*How a Rookie Photographer Learned That “Travel Arranged by Client” Can Mean Anything*
Industrial photography is a field where surprises lurk around every corner. You sign up for a shoot but end up collecting stories—free of cost, non-returnable, lifetime warranty. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for what happened in the summer of 1984.
Industrial photography stories India
Back then, I was a rookie industrial and advertising photographer, fresh in the game, driven by ambition, caffeine, and the foolish optimism that I could handle anything. Every assignment felt like a ticket to fame, fortune, and maybe even a magazine cover someday.
So when a reputed cement plant owner called—complete with a baritone voice that could shake a Dictaphone—I stood straighter.
Behind the scenes photography
“Confirmed,” he said. “Travel arranged. We’ll take you 250 kilometers to the plant and drop you back. Don’t worry.”
And in my head?
Oh, I worried… in a good way.
I had already imagined a shining Ambassador with chrome like a Bollywood hero’s smile, plush seats soaking in perfume, cool breeze from the AC, and a white-uniformed driver who addressed me as “Sir” more times than required by law.
Next morning, wearing my best ‘important photographer’ shirt, nice sunglasses, and pockets full of dreams, I reached the client’s office.
Funny photographer experiences
“I expected an Ambassador… life sent me a cement truck.”
And then it happened.
I saw… **the truck.**
Not a VIP vehicle. Not even a basic jeep.
A **cement transport truck**, looking like it had survived Partition, Emergency, and three monsoons in between.
“Bhaiya… yahi gaadi hai kya?” I asked, praying for a miracle.
“Haan saab,” the driver grinned. “AC bhi hai—*Apna Coolie.*”
He pointed proudly at a tiny, rusty fan tied with a string. It rotated like it needed oxygen support.
My assistant gave me that *sir, please let’s escape* look.
But commitments are commitments. And foolishness is foolishness.
We climbed in.
### **The Ride to Doom**
“Every pothole felt like a personal insult.”
What followed was a journey worthy of its own survival documentary. Every pothole was a karate kick. Every bump felt like destiny personally slapping us. My bones were auditioning for a percussion band.
Halfway through, I groaned, “Are we going to a cement plant or testing shock absorbers for free?”
My assistant, holding onto his camera bag like a newborn, replied, “Sir, spine alignment free mein ho raha hai. Chiropractor ka paisa bach gaya.”
Our driver—let’s call him **Baba Ganja Singh**—was in another universe altogether. Eyes red, smile glowing, humming Lata Mangeshkar like she was performing just for him in Dolby Surround Sound.
“Driver saab, neend nahi aati?” I asked.
“The driver wasn’t driving the truck… he was guiding a rocket.”
“Neend toh unko aati hai jo duniya ko follow karte hain,” he declared.
“Hum toh sadak ke sufi hain, saab!”
At this point, we were laughing at our misery. Two supposedly fancy city photographers—now being tossed inside a cement truck like pakoras in hot oil.
### **The Show Must Go On**
When we finally reached, every organ in my body wanted to file a complaint. But the moment the camera came out, I switched into professional mode.
“Industrial photography has no glamour—only grit, diesel and great stories.”
The shoot went beautifully. The client was thrilled.
Not a hint of the torture showed on my face.
That’s a rule I’ve always lived by—no matter how rough the journey, the final output must be flawless.
“No matter how rough the ride, the delivery must be smooth.”
### **Return Journey: God Help Us**
When the plant manager announced that the same truck would drop us back, I felt my soul leave my body for a brief moment.
“I learnt early: always confirm the mode of transport.”
Climbing in again, I told my assistant, “From next project onwards, I’m adding one line to every agreement—*Mode of transport must not include vehicles with bolts sticking out of the seat.*”
We laughed till tears came.
### **The Real Glamour of Industrial Photography**
No red carpets.
No five-star pampering.
Just grit, dust, cement, and unforgettable stories that seasoned photographers wear like medals.
“Pain fades. But stories like this stay fresh forever.”
Looking back, this was one of the greatest gifts early photography gave me—**the ability to laugh, adapt, deliver, and turn even a cement truck ride into a lifelong story worth telling.**
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