But there is one image that always remain in every narration of my journey with Payam: seeing him writing. Nobody ever saw him writing, I mean besides the translating. I even worked with him in one or two of his translations, but I never saw him writing his fictions. Although he used to talk about his stories, but he had to be alone to write. I never even saw him taking notes, or carrying a notebook; he has a monstrous memory.

the Begening of the travelogue

This is the last picture I took from Payam, again where we started, so that’s why it doesn’t feel like something that happened in the past and finished. It’s still going on, and this time were like this choosing near 40 of the pictures and writing for each of them. Our journey happened in many more pictures, more wisdoms and wonders.
Eternity has a hell of different views. Once a Spanish painter said, Hindustan is like a very realistic cubism …

I remembered Payam back in my room the first night he came.

We traveled in a small room in a bus, from Udaipur to Bombay.

Payam walked into the butcher room and took this picture.

I went to a room with only a mirror and saw myself.

We went to a room for smoking a cigar.

We saw a room where someone had mad a working image of the future and calling it the 6th world… he had imagine it with space ships working with air balls attached below them.

A room for the dead guests in the city palace.

We went to a room with the biggest turban in the world.