Giants Of This World

I was eight years old, carrying my first DSLR Canon 800D camera. For a kid, the equipment was heavy and fragile. I was afraid it would fall any second from my hands: I could almost picture the sparkling lens smashing into a thousand pieces.

My Dad had already left for the United States, while we went to Chitwan in the hot and humid Tarai plains. After the long bus journey, it felt so good to walk into a room in the lodge and crash onto the bed. The alarm went off early the next morning, a few hours before I was used to getting up. The jungle was already alive with sounds: the buzz of insects, the calling of the birds, the rustle of leaves, and a light, warm breeze.

The walk to the shelter where I would start taking photos of elephants, the largest living land animal to walk the planet, was tense. The adults were on the edge as a man-eating tiger had been roaming in the neighborhood; it had already killed three women in the area. Carrying that fear and uncertainty, I focused on the more minor things: how sunlight filtered through the leaves, how it caught floating dust particles, and how those tiny bits played across my skin and the dry floor. We had arrived, and the work had begun.

The two rescued elephants, Eva and Lhamo, were ready to move. These weren't just any elephants. Eva had been through years of hardship. Injuries kept her from lying down to sleep; she had to sleep standing for years. Lhamo stayed close by her, moving with her disabilities. I was fascinated by the roughness of elephant skin, the wrinkles there, the bristly hair and how they stood out, the eyelashes, the soles of their feet, and their brittle nails. 

I had to understand them, anticipate their movements, slow down, match their pace, and wait for the moments. You'd think you were waiting for the moment until an elephant stopped, looked you straight in the eye, deliberately, intensely, and, suddenly, you were the one in focus. The day progressed, and the air became thick and sticky, heavy with heat. They walked, wanted a bath, maybe, and grazed. I followed them, step by step, trying to keep my camera steady and ready.

My arms were tired, switching between lenses was tedious, sometimes the 18mm wide-angle to capture the setting, the 50mm standard lens to catch the details of their faces, and sometimes the 300mm telephoto lens to get close shots from a distance. 

I was learning that photography isn't about equipment or technique. This was more than focus, ISO, exposure, and pressing the button to open the shutter. It was seeing beyond the obvious. It was about being still in mind and body, enough to notice little things, the notch on an ear, how the shadows highlighted the freckled skin, the way breath was exhaled. It was about patience. 

Sometimes the elephants seeme d to ignore me completely, like I wasn't there. Other times, one would stop, acknowledge my presence, as if she knew exactly what I wanted. I had to be quiet, respect the elephants' space, and understand their rhythm to get the shots. The woods around me felt so sharp, the smells were strong, the colors were deep, and the sounds were clear. The earth I walked on felt alive.

These lessons reached far beyond photography, deep into my living. Eva and Lhamo moved so calmly, slowly, I felt that I had to slow down to see, connect, become open, and aware.

Those days of following Eva and Lhamo remain some of my clearest memories. Those two are why I continue to hold the camera, no matter how heavy and loathsome it gets. A year has passed, and I am now in a different world. Nepal, where I come from, is landlocked. Though I had climbed up to 10,000 feet in the Himalayas, to the Yajing Gompa and traveled across more than ten districts, I had never seen the sea! 

I am heading out of Cape Cod, Massachusetts, riding the waves of the Atlantic Ocean for the first time. The whale watch boat rises and falls beneath me, a warm wind is in my face, and the air is moist. I hold onto my camera, trying to keep steady, drawing comfort from its solidness and weight. I am waiting, for what, exactly, I am not sure. The captain calls out, We are approaching humpback whales. From photographing the largest animal on land, I will face one of the largest animals of the water.

I see their backs first. Dark, slow curves slipping in and out of the water. Glorious rainbows form as water fountains rise in the air as they breathe. Then a tail. And a waterfall as it slips back into the ocean. Then another. Then more tails. It is thrilling... and it keeps happening: tails out of the water and tails into the water.

Now it's quiet. I stare into the endless blue of water and sky and the infinity of lives there. Now the water shifts. A stillness, just for a moment. A tightening of the air, as if the ocean is holding its breath. A sticky granola bar in one hand, I sit there, clueless….And then, the breach.

Two whales launch out of the ocean, gloriously. One, then the other, out of the water, rising high, twisting in midair, water pouring off their backs, beautifully dark and silver sparkling as the sunlight hits them. For a split second, they hang there, massive, impossible, before crashing down with a sound so deep it echoes inside my head.

I cannot think. I don't know where the granola bar went. It's gone and I am firing the shutter by reflex, falling back on instinct. I catch the blur of their motion. I catch the eternity of their presence. Water sprays on my face. I taste the salt of the sea, and then my sweat. This is an exceptional experience, to be in that moment, to be that child out on the ocean for the first time in her life.

With Eva and Lhamo, I had time. Quietly, I felt they asked me to pay attention, to tell their story. The whales didn't ask. They erupted, leaped, and three swam directly towards us, dived deep, and went under and across our boat. I learned that not every moment waits. Some come without warning and demand that you be ready.

Splashed and soaking, my shirt smelling of the sea, I turn on the LCD screen and look through the images, worried that I have missed or messed up the photos of the whales breaching. To my relief, I have captured the event in a series of nine images. This experience changed me. The ocean taught me what it means to surrender to the moment, something wild, something that blinks past you, so completely out of your hands. So these are my days with the elephants and my moments with the whales: giants of this world. These are my moments of silence before things happened.

I have picked up my camera and am trying to stay ready. Quiet. Paying attention. Whether the moments come slowly and want waiting, or all at once, they will always come. And I don't want to miss them.

(Vidheha writes on art, culture, and animal welfare.)