Focus Matters : Humility in High Resolution

The overnight rain had left patches of dampness on the track this morning, persuading me to settle for a walk instead of my usual jog. As is customary after the exertion, or in this case, the restraint, we gathered at our regular adda for the morning dose of conversation that often seems more therapeutic than the walk itself.

We were soon joined by my photographer friend, making an appearance after nearly a week. He had been occupied with outstation engagements, one of which had involved recognition for his photography and cartoons. Recognition that, as events later proved, was thoroughly deserved.

He has an eye for candid moments and, true to form, had already clicked a few pictures of us without our knowledge. When he showed them, I was genuinely impressed. The pictures carried a natural ease and clarity that made even our familiar surroundings appear more interesting than they usually do.

These were clicked on his mobile phone, purchased only a couple of months ago for sixty thousand rupees.

Now, having recently bought a new mobile myself, though at a comparatively modest twenty-four thousand, I was seized by a dangerous optimism. Surely, I believed, technology had democratised talent. Armed with similar equipment and superior enthusiasm, I too could produce comparable results.

With complete sincerity and considerable confidence, I attempted a few clicks.

I proudly presented the photographs to him, secretly anticipating admiration, perhaps followed by an enquiry about the price of my phone and a respectful acknowledgement that photographic excellence was not the monopoly of expensive devices.

Reality, however, had other plans.

He examined the pictures and calmly suggested that I try the portrait mode. He pointed out the 1x and 2x options to manage close-ups and explained how touching the intended focus area would create the green border that helps the camera understand precisely what deserves attention.

Only then did it dawn upon me that good photography owed less to the smartness of buying a phone and far more to the wisdom of knowing how to use one.

He continued with patient explanations about lighting and angles, and how one must subtly allow more space in the direction the subject's eyes are facing. Somewhere during this impromptu tutorial, I realised why he was a recognised photographer and why I was merely an enthusiastic owner of a smartphone.

Newly enlightened and considerably humbled, I tried again.

This time, armed with my freshly acquired knowledge, I clicked a few more photographs of him. To my delight, he appeared genuinely impressed, though in hindsight it may well have been admiration for his own teaching skills rather than my photographic talent. I, however, was too elated to make that distinction.

At precisely this moment, another regular youngster joined our adda and enquired about the source of my unusual excitement.

Now possessing knowledge barely fifteen minutes old, I was already prepared to conduct a masterclass.

I enthusiastically demonstrated portrait mode, 1x and 2x zoom, focus touch and background lighting, delivering my lessons with the confidence usually reserved for seasoned experts.

Just then, she casually added that lighting could also be adjusted through the vertical line that appears after touching the screen.

For the second time that morning, enlightenment arrived.

It became painfully apparent that almost everyone occupied a different league when it came to photography and I alone seemed to have successfully avoided learning even the fundamentals.

Still unwilling to surrender entirely, I insisted on knowing whether my pictures had improved.

The photographer asked me to walk some distance and clicked my picture using my own mobile. He then repeated the same shot using his phone.

As I began studying the difference between the two images, he smiled and remarked, "That is the difference between a sixty-thousand-rupee mobile camera and a twenty-four-thousand-rupee one."

Humility, I realised, comes in many resolutions.

Meanwhile, another regular walkmate who had silently observed the proceedings announced before departing that we could certainly expect a blog on today's episode.

The photographer, however, had a different concern.

Another friend checked whether he was not hungry yet, to which he confessed that hunger had arrived nearly fifteen minutes earlier but had been bravely tolerated. He feared that any premature suggestion about breakfast might provoke another episode similar to one a fortnight ago, when an innocent reminder had invited combined resistance. On that occasion, I had insisted we wait for another regular who valued the chatting far more than the walking and whose conversational expectations required honouring.

The photographer declared that he had no desire to become the central character of yet another blog and had therefore chosen patience over provocation.

That observation triggered a hearty round of laughter.

Each of us, it appeared, carried our own interpretation of what eventually becomes a blog, the participants often more conscious of their portrayal than the writer himself.

Soon thereafter, we abandoned philosophy, photography and reputational anxieties, walked to the restaurant, had our morning fill and departed our separate ways.

As I returned home, one thought lingered.

Life has a curious way of humbling us gently. Sometimes through people, sometimes through experience and occasionally through something as ordinary as a mobile phone camera. We often imagine that better tools automatically translate into better outcomes, only to discover that fundamentals, quietly and unfashionably, still matter.

And thankfully, so do friends who remind us of that, without charging tuition fees.

PC: Sridhar Comaravalli for my click on his mobile, and yours truly for his on mine.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.