I called this blog Dialogues because this is what we possibly have with life.
We can speak many languages and have many thoughts and ideas, feelings and plans.
But if we do not engage in dialogues with the surrounding then those thoughts, ideas, feelings and plans will remain barren and no life will result from them.

A dialogue can be with another person, or with many. It can be a talk or a walk in the mountain. It can be a moment or it can last years. Usually what I intend for dialogue involves a deep insight, a sharing of thoughts, an intense moment when we believe we understand a person, a landscape, a horror, or a country. And as dialogues are rarely fruitless, what is left after they vanish is a sense of something we have just learned, something that we feel like representing or capture in a picture or a novel.

Another thought is that from dialogues decisions may be made, changes may be faced, and lives can be transformed.

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The women in the picture were reunited up in Jutial to celebrate the wedding of a young couple. The bride was a handsome woman in her thirty, strong black-jet hair, hexagonal face, a troublesome beauty in a way. The groom, her cousin, was a striking army man. They were bound to be happy or so we all wished
I took part in the amazing ceremony, as the whole valleys of Hunza and Gilgit and Yassin and Ishkoman did. That day, I sat with those elderly ladies from the picture you see on the right. I didn’t talk to them – they were not there for me. And yet, we exchanged greetings and affectionate looks. They most certainly wondered about my ancestors, my home country, and my origins. Didn’t I speak Urdu with Sherullah Begum? My nose and look had hinted at a sort of oriental aura and let me go on for an eastern Afghani or a northern Iranian. I didn’t care; it was definitely much more comfortable that way, to be there and not to be.