The photographer was doing his job. He preferred a straight wedding shoot to these pre-nup things, but this was good money, and everyone wanted them. He had built quite a reputation in Hospet, and it had earned him two assistants whom he did not have to pay. He was training them.
The woman had come prepared. This was her moment. To be remembered, shared, liked and treasured forever. Her makeup man stomped behind her, mirror and powder puff on the ready. It was already getting warm, this February.
The man, less prepared mentally, had come with his suitcase of changes too. Sherwani, pants, tee, formal suit. The photographer had given a list. And footwear to match.
Together they trailed single file behind the photographer, who knew exactly the right places.
The woman was happy. She felt like singing and dancing through the tall grass, or cavorting along the rushing canal waters. Kaladham, a manicured township! This was where she would be living soon, and it seemed too good to be true. Especially after the dust and din of life in Hospet.
The man was thoughtful as he walked. This is getting too much, he thought. He hoped it would end soon. He had given in to the idea in a moment of weakness, and hoped it did not mean he would be prone to such moments throughout his married life. I must remember this, he told himself.
They stopped at the location. A pretty bridge with a lake stretching beyond. Flowers all around. ‘How romantic,’ the woman whispered, and looked lovingly at her man.
‘Madam, please put your chin down, and look at camera,’ the photographer said. He looked into his lens, looked at them, and frowned. ‘Too much space,’ he said.
The man turned his head to look at the space between them.
‘Sir, don’t move so much, I am focussing,’ the photographer mumbled into his camera. The man stiffened and stared ahead.
‘One minute!’ The makeup man rushed into the frame, puff aimed at target. He had spotted a sheen of sweat on the woman’s nose. Professionally, as he had seen the makeup men at movie shoots do, he blotted the nose, with deft movements of his wrist.
The woman looked down, and adjusted her flaring kurta that the breeze had tousled. The man sighed. His new shoes pinched, and the jacket was too warm. His irritation was reflected on his nose, which was shining too now.
‘Please move kloser,’ the photographer said. The man and woman inched closer. Their shoulders touched. The woman felt a thrill. This was a rare contact; the man was so shy of touching her. ‘I have to teach him to be romantic,’ she thought.
The photographer moved towards them. He put one arm on the man’s shoulder, and one on the woman’s. Pushing them closer till their shoulders overlapped. ‘Klose, like this,’ he said. ‘You are lovers, no?’
The man bristled at the word lovers. It was a clandestine word that did not apply to him. He was a respectable engineer from a Good Family, working at the JSW plant. And he was getting married to a graduate. This aberration was a mistake. He would make sure he wouldn’t be pushed into anything like this again.
The photographer looked through his lens. ‘Good,’ he said, approvingly and clicked repeatedly. Now, after six different locations and changes of clothes, his clients knew what to do. They both looked right, at the sunset; then they both looked upwards... (ah not so high, a little lower, yes, that is right), at the far distance; they looked at camera and smiled, leaning into each other. Then he looked at her while she bent her head and blushed, and, last shot, she looked at him meltingly while he looked towards her and wondered if the mole on her cheek was real or makeup.
‘Done,’ the photographer said, with a flourish.
The woman’s shoulders relaxed. The man took off his jacket.
‘Now for the finaley,’ the photographer said. He had planned it to the last detail and the light was perfect. ‘This will be the cover shot,’ he told the woman. ‘The best. This light, you see, will make you look like Aishwarya.’
‘I won’t wear my coat,’ the man said. His voice was petulant, that of a child cheated.
The photographer was busy giving instructions. His assistants scuttled around, holding wands and match boxes. They positioned themselves behind the couple. The photographer quickly took position, casting anxious eyes at the light as the two makeup men fussed over their respective subjects. ‘Quick, quick,’ he shouted, as the makeup man carefully, diligently redrew the outline of the woman’s lips and blocked in the colour with a brush.
Finally, they were ready.
They went through the drill, the many looks. Then, ‘Last shot, touch noses, nose to nose, nose to nose...’ the photographer shouted, voice heavy with the passion he hoped to convey.
The man looked at the woman, the woman moved her face closer to her man’s. A hesitant void stretched between them. The third assistant, a boy who had been recruited by the photographer just for this purpose, ran and stood behind them, and steered the two heads closer till their noses touched.
‘Hold it,’ the photographer cried. Surprised, shocked, the man and woman Held! Behind them the assistants sent out purple coloured smoke in spasmodic bursts. The shutter clicked. clicked. clicked.
‘Wrap up,’ the photographer said, exactly as he had heard film directors say.
The man rubbed his nose to free it of the faint smell of onions. The woman adjusted her kalidar kurta.
The nose to nose shot was a huge hit. The woman showed the album to everyone who visited her through the first year of her marriage. She worked out a tour of the locations and took friends, relatives, and even the science professor who came on a visit to the school and dropped in to meet her, on the tour. She ordered a larger print to frame and hang in the living room, but the man, remembering his resolve, forbade it strictly. The woman is still trying to change his mind. Their marriage is now fifteen years and two children old.
The woman often pulls out the print from under the mattress where it lies, and looks at it. ‘Nose to nose,’ she says, ‘so sweet.
‘How sad that we never could see eye to eye.’
*
Best known for her long association with Femina, which she edited for twelve years, Sathya Saran is also the author of a diverse variety of books. The Dark Side, Manjul, 2007, reflects her love of the short story, while the critically acclaimed biographies, Years with Guru Dutt: Abrar Alvi's Journey, Penguin, 2011; Sun Mere Bandhu Re: The Musical World of SD Burman, 2014 and Baat Niklegi toh Phir The Life and Music of Jagjit Singh, 2015, both published by HarperCollins, bear testimony to her love of cinema and music. Sathya’s latest book Breath of Gold is a biography of Pt Hariprasad Chaurasia, Penguin, 2020.
Currently Consulting Editor with Penguin Random House, Sathya also teaches fashion journalism at NIFT Mumbai, Kangra and Srinagar. She has been a stage actor with Veenapani Chawla.
Passionate about writing she conceptualised and held the first of its kind Writers Conclave titled ‘The Spaces between Words the unfestival’ sponsored by JSW at Kaladham near Hampi. In partnership with The Hindu.
Sathya has written a tv serial titled Kashmakash on marital problems.
Her column in Femina and Me magazine is now continuing to gain new fans as a guest column in Dainik Jagran.