Small hope has a surprisingly large amount of paperwork. It needs an application, two photographs, three photocopies, one original document that nobody mentioned, and possibly a signature from a person who is not in the office today.
A nation held together, in part, by rubber stamps and the patience of its citizens.
The notary complex sits beneath long concrete colonnades — Corbusier's rhythm turned, over time, into a daily republic of typists, stamp vendors, affidavit scribes and the people who have come to meet them. Marriages, pensions, lease deeds, name changes, affidavits for things that never had names. Each small hope arrives folded, waits in line, and leaves slightly heavier.
I photographed here for weeks. Not the stamp, not the sign, but the waiting itself — the way a chair, a plastic file, and a brief shade become everything on a hot afternoon.
Chandigarh · Ongoing
