The Camera - a short story

He picked up his camera yet again. I pretended not to notice. He was always doing this. Taking pictures of everything and anything around him. And I heard it click.
Another picture to join the thousands that already lay scattered in our tiny home.
I wondered sometimes..what he saw in those small things.
In a flower petal. In a crooked branch. In an oval pebble.
He’d talk to random people on the road. He’d take their pictures. And the smile he had on his face when he compiled all of it later in his little scrapbook was amazing. He looked as if he’d won the world.
I decided to find out one day.
I walked up to him with his morning coffee and cleared my throat.
He was poring over a little article in his scrap book. He looked like he’d been working all night.
He looked up when he heard me and smiled. He cleared the couch a little next to him and I settled myself in the tiny space.
I pushed his coffee mug towards him, shutting his scrap book with my other hand.
It was a tradition in our house. Morning coffees, meals  and ice cream after dinner---always together and no work. Ever.
“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and scooting over, pulling me up against his chest.
“Did you sleep at all?” I asked, settling myself against him.
“Not really,” he replied. “It’s the pictures I took yesterday....they’re....they’re just too...”
“Beautiful?”
“No...not that..”
“Ugly?”
He chuckled. “No!Do you think I take ugly pictures?” he asked in a mockingly offended tone.
“Sometimes you do, yeah,” I said, nodding my head solemnly.
He narrowed his eyes at me and I gave him a completely blank expression in return
Then he started tickling me and I squiggled on the couch letting out a laugh.
“okay..okay stop!”
He was laughing too, but stopped.
Giggling, the two of us went back to sitting in our usual spots, and I went back to wondering about everything.
He nudged me and I turned around, looking at his face.
“You seem awfully quiet today. Everything alright?” he asked.
“I was just.....Can I ask you something?” I said finally, turning my back towards him again.
He pulled me up closer muttering, “Sure.”
“Why do you do what you do?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean...with all the pictures. I know photography is your passion. But I notice things.....you’re not just about the pictures....,”
I turn around and sit in front of him, bringing my legs up and crossing them so that I was facing him.
“You’re about everything around them.....behind them....It’s almost like you want to figure something out and you want to show that little detail to the world from your pictures....”
He looked surprised when I said that. Almost as if he wasn't expecting me to say it. Then he smiled.
“That’s exactly what I’m about..,” he said.
“I still don’t...”
“It’s almost like this, babe. When I look at something sometimes...I see a completely different thing there. It could just be a flower for the whole world.....but sometimes I see something more in that than just a flower. In those petals and in the dew drops.... It’s almost as if the universe has its tiny little secrets and it keeps them hidden in these tiny little things. And they’re everywhere. You just have to look for them.”
His eyes were shining with something that I’d never seen in them before. They were not just passionate or fascinated.....they were in love with the idea...they were in awe with it.
I couldn’t help but smile.
“And the people? What about them?”
“The people.....they’re just like a bigger chapter of the universe’s secrets. You walk around the street everyday. You see hundreds of people....all just faces you’re going to forget. Some faces have a voice...some voices don’t have a face...It’s all just a jumble. And you just don’t care enough to look at them..to examine them.
                  But when you do.....ever face becomes a picture. Every noise becomes music. Every unspoken word becomes a story. Every person who walk alongside you or a few meters away from you everyday on the metro has a story of his own. That vendor on the streets, that guy playing in the stations, that kid skateboarding through the street everyday---every single one of them bears a story. A story with a hero. A story with drama. A story worth telling. A beautiful story.
And I want to know that story. I want to see life from every one’s point of view. I want to be a part of their story. I want theirs to be a part of mine. I want the universe to know it’s being observed and I want to catch it’s attention.”

I just stared at him. Just stared. It was almost like I knew all this deep down but to hear it from him, his voice awed and his eyes shining---it was something else entirely.
He looked like a different person entirely..or maybe I had just started seeing him then.
I couldn’t help but smile. His eyes were fixed somewhere on the table staring at one of his pictures.
I kind of understood what he meant about seeing universe’s little secrets in things then. My hand slowly reached for the camera under the couch and I picked it up silently. Without much movement, I brought the lens to my eye and clicked.
The click brought him back to our living room and he looked at me surprised.
“What?”
“I’m trying to figure out the universe’s secrets, too." 

  

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Thanks for reading!
This story was written a while ago when I was overly obsessed with the page Humans of New York on facebook  (do check it out if you haven't already. IT IS AMAZEBALLS!) . This is my interpretation of what an artist thinks of when he looks at the world. Hope you liked it! Don't forget to leave a review!