Recording life

I was crying inside

December 26, 2004, was a pleasant winter day. It was a Sunday, and I was outdoors, covering a vintage car rally in Mumbai. It was also the 26th day of my having quit smoking — quite a feat for the chain smoker that I was.

As I stood on a flyover, shooting the vintage cars below, I got a call from our Delhi office, updating me about the news events of the day. A powerful earthquake had struck Indonesia and a few people had died in Chennai — the two did not seem connected, at least not just yet. As it turned out, that fateful day I was in charge of the picture operations in India (I worked with Reuters then) as my boss was away on a holiday. So it was up to me to take decisions on the news coverage in the region.

The gravity of the situation though was yet to sink in. But in a few minutes, I got another call, updating the number of casualties. The news of a few dead in Chennai (and other areas nearby) now turned out to be in hundreds. And there was confirmation that the deaths were due to a tsunami caused by the quake. By then, news agencies around the world were beginning to get an idea of the importance of the news. Yet, we did not imagine the tragic and terrifying magnitude of it.

I took my mind off the car rally and started planning for the tsunami coverage. Like India, Sri Lanka too had been affected, and I was supposed to go there. My colleague would cover Chennai and other parts in south India. But since no flight tickets were available, both of us headed to Tamil Nadu. By the morning of December 27, I was in Cuddalore, a town 190km south of Chennai, and along with me were a horde of other photographers. My first glimpse of the tragedy was when I reached Silver Beach, a small fishermen’s hamlet. Barely had I stepped on the beach than I saw rescuers bring in the body of a dead child from the sea. A man and a woman, who I assumed were his parents or close relatives, rushed towards the child on recognising him. As he was placed on the ground, they held him and started weeping. Overwhelmed, the man helplessly rested his forehead on the boy’s lifeless hand.

When I take pictures of people, I take them as they are, without bringing my emotions into it, as it becomes difficult to shoot. After all, taking a picture is a rational process of deciding the shutter speed, depth of field, white balance, choice of focal length, etcetera… and it cannot be done if you get emotional. But for once I couldn’t help it. I was crying inside. And then I let my heart rule my shooting. I realised what was affecting me was not death itself, but the reactions of the survivors. I immediately changed my lens from a wide angle to a telephoto to include just the man’s face and the boy’s hand in the frame.

The rest of the day I was surrounded by death, mourning and mass burials. It was very depressing, and sitting in the midst of this I was finding it difficult to concentrate on my editing. I gave up and lit a cigarette — ending yet another attempt to quit smoking, a difficult proposition for a photojournalist travelling from one disaster to the next. (But don’t take a cue from this, budding photographers, as I have since given up smoking, and successfully. My advice would be to stay away from it from the start.)

As for the tsunami’s aftermath, it was difficult to cover even for a hardened photojournalist like me who had seen many a human tragedy. In fact, while shooting, I remember receiving a call from my wife. In the course of the conversation, I asked her if everything was okay at home. And the moment I finished my sentence, I felt a pang of guilt… I was standing on the debris of someone’s home.

Those moments were tough, as I walked a fine line, grappling with my own feelings and staying professionally competitive. It is unnatural to witness so much pain and grief, and so often. It completely changes you as a person. What kept me going, as I guess would be the case for other photojournalists as well, is that we play a relevant part in helping people. We play an important role in letting the privileged parts of the world know about the tragedy at ground zero.

As the days unfolded, I realised the story was actually not of women and children who had died in large numbers, but the men who had survived them. Many had gone fishing into the deep seas, where the tsunami had no effect. But they came back to find their destroyed and uprooted lives. I went back again, months later, to discover that with most family members gone, many of these men had lost interest in fishing. The disoriented, broken men were now taking to alcohol.

My coverage stretched from Cuddalore and Nagapattinam in Tamil Nadu to strife-torn zones in Sri Lanka. Eventually, images from all the tsunami-affected regions across South Asia brought out a massive outpouring of generosity, as people extended themselves to support those affected.

Now, as different news events unfold every day, I realise that I am a helpless witness trying to do as much as I can through my camera, hoping that never again should people see such tragedy. But I guess that is wishful thinking and it’s our lot as photojournalists to cover these moments, recording both grief and triumph, recording life.

( Arko Dattais a photojournalist and Photo Editor, Mumbai Mirror )

Also read: >The sea was never the same again

COMMENT NOW