Visual Narrative: Seven Stages

Some of the things we create stay with us. Others feel like they were made by a stranger. As a chronicler of food, I am sometimes surprised by the images in my gallery. When did I start taking pictures of drained cups of coffee? Why do I have photos of half-eaten bowls of halwa? The more I thought about the word, “appetite”, the more I was reminded about these images. In looking for congruence and alignment, I found myself being led elsewhere.

A month ago, I was in Lucknow, where I learnt about the seven stages of love as dreamt of in Urdu. In one reading, the last stage of love is actually death. But then grief too has several stages. Isn’t grief, as the cliché goes, the other side of love?

My own life requires me to have an appetite for all these things: the bubbling drink, the empty plate, the traces left on things both beautiful and ordinary.

No risk, no love.