The Blue Door

Old temple wood, carved and softened, the kind of blue that does not stay put.

This is the same man I had photographed earlier against the brick — yellow cloth wound high, gold across the face, the red mark between the brows. I knew him the moment I saw the turban. You do not forget a face you have already spent time inside.

This time his hands were full. He lifted the mala up between us, the big rudraksha beads dark and oiled from counting, and held them there. Not quite offering them. Not quite showing them. Something in between that I have never found the word for.

The dark of the room behind him swallowed everything but the orange of his sleeves, the blue of the frame, the gold of his face. More color than I usually allow myself. None of it arranged.

He had said little the first time and said less now. I made three frames and thanked him. He dipped his head, the smallest amount, the way he had before. As if we had a routine now. As if I were expected.

— Sefa Yamak, Istanbul-based portrait photographer. Varanasi, winter 2018. From the SADHUS series.