The Little Buddha Who Liked Taking Pictures
Some encounters feel accidental, yet remain with us as if they were quietly placed along our path.
In Bhutan’s Phobjikha Valley, surrounded by crisp blue skies and a silence that feels older than memory, I visited a small monastery, Khewang Lhakhang, without expectations. Travel has taught me that anticipation often gets in the way of presence, and moments of serendipity are a blissful gift. So I arrived slowly, cameras hanging, ready to observe rather than record.
I was told that at this monastery I would find plenty of young monks to photograph, but I found something unexpected. There was only one young monk.
One monk is better than no monk, I thought. So I stayed.
He was the only one performing the daily duties like the others who left. He was excused. Not out of indulgence, but recognition. This child had been formally identified as the reincarnation of a Buddhist master, a responsibility far heavier than his small size suggested.
Through my guide Chencho Tshering, who gently translated between worlds, we spoke. Or rather, we listened. The boy spent most of his days inside the monastery, immersed in study and ritual. Words like impermanence, emptiness, and Buddha nature were not abstract ideas for him, but part of daily life. Concepts many adults spend decades circling, often without clarity.
We were invited into his room, a gesture that felt intimate and generous. The space was simple but warm. Light entered carefully, as if even the sun understood the need for restraint.
A child raised on impermanence
What struck me almost immediately was the contrast between expectation and reality.
Despite his spiritual status, he was unmistakably a child. Curious, alert, but shy.
When joy interrupted stillness
I handed him my Leica Q3 43.
The reaction surprised me. There was no rush, no excitement. Instead, he raised the camera slowly, naturally and deliberately. He looked through the viewfinder with more focus rather than curiosity. I can only guess that what fascinated him most was not the object itself, but the idea behind it. That what stood before him could be captured. That a fleeting moment could be held.
In Buddhism, impermanence is not a theory but a lived truth. Nothing lasts. Everything changes. Photography, on the other hand, exists because humans feel compelled (even maniacally obsessed) to preserve what disappears. Standing there, watching him frame the world, that tension became tangible.
Photo by the author
Photography as a meditation
Photography may be our small rebellion against impermanence. Perhaps photography is not a denial of impermanence, but a meditation on it.
Every photograph quietly says, "This happened.” It does not claim permanence. It acknowledges presence. That may be why humans have always drawn, carved, written, recorded sound and now photographed. Not to stop time, but to preserve memory with it.
As I observed the little monk, I wondered what impression this brief encounter might leave behind. Would he remember the sensation of choosing what to include and what to exclude? Would he recall the act of seeing differently? Or would the moment dissolve, as so many moments do?
In the end, I chose to believe it mattered.
Maybe one day, during quiet hours between study and ritual, he will pick up a camera again. He may document light moving across monastery walls, the shadows and silhouettes of visiting pilgrims, or the valley's slow changes through the seasons, not as attachment, but as observation.
Photography, at its best, is not about possession. It is about attention and presence.
Photo by the author
What this encounter left behind
Before leaving, a thought surfaced, something I had read long ago. That “no one should be entitled to consume happiness unless they too produce happiness”. I do not remember who wrote it, but the idea stayed with me.
If that is true, then perhaps something meaningful was exchanged that day. A moment of joy. A spark of curiosity. Shared laughter between vastly different worlds.
This is not a story about enlightenment. It is a story about careful observation. About how ancient wisdom and modern tools can briefly intersect without conflict or alienation. About how curiosity survives titles, expectations, and destinies.
“I would rather have questions that can't be answered than answers that can't be questioned.” -Richard Feynman
Photography does not stop time. It reminds us that moments matter precisely because they pass.
And sometimes, wisdom looks a lot like joy.
If these simple words have inspired you, consider a customised journey to Bhutan, where moments of quiet insight often reveal themselves through smiles, shared stories, and the gentle rhythm of everyday life.
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