I remember going to a Raghu Rai exhibition with my mother when I was a child. I felt myself tightening my grip to her hand each time I’d see a disturbing image on the whitewashed wall. A man carrying his dead wife on his shoulder; ready to take her to her burial after the disaster of the night of Bhopal Gas Tragedy and Bhopal; floating in the flumes of the toxic gas that took 20,000 innocent lives in a matter of few hours. An image in particular that caught my eye was that of the Unknown child half buried in mud. His eyes were open wide as if catching a last glimpse of a world he would say goodbye to before he would be completely hidden by the toxic soil. Little did I know that that image would haunt me for the years to come, trying to communicate a message hard to put on paper. Years later, I understood what it was trying to say and it felt funny how a normal portrait size photograph said so much without saying anything. Every photograph speaks a story to every different person.
I hope you find yours in mine.