We call it ‘disruption.’ The market calls it ‘efficiency.’ But for the man standing in the debris of his own career, it is simply survival. A look at what happens when a profession becomes a smartphone feature.
By Umar Farooq
The sound of construction is rarely gentle; it is an aggressive, dissonant symphony that feels remarkably like destruction. It is loud, dusty, and impatient. Bricks strike against each other without apology, iron rods scrape against concrete with a teeth-grinding screech, and the air carries a fine, pervasive layer of sand that settles indiscriminately on skin, clothes, and thoughts alike. I had gone to our under-construction house for a routine visit, the kind of mundane errand that peppers the weeks of anyone building a home. I thought I might help with something trivial—move a few obstructions, check the alignment of a wall, or perhaps just exchange a few words with the labourers to break the monotony of their day. It was nothing unusual, just another ordinary afternoon at a place that is slowly becoming home. But some days do not announce themselves with fanfare; they arrive quietly, slip under the radar of our expectations, and refuse to leave long after the sun has set.
As I stepped inside the unfinished structure, navigating the debris and the skeletal shadows of the building, my eyes fell on a labourer working near a large pile of sand. He was blending into the grey and brown palette of the site, his movements rhythmic and heavy. One of his shoes was torn at the side, flapping slightly every time he shifted his weight, a small detail of poverty that usually goes unnoticed. His face was streaked with sweat and dust, masking his features, and his posture was tired in a way that spoke of endless repetition rather than distinct effort. I looked at him once, casually, and then looked again. There was something jarringly familiar about the set of his shoulders, a silhouette I could not immediately place but knew I had seen in a completely different context. For a moment, I dismissed the thought as a trick of the light. It cannot be him, I told myself. The idea felt almost insulting to the memory of the man I was thinking of. I stood there for a while, half-watching the masonry work, half-wrestling with a strange discomfort I could not name. Later, with a feigned casualness, I asked another labourer about him. “Yes,” he said, without a flicker of hesitation. “That is him.”
The confirmation landed heavier than I expected; I felt the thud of it in my chest before my mind could fully process the implications. A few years ago, this man did not shovel sand. He owned the only photography studio in our area—not just a shop, but an institution. In the geography of our neighborhood, his studio was a landmark, a place that carried significant weight. It was where weddings were immortalized, where childhoods were frozen onto glossy paper, and where families went when they wanted to preserve something they feared losing to time. I remembered the interior of that studio vividly: the cool air conditioning, the smell of chemicals, the heavy drapes used for backdrops. He had cameras worth lakhs, computers bought specifically for heavy editing, complex lighting rigs, and racks of costumes. It was a small empire, built patiently, piece by piece, through skill, reputation, and trust.
Today, he was lifting sand. The contrast was brutal. I stood there longer than was necessary, watching him work from the safety of the shadows. He did not look up. At one point, I thought he had noticed me, but he hadn’t, or maybe he had and simply chose not to acknowledge the intrusion of his past into his present. His movements were mechanical, stripped of the flair he used to have when adjusting a lens. It was as if his body was doing what life had decided long ago it must do to survive. The dust clung to him, dulling the sharpness of his features, blurring the identity I remembered. Yet, even in that state of disarray, he was unmistakably visible. No matter how much dust covered him, the ghost of the photographer remained.
Technology did not announce its arrival in his life with cruelty; it never does. It came softly, disguised as convenience. Mobile phones improved, cameras shrank, and editing apps became available to everyone. What once required training, investment, and patience could now be done with a swipe of a finger. The market did not pause to ask who would survive this transition. People simply stopped visiting studios. Why would they? A phone could capture moments instantly, share them instantly, and store them endlessly. The ritual of going to a studio became archaic. What was once a profession became a feature on a gadget, and men like him became obsolete overnight.
This is where stories usually turn dramatic, where writers talk about “the dark side of progress” or “the cruelty of capitalism.” But standing there, watching him mix cement, none of those grand phrases felt honest enough. They were too large, too convenient. This was not a theory; this was a man who had built something with his hands and mind, only to watch it dissolve without ceremony. He did not fail. The world just moved on without him. I imagined his studio closing, the equipment sold perhaps at half its value—cameras that once defined his identity now reduced to objects someone else owned. The slow, humiliating realization that skill alone is no longer enough.
There is a particular kind of loss that does not come with noise. It does not scream or shatter. It just empties you quietly. That was what I saw in him. He was not angry, not dramatic, just absent in a way that suggested resignation. He looked like someone who had stopped asking “why” and started asking only “how long.” How long can I do this? How long before my body gives up? Family responsibilities do not wait for pride to recover. Children do not accept explanations about market disruption. Rent, food, school fees—these things arrive on time, every month, without sympathy. Dignity becomes negotiable when survival is at stake. And so, a photographer becomes a labourer not because he wants to, but because he has to.
What disturbed me most was not the change in his work, but the way society treats such changes as normal, even necessary. We celebrate better cameras, faster phones, smarter apps, without counting who paid the price for our convenience. Progress is efficient; it does not look back. As I stood there, clutching my own smartphone, I realized something uncomfortable: I was part of this system too. I had used mobile cameras; I had skipped studios; I had enjoyed the benefits without thinking about the cost. It is easy to feel sympathy only when loss stands directly in front of you, covered in dust. Seeing him forced me to confront a question we rarely ask honestly: What happens to someone when the only thing he is good at stops mattering? We like to believe that hard work guarantees stability, that talent ensures survival. Reality is less kind. Sometimes, effort is rendered irrelevant by forces far beyond one’s control. The man I saw did everything right, but adaptation has limits. Not everyone can rebrand or retrain. So they fall, not dramatically, but steadily, and when they land, no one calls it a tragedy; we call it adjustment.
I did not speak to him. I regret that now, though I do not know what I would have said that wouldn’t sound hollow. Words feel inadequate in front of a life that has been quietly dismantled. Sometimes silence is not indifference; it is helplessness. Before leaving, I looked at him one last time. The sun was harsh, the dust thick. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and returned to work. There was no audience for this moment, no record, no photograph. Ironically, the man who once preserved memories will likely be remembered by very few.
This is not an article against technology; that would be dishonest. Technology has given us speed and access, but it has also demanded sacrifices, often from those least prepared to make them. We talk about the future constantly, but we avoid talking about those who were pushed out of it. That day, at an unfinished house, I understood something simple and unsettling: progress does not erase people instantly. It wears them down until they blend into the background, until a man with cameras worth lakhs becomes just another labourer in the dust. And unless we learn to look closely, we will keep walking past stories like his, thinking they’re ordinary. Until one day, you’re standing there, not knowing when it happened.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine.
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