SHER SHING

In the gentle hum of Haryana, west of New Delhi, lies a village pulsating with stories and traditions. On November 11, 2018, I found myself weaving through its alleyways, drinking in the rich tapestry of its daily life. With about 15,000 souls, each with their own narrative, the village was a microcosm of India in all its diversity and charm.

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As I wandered, I was graciously accompanied by Pawan, an effervescent young lad who had been assigned to guide me, his English bridging the worlds between us. The children of the village had been given a reprieve from their classes, and with youthful enthusiasm, they showed off the corners and crannies of their world.

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One such corner led us to an intimate alley, where the ambient light seemed to shimmer just right. There, against the backdrop of aged walls and cobblestones, sat an old man — Sher Shing. At 81, his weathered face told tales of years past, and the hookah in his hand was almost an extension of himself. It wasn't just a mere water pipe; it seemed to encapsulate the essence of a time gone by, a remnant of an era that still lingers in such villages.

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Drawing closer, with Pawan's translation forming a bridge, I sought Sher Shing's permission to capture the moment. With a nod, he granted it. I lowered myself to his level, wanting the lens to see what I saw - a spirit undimmed by time. The click of the camera was met with silence, but as I showed him the result, his eyes twinkled and his lips curved into a warm smile. No words were needed. The photo spoke for itself.

 

"Sher shing" is not just an image; it's a journey, an experience, a moment of shared humanity between two souls from different worlds.