The Art of Presence

 

It had been a long time since our family had taken a break together. We went on a one-day trip to Varkala to celebrate my parents' 25th wedding anniversary. It was a small celebration, but one filled with love, laughter, and lots of memories.

The next day I woke up early and went for a walk on the beach around 6 AM. It was quiet. Very few people were around. The sea was calm. The sound of the waves was the only thing I could hear. In front of me was the vast Arabian Sea, and behind me stood the tall and beautiful Varkala Cliff.

I felt peace. Rarely do Indian beaches offer this kind of calm. Usually, they're bursting with people, selfies, music, and chaos. But this morning was different. It felt like the world had paused—for me, for this moment.

I stood there facing the vast Arabian Sea and mentally traced a line across the ocean. “If I travel 4000 kilometres straight from here,” I thought, “I’d land in Somalia.” Funny how small and connected the world can seem when you're standing still.

Suddenly, something caught my eye.

A few metres away, a foreign women, probably in her 40s. She was painting. Completely immersed in the scenery before her—the mighty Varkala cliff. I wanted to go closer, but I didn’t want to break her flow. So I sat down quietly at a distance, just watching her.

After a while, she began to pack her things. That’s when I walked up to her.

“Good morning,” I said. “Can I see the painting you made?”

She looked up with a warm smile. “Of course,” she replied, handing me the canvas.

I was stunned. The painting was breathtaking. She had captured the raw beauty of Varkala Cliff with such grace. But she wasn’t done yet.

“Would you like to see more?” she asked.

She pulled out a folder from her bag and began showing me other works. Each painting was a window into different parts of Thiruvananthapuram—Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, Chalai Market, Vettucaud Church, Ponmudi Hills, Peppara Wildlife Sanctuary, Kovalam Beach… places I had seen a hundred times but never truly seen until now. In her paintings, these weren’t tourist spots. They were stories. Emotions. Souls.

She had been travelling through Trivandrum for the past week, she told me. Sketching. Painting. Observing. Breathing in every place she visited.

Curious, I asked her, “Why don’t you just take photographs of these places instead of painting them? Wouldn’t it be easier?”

Her reply silenced me.

She said,

“A photograph is taken in a second. A painting takes hours, sometimes days. When I paint, I have to slow down. I have to see. I notice the light, the shadows, the textures, the mood. I hear the place. I feel the air. I remember every smell, every sound, every feeling—because I sit with it. I live it. My camera can capture what’s in front of me, but my painting captures what’s inside me. That’s the difference.”

I didn’t know what to say. She smiled, zipped up her bag, and said, “Thank you for asking. Not many do.” And then she walked away, disappearing into the morning mist, leaving behind not just art—but a lesson.

As I stood there, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she said. And I couldn’t help but compare it to how we, especially many Indians, travel.

We visit a place, and the first thing we do is take out our phones. Click. Click. Click. Pose. Upload. Filter. Caption. Story. Then comes the endless refreshing—“Who all saw it?”, “How many likes?”, “Any new comments?”

We forget to be there. We forget to see. We forget to feel.

I remembered an article I once read. The title stayed with me—“Social status, and not the drive to explore, is what makes most Indians travel.” It hit hard

She reminded me of someone who doesn’t just see places but experiences them. The way she chose painting over photography shows she values slowness, attention, and connection. While most of us are hurrying to capture a place, she chose to understand it.

She gave a beautiful reminder:

Travel isn’t about collecting pictures. It’s about collecting moments.

In a world where we’re addicted to screens, likes, and constant updates, people like her stand out—not because they do something fancy, but because they choose to be present. That takes courage. And wisdom.

She’s not just a tourist. She’s an artist. A learner. A quiet observer.

And above all, she’s a reminder of how travel should feel.

What she gave me that morning was more than just a glimpse of her art—it was a lesson on how to live.