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Travel Writers: The Girl Form Jama Masjid By Christina Whitt

Location: Old Delhi, Delhi, North India

My journey began that moment . Not just a physical one, but artistic and spiritual. Images that I had only seen in books surrounded me. I was in India, the land of dreams and heartache, of fantasy and harsh reality.

I stood in Old Delhi, among the crumbling walls and alleys, merchants selling their goods, beggars hoping for a few coins, and rickshaws making their ways through narrow alleys. Woman wrapped in colorful sarees bargained for a better price with the fruit vendors, intensely debating the price of each object. The smell of deep fired sweets permeated the air, contrasting sharply with the odor of rotting garbage nearby. Some children played in the dust with any toy they could find, a plastic bottle or an old tire. The joy of their laughter was obscured by the adult voices, rickshaw horns, and motor bikes.

Perched in front of me, high above, was Jama Masjid, in its faded glory, a monument to faith, to Islam, and to the glories of India’s past. Open hands desperately reached out, hoping for a coin or a sale of a little trinket. A woman with a dirty child wrapped in rags made hand motions to her mouth, communication through a universal sign language, hoping for charity from the devout and the tourist alike entering the mosque.

I reached the top of the steps. From the top, I could see clearly the streets I had traveled below, nestled among the buildings with chipping paint, hanging laundry, and open windows. Removing my shoes, I left them behind in a pile of well worn flip flops and sandals by the entrance. The old keeper would watch them.

Walking barefoot on the scorching, dusty sandstone, I reached a large open courtyard filled with pigeons. Hundreds had gathered , their wings fluttering in the blue sky. Onion shaped domes pieced the sky. I could imagine the call to prayer from the minarets. The mosque felt like a calm shelter from the cacophony of the street below. Along the arcades around the square, the tired and poor sought refuge from the burning rays of the sun and the oppressive heat. A woman slept on the stone surrounded by her small children. Her tiny daughter was awake, looking sad and lonely, watching the activity in the square.

Two boys, hand in hand, scurried across the square to pray in the mosque. Turning, the giggled at the foreigners visiting their special place. Through the lense, I searched for perfect light dancing on architecture. I felt eyes watching me, perhaps out of curiosity, or distrust.

I entered the heart of the mosque. Kneeling on the ground, a lone man prayed near a stack of korans. It was quiet and peaceful, a sharp contrast to the streets below. There she stood, a young girl whose face deceived her age. She wore a tattered skirt and top, and a soft head scarf covering her hair. Perhaps she was the child of a poor merchant from the neighborhood, or a beggar looking for shelter from the sun, or perhaps a village girl coming to the big city with a dream of a better life. Her story was unknown to me, since language separated us.

She followed me, wanting my attention. At first I thought she was a young woman, but I realized she was just a little girl whose life’s difficulties had been etched in her face. I realized she wanted me to take her picture. She quickly adjusted her scarf and shyly smiled. Fortunately, I was able to show her photo on the digital display. She smiled approvingly.

Perhaps no one had ever taken her photograph. Perhaps no one ever payed attention to her, a forgotten child wandering the streets of Delhi. She ran off only to find me again. This time she had a clothless baby brother in hand as if to introduce me. As I left the mosque to see another sight, We waved goodbye, never to see each other again.

A connection was made through a camera, communication without words. That encounter at Jama Masjid set the tone for my journey in India. As a photographer, I wanted to capture the essence of what I saw and felt through the faces of those I met. Their faces bring me back to that moment in time. Some say, a photographer is reflected in the eyes of their subjects, that there is a little piece of you in the image. Perhaps this is partially true, that you gravitate towards things or people that speak to you. For that brief moment, our spirits met captured in the eyes of the girl form Jama Masjid.

Text © Christina Whitt 2005, All Rights Reserved.

Visit Christina's website: www.christinawhitt.com