Looking is Not Free: The Price of a Picture in India

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India brings out the voyeur in me. I am continually enraptured by all of the colorfully-adorned (and sometimes interestingly-pierced) people who scatter along the Delhi streets or dodge cattle in one of the many Rajasthan cities. I snap pictures. I stare. My mind scrambles to remember each detail and begins to compose a written description immediately--trying to capture this image in any form possible.

Unfortunately (and somewhat ironically), even looking comes at a price in India. “Come in Madame” a store vender will call as we walk by his shop at the market--enthusiastically beckoning with his hands. This is always followed with “Looking is free” and “Please, just come look….looking is free.” One day, as we race through the rolling hills of an Indian countryside town--watching as lazy cows saunter across the crowded road and chickens flap their dirty wings--we come across a procession of white lambs (each marked with an orange symbol, sprayed prominently on the lamb’s back), shaggy goats (who limp carelessly behind the sea of orange-tattooed lambs), and regal camels (who spit into the road in union with their human counterparts). And--to my eye--the centerpiece of the parade is the sheep herder--appearing like a living image from National Geographic. His brilliant red turban and sheer white linen attire stand in sharp contrast to the otherwise stark landscape. I am struck by his composure. The mid-day heat (even in an air-conditioned car) has rendered me nearly immobile and dizzy, but he appears to not even be breaking a sweat as he walks the rolling hills at a good clip.

I am instantly photo happy--wildly snapping pictures through the car window as we speed by. I ask Avtar if we might stop and take a picture. Avtar hesitates and says, “Well, actually, you can…but if you take picture then more will come for money.” It’s common practice here that all non-candid pictures come at a price of Rs50 or so, but on this occasion I don’t care--I am eager to have this picture. We crest a hill and are greeted with the perfect photo-op as a line of sheep herders approach--each with his own camel in tow. We pull up along side them, I leap from the car, hold up my camera, and ask (even though I know he probably doesn’t understand the words, but I hope he will understand the intent), “May I take your picture?” His glance slides back to Avtar (and they exchange a few words in Hindi), without officially accepting, the goat herder straightens his shoulders, and turns to face me--all (crooked) smiles.

This pose lasts only a few fleeting seconds before he breaks it and goes into a more-familiar pose--the smile disappears from his face, he extends his arm, and opens his palm in anticipation of money. I am suddenly aware of how unprepared I am for this, so I spin around to see if Pierce is perhaps standing by with money, but he is still in the car. Moments later, the other goat herders are upon me. They appear out of every hill crest, every hut, and from behind camels--each edging towards me like zombies, pressing their gritty hands into my space, and blankly chanting “Please.” By now, Pierce has left his side of the car and come with money in hand. I feel a moment of panic and I want out of there--immediately. I run back to the car as a group of young girls approach his open car door. For an instant, I think they may jump into the car and perhaps snatch up whatever they can. I position myself between them and the car, close Pierce’s door, display my empty hands, and return to my side of the car. Once inside the car, the women grow more persistent and bang on the car with such force that I am sure they have left a dent.

As we speed away, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake, Avtar says matter-of-factly, “See?” And we drive in silence. I review the image on my camera’s screen and feel somewhat disappointed. While the picture is fine--it’s focused and you can make out the details of the goat herder’s face easily--the picture lacks character. I had hoped to capture the cool collected expression of the goat herder, the brilliant red turban highlighted by the harsh sun, and the fuzzy blanket of off-white lambs at his feet. Instead, my picture looks posed and uninteresting. In the goat herder’s smile and stance, there is no hint of the panic that ensued and there is no inkling of the begging that would follow. He looks solitary and vacant--robbed of his collected visage and vibrant colors. What I hate most about this picture is that it doesn’t tell a story--any sort of story--not his story or my story. I put my camera away--quietly sighing--and feel once again a little bit ripped off.

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Comments

[Mom and Dad]

Had to be frightening!!!
Having all those people surround you had to be fightening! Thank heavens you two got safely out of there! Where is the photo...bet it is still good!

[Crystal]

Interesting
This is interesting and sad at the same time. It makes me feel as though what we would like to capture as a simple memento to place in a frame or a photo album sadly takes on the likeness of greed...but perhaps greed really isn't the word I'm looking for because the act of taking a picture in cases like this is not laden with malice. It's such an awkward feeling, especially when you realize that what you have disappoints. What you have doesn't capture what you saw and it doesn't seem to soak up the moment at all. It's rather empty...depressingly empty. In your case, I imagine this was compounded by the throng of beggars which came about as Avtar said they would. An even greater proof that the raw experience was inadvertently exchanged for emptiness. I have been there, just in a different capacity--in a different place. This brings back memories of Panama and, most recently, my short travels in China. I guess it's one of those things that, in the end, refuses to be digitized--one must truly experience this to know. By the way, traffic (motorized, pedestrian, in betweens) is CRAZY in Asia!!!!