We ascended the smooth hot granite rock from a bottom view of seething humanity.Houses slowly emerged from their low perch as we climbed the rock. We saw men and children pointing distant fingers at other men and children in houses doing the same thing to other men and children.The rock loomed large rising from a vast expanse of pigeon-holed houses, neatly arranged in boxes.
We had to hang on to the stone’s grip.Otherwise we would slip like the hot summer vapor going off the rocks’s flanks.T here were no lizards nodding a vigorous “aye’ to our efforts to photograph them in their rock homes but we saw the black itchy caterpillar dead in the rock, even before its butterfly dreams were realized.
There were history’s gates where men would have flurried past in war and peace.In burnished shields and bloody swords to cut each other’s throats. To recognize the enemy’s throats for cutting.To seek the vainglory of brave soldiers dying for kings so they could live in their harems peacefully with many wives for many years.
Snakes could be there in the bushes.I hear their sound ,says the son.My ears failed to hear the bush rattling.On the top of the rock was man and woman ,framed in a stone arch.They were making love in the petrified annals of the fort’s history.A few centuries ago several men fought other men here for love. Their love went the way of their ancestors , who had fought bitter wars for women.They were looking for moonlight on the rock crevices and all they got was blood squirting on their faces.
Granite stays put.Unless we make houses of them.Houses do not stay put.They tumble down to make ash and bury us in our own earth.
A photographer's diary 