I have always been fond of clicking...pictures, that is.
A saner part of me wanted to become a photographer, so in love have I been with the camera. But there are a 1000 other dubiously sane parts that want to be something else, so let’s not talk about my parts anyways! In the weirdest of hypothesis, one may not unearth cash in my handbag but fat chance of not retrieving a camera in it. You never know when life throws at you a frame-worthy moment and my friends, ‘It is better to be prepared now than sorry later’ is not just believed in by me, but even upheld by The Population Control Board of our country. I don’t mind being the butt of people’s jokes at get-togethers, when I take out my camera ala Rajnikant taking out a gun from some hidden corner; for these very people put a hand around my shoulder to get clicked too and later ask when am I uploading these pictures and I must tag them. Shoooo!
Longer before Facebook and Picassa happened, I have had humongous albums of every trip/event/random nothings that crossed my path in my barely there decades on Mother Earth. However since Facebook, I like to be more in front of the camera than behind for posterity’s sake. Fb and the blog domains have contributed to the uprising of subtle though excessive vanity and other syndromes in users amongst many more things-Like say The Comment Itch-every blogger has it...we itch till we don’t see comments awaiting moderation, working like a soothing balm for our narcissistic nerves and once clicked to publish, the itch surfaces again. The deadly You-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours disorder that makes people visit your page and say “nice read” and leave, when in all probability they have not read beyond the first paragraph. And Facebook- well, there were good old times when we danced like the photo was not being “tagged”, loved like we were never “unfriended” and status updated like nobody is “liking”.
Vrooooooom...back to the topic, so I click now with a vengeance thinking these would be my trophies of old age, to show to my grandchildren how happening their daadi/naani was in her hay days, even though half the pictures may be cropped or taken at such an angle so that my big butt appears smaller (or does not appear at all) and my smiles, just about perfect. They weren’t around when these were being clicked...so they’d have no choice but to believe them and quote stories of how their granny could have been the next Aishwarya Rai, if only she had been to Mumbai long enough to be noticed. The shots, where my face looks all teeth or the lead in my pants is displayed obnoxiously, would never see the daylight-hehehohohohahaha *devilish laughter*.
It is anyways an established fact that no one looks half as bad as their driver’s license picture and half as good as their Facebook/blogger profile one. Now if only I had more idea about photo-shop or more sense to handle pictures apart from just cropping them, I would be giving sleepless nights to others than being subjected to them! My biggest woes on many days when I am looking super sexy for a change, is that I am not being shot like that I mean not with a bullet yaar, though God, please let me die presentable! I often pray that the day dear Death visits, let me be blessed to have my dying wish granted already-have my eyebrows and waxing in order and hair freshly washed and by that age include facial, face lifts, etc too! Otherwise it just might me the worst funeral I have ever attended.
When I look at fashion bloggers getting clicked away to glory looking so model-ish, my little heart aches a little more. Sigh! Wish I had great photographers in my life too and a decent camera that makes me look illegally beautiful-matlab so beautiful that it should be illegal to watch without desiring me. I am conveniently forgetting the third requisite of a figured body for the beautiful part to come true, but then I never claim to have the best of memories to figure out such nitty gritties. My only photographer is my husband, who when asked to do the honours, makes the saddest of yester years’ Rajendra Kumar face don’t ask me who he is-Google him and you’d know just how sad as though an inexplicable tragedy has occurred with his wife. I feel as if I am taking him round Hitler’s gallows, such a let’s-get-it-finished-fast expression he has.
In fact he would wear one of these looks:
1. Constipated and clenched angry and thereby making me reflect the same.
2. Lost Puppy who would fidget so much with the camera before clicking that my smile would slowly start transforming into a tired grimace.
3. Clumsy and clicking pictures without giving me a moment to decide how to pose, so that half the outcomes would have my one eye closed or lips open in a scream, giving unwarranted directions or hands half raised in air to settle that lock of hair strategically. Needless to say when I peer into the result and look up to him to express my dissatisfaction, I somehow paranormally behold an image of a volcano about to burst and let the urge pass! Point of this big fat paragraph-I look much better than what my pictures show or do I?
Last year after some enlightenment that-it is not the person being clicked that’s important for a good image rather the camera is, I managed to summon my hitherto latent courage to argue with my beloved over why we need a more expensive camera with better megapixels and zoom yes, I sounded all techie because whenever I do that, it is so much more scary than global warming that he almost always gives in sooner than usual for obvious reasons. Simply put-our 3.2 megapixels is not doing justice to our appearance. I managed to make him dish out some thousands to get a Sony DSC-WX1 with 10.2 megapixels, G lens and 5 optical zoom yes, they dupe you with such high sounding stuff that while signing the cheque, you feel you just bought the camera that is fit for the red carpet alone.
I returned home all smug and bubbly holding in both my hands the camera box as lovingly as one would hold his newly born. However, after the pictures were clicked and I saw them on my laptop my disappointed countenance probably resulted in me getting my first worry wrinkle.
“But it is making me look the same????????” I partly whined and partly shrieked.
“What did you expect, it would suck out ten kilos from your frame, diminish the tired lines, blur the pimple spots, turn the grey on your head into black and even your teeth?”
Offended I got defensive, “Haaaaw, that’s not fair...I have no grey yet.”
“Huh, is that ALL you noticed in my question? I give up. No new camera now for ten years hence.”
I hate it when beloved gets all honest-y, minus diplomacy.
Needless to say, I make him pay for it too with a Touch-me-not issued, so that he quotes from thereafter, “Honesty is the costliest policy!”
Alas, now I have stopped practising my surreal O-that is making a Rekha like...er...Kareena like O with my lips to signify the oomph factor or having one hand raising my ruffled hair up and the other on my waist look. I know I badly need better/tolerable poses, but at least get me these two materialized first and rest my childhood aspirations to peace. Philhaal, I can see another O forming on my beloved’s face-more like OMG as I am relating to him what I am writing! Sigh!
So I am stuck with my older but not old enough camera, something just like me! Please pray for me- that someone somewhere reading this gets inspired to do a photo shoot with his own paid make-up artist and inspired enough to not charge me for it, except just ask for my smile. I am already giving the biggest monkey grin to him. Amen!