The man with the small moustache, like many others, spoke to me as I was carrying a camera

I was navigating the streets of Berhampore, a city in West Bengal, with steps made heavy by the relentless humidity. History tells us this place was once a strategic foothold for the East India Company, a vestige of a colonial past. To me, however, it was simply a labyrinth of suffocating dust and clinging heat.

As I wandered with a bulky camera slung around my neck—a clear badge of the outsider—I was constantly intercepted by strangers. This man, with his impeccably groomed mustache, was one of them. The moment our eyes met, he beckoned me with a casual familiarity, demanding that I capture his likeness.

In this part of the world, a mustache is more than mere facial hair; it is a carefully cultivated emblem of masculinity and quiet authority. I’ve heard odd tales of certain Indian states where police officers are even granted a "mustache allowance" to maintain such impressive bristles. Looking at him, it was clear that his pride was neatly trimmed and worn right above his upper lip.

The motivation behind such requests is usually nothing more than a spark of guileless curiosity. To them, my camera is a rugged, mysterious piece of machinery, an object too interesting to ignore. Having no reason to refuse, and perhaps seeking a brief distraction from the heat, I leveled my lens and pressed the shutter.

But here lies a peculiar irony. I shoot on film. Unlike the instant gratification of a digital screen, there is no preview to offer, no immediate image to share. The result of this encounter would remain a mystery even to me until I returned to Japan and developed the roll. This man, like so many others I encountered, would never see the photograph he so insistently requested. It is a fundamentally absurd arrangement: an act of preservation where the subject remains forever blind to the result.

Yet, remarkably, the subjects never seem to mind. They possess an enviable indifference toward the final product. For them, the significance lies not in the "photograph" itself, but in the "event"—the fleeting, extraordinary moment of being noticed by a stranger from a distant land.

The moment the shutter clicks, echoing that mechanical finality, their curiosity is instantly sated. Having successfully interrupted my journey to claim their moment in the spotlight, they offer a satisfied nod and vanish back into the humdrum of their daily lives. I am left standing there, caught in the dust they leave behind, feeling like a participant in a grand, fleeting illusion.