ground with nonchalance. The two later share a packet of chips my sibling offered. And we say our goodbyes.

[photography, travel, storytelling, mountains, jibhi, travel photography, Himachal Pradesh, Ruskin Bond, siblings]

Revisiting the age where photographs were tangible. They could be held against the forehead, pressed against the chest, kissed upon gently, held.

The lovers were hidden beneath the amassed wealth of a sandook, there were some pasted into albums and diaries, some folded with handwritten letters and pressed flowers, the cutouts made it to the wallet.

The photographs that withered and stood the test of time, the careful folds, the fingerprints, the tears, the stains from the foot of the chai mugs, the passing on as an heirloom to unwitting contenders, bereft of the passing.