In Bihar I accompanied a group of social workers from an international NGO on a weeklong fieldwork outing. In exchange for paid expenses, my task was to document their child trafficking research with compelling photographs. Notwithstanding my interest in photography, this was an intriguing arrangement and offered unique access to (a version of) the ‘real India’.For what seemed like entire days we traversed Bihar’s levy byways by jeep, admiring the simple beauty of its pastoral landscape: plaid expanses of alternating maize and wheat, studded with terrestrial fountains of bamboo, and inlaid with sunflowers frozen in synchronized salute. This, complimented by a gallery of roadside carnage: rusting heaps of twisted wreckage, lorries still forged together at their noses, the moment of head-on impact preserved in time. To top it off was the scene of a train collision, where passenger carriages were scattered like segments of a snapped twig. The furthest afield was the engine car, with its grill buried in the mud like a javelin.
Many of the villages we visited were roadless and accessible only by cross-country motorcycle rides, which were thrilling and bordering reckless. These were bona fide third world villages, not yet conquered by advances such as plumbing and electricity, where genuine looks of disbelief were common on children witnessing foreigners for the first time. Virtues of their isolation include a complete lack of paper, plastic, asphalt, vehicles, and noise; indeed, these villages were physically pristine.
