It was never there. Never in a closed room lit with neon bulbs, a gigantic old flower vase and a shabby curtain to match.Never in a pooram fest, when the girls drew pictures of the kaman with wildflowers, nor when a flower carpet was made with the kakkappoo during Onam. It was never there for me even to touch, and never did it say cheese to me.
When was the first time? Kids in barefoot and the outcast never turns up, the day of the school photo shoot. It was a ten rupee per picture, and I could see my mothers sun burnt frail face on that ten rupee note. My name was not in any school list that asked for money.
I want to take a picture, of a boy, dreaming about bokeh, lying down on the harsh rock, under the summer sun, sweltering in a large cashew nut farm.