We rolled through the village not long after the rising sun had started to glow through the orange-brown filter of smoke haze. What photographers and film-makers call the ‘golden hour’ of beautiful light just before dawn and dusk, lasts until eleven and starts again at two in India.
We passed a throng of men huddled around a chai hut, grey blankets on their shoulders, wizened brown faces laughing through the rising steam and smoke from the cooking fires.
A woman standing closer to the road un-wrapped her blanket just enough to show the face of her baby to a policeman. He lifted the cloth gently. He and the baby smiled at each other.
I still think it’s my best photograph and it’s one that I never got to take. We were on a bit of a mission in India. Travelling too fast to indulge a hobby.
I had to content myself with shooting from the open car window as we flew past. I got the occasional little snapshot of life though. I look into that woman’s face and still want to know her story.