Map Everything you don't discover at school
Everything you don't discover at school
tupa-c:

India .

tupa-c:

India .

newhybridkilla:

By Steve McCurry

newhybridkilla:

By Steve McCurry

kawrage:

Afra Bin Dhaher

Lalla Essaydi (Morocco), Converging Territories, Photography.

Lalla Essaydi (Morocco), Converging Territories, Photography.

Kajol Devgan. Always been my favorite Indian actress, her braveness makes her beautiful.


Probably on the way to a wedding (Afghanistan).

Probably on the way to a wedding (Afghanistan).

vintagesomalia:

Muqdisho, Banaadir, SO
November 1986
Ph: Nicola Prisco
Copyrighted

vintagesomalia:

Muqdisho, Banaadir, SO

November 1986

Ph: Nicola Prisco

Copyrighted

yellowcircles:

Time for introspection. Self Portrait #1.

His nose-pin <3

yellowcircles:

Time for introspection. Self Portrait #1.

His nose-pin <3

yellowcircles:

Taj Mahal 19th April 1961.
I finally left for college last week, but before leaving, my grandmother took out this box full of old photographs. Shockingly enough, the photographs were so well preserved they could live for a hundred years more. She kept showing me old photographs, telling me about the people in the pictures that were complete strangers to me. She showed me photographs of her as a child, her mother, her grandmother. Then she picked up this photograph and stared at it for a while; probably thinking about my grandfather. “This was 8 days after our marriage, your grandfather took me to the Taj Mahal; we were so happy then..”. I can see her almost tearing up but I know she is holding back all of it.  I turn the photograph around, and find a handwritten calligraphic note written in punjabi by my grandfather adressed to her. She had never seen it and she never intends on telling me what it means.
I see photographs of my grandparents at different ages, and I draw a narrative back and forth in my mind from the time they first met, first fell in love, got married, had children, saw them graduate, had grandchildren.  I run this narrative trying to make sense out of lives around me. Trying to make sense of time, trying to make sense of love. There are somethings that never die. After we are done looking at the photographs, she takes them; wraps them up in a silk linen cloth and into an old wooden box where they will probably lie for the next 5o years.

yellowcircles:

Taj Mahal 19th April 1961.

I finally left for college last week, but before leaving, my grandmother took out this box full of old photographs. Shockingly enough, the photographs were so well preserved they could live for a hundred years more. She kept showing me old photographs, telling me about the people in the pictures that were complete strangers to me. She showed me photographs of her as a child, her mother, her grandmother. Then she picked up this photograph and stared at it for a while; probably thinking about my grandfather. “This was 8 days after our marriage, your grandfather took me to the Taj Mahal; we were so happy then..”. I can see her almost tearing up but I know she is holding back all of it.  I turn the photograph around, and find a handwritten calligraphic note written in punjabi by my grandfather adressed to her. She had never seen it and she never intends on telling me what it means.

I see photographs of my grandparents at different ages, and I draw a narrative back and forth in my mind from the time they first met, first fell in love, got married, had children, saw them graduate, had grandchildren.  I run this narrative trying to make sense out of lives around me. Trying to make sense of time, trying to make sense of love. There are somethings that never die. After we are done looking at the photographs, she takes them; wraps them up in a silk linen cloth and into an old wooden box where they will probably lie for the next 5o years.



It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.

W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage (via electricgrapevine)

My idols are dead and my enemies are in power.

(via mehreenkasana)