“There’d be this one frame, one shot that will unto upon you all the meaning of life,

your life.”

He couldn’t get this out of his head. He had devoted his life to this art and had won accolades of all
kinds. Rahul Anand was a well-known name.

He sat in his office looking at the old photos. Today was one of those days when nostalgia hit him
with thoughts of the gone, and how it would all just fit in, with what was to come.

“One photo can’t really encompass all the meaning of life, what was she talking about. I get that my
art is freeing but this is non-sensical, a fantasy.” He often told himself.

But this was all a one-sided relationship now because he was growing old and regretful and ‘She’
wasn’t here anymore to defend herself.

He had been to a lot of beautiful places because of his work. But the current scenario was not
beauty in its societally acceptable form. War was never good for art. But he had a habit of
developing beauty in the most unknown places.

Beauty, that thought always reminded him of her. She told stories like she lived them every day.

“You know, Kutch isn’t half of what it used to be, Before the rich men came and ruined it with their
VIP tents and Porta-pottys, Kutch used to be the hub for people seeking the way to spirituality. And
Kutch, catered to this physical and mental state of being.”

She was always so passionate when it came to her birthplace. He wondered how she’d react now.
Kutch was in ruins. Being a critical army point, armies of both the countries had set up camp on
either side, waiting for instructions to just go berserk. Such was the rage in both the people. What
this rage stood for or served to, was a question few asked.

A call broke his chain of thought. It was the colonel calling to confirm his visit.

“Ram, you know I wouldn’t be stopping you if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.” He said
without any greetings.

“Sir, you know I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary”, he sounded
determined but respectful, “Wars are not only fought with guns, they are also fought with stories
and pictures. Of those who fought and died, those who survived. I cannot stand back while my
fellow countrymen fight for our safety.”

He was a master with words. He did not really care about India. Not per se. He would cover them
because that was the pretext. But his context was the way Kutch had come into his life again, and
how he couldn’t miss out again on such an opportunity.

His speech moved the colonel. He was convinced that Ram (under supervision) could be used to
cover the extremes in which soldiers survived.

A month ago, his ex-boss, Mansur, called him up and told him that the war was inevitable. Not a fan
of war, he told him that it didn’t really interest him and that he was happy clicking pictures of the
wildlife.

“The assignment will be in Kutch, that’s why I called you.” Mansur said over the phone.

He had last heard that name five years ago. And to hear it again, was a trip down memory lane. He
caved in eventually. As soon as he agreed, the army sent a letter to their company saying they had
stopped all reporters and photographers from covering Kutch due to security issues. During war, the
army doesn’t really prioritise media personnel, so it took him longer to reach his friend, the colonel,
whom he met during an expedition in Leh.

But now that was done, he was going to go to Kutch the next day.

“We have to go now; I can’t live here anymore. This place is too consuming. I feel trapped. Take me
back home.” Her words always found a way to reach his main thought.

But what home did she keep referring to? This was home. This was where they had met, fallen in
love, moved in.

He knew what she meant now. But back then he was drunk on fame and love. He loved the idea of
her more than her. And that caused all the problems. With these thoughts he went and passed out
on his double bed.

He was shown to the barracks as soon as he reached. The vast salt desert seemed like a seventeenth
century battleground, with troops at either far end.

His intention of coming here was different though, he knew what he had to do. He just had to sneak
out somehow. He was taken to a tent and asked to stay there until further instructions. There were
other people but they all seemed somehow a part of the operation. He wasn’t.

“There’s been a situation at the border. You cannot leave here for some time.” A man said as soon
as he entered the tent.

He found a way to sneak out on the seventh day. It was quarter to 5, the sun was preparing its
descent into nothingness. And the moon was readying its mighty shine on the dark desert. And then
it struck him, what she had said. As he saw the sun setting and the moon rising on either sides of
him, a euphoric environment was created around him, he could feel more than he had ever done in
his life, listen, every distant voice, over the voice of the operation behind. The backdrop of the
bloodiness only gave a grave texture to his beautiful picture. He took out his camera and ran
towards the perfect spot, he ran for a while, trying to find the place from where it would all seem
complete.

And then he found it, it was the place from where the desert divided itself into four halves. The side
of the sun, the moon, and the land below them. It was a dream for a photographer. He clicked the
picture and as soon as he got up to see it, he heard a click sound and the landmine he stood on,
burst into shreds.