This photo belongs to Mumbai, to a Sunday afternoon, to Mona who was going out with someone new after having escaped the constant fury of a drunkard husband who used to beat everything out of her.
Pulp Mona.
This photo belongs to Mona’s mother, Doulab, who cleaned houses while looking for the real ‘suitable boy’, rebuilding Mona’s confidence and trust in humanity, who introduced us to Mona and her fiancé just there, in front of the Arabian Sea.
This photo belongs to the same period and a note I recently found:
‘Saw the tea boy who brings tea to my office.
I realised I am seeing him growing and no matter how I treat him or try to protect him, he lost his youth running from office to office.
Sometimes I get stuck with my eyes on his shirt: I see it’s pressed, or handled with care.
I ask myself if his mum does it for him, to look tidy.
My heart aches.’
This photo belongs to the mothers who jump into the impossible and do the triple somersault to hold the sky.
And their heart.
And the sea.
The whole lot.
This photo belongs to those who still care.
Just there, in front of all the seas, all hearts.
the talking of the soul 