The lonely clown:
In the heart of Jessore, the southern pulse of Bangladesh, I stumbled into a quiet corner of a fading circus. Among the echoes of laughter and the faint smell of sawdust, there he was—a clown, sitting alone on a bench, away from the spotlight. His face was painted with joy—bold red lips curled in an eternal smile. But his eyes… they betrayed him. Beneath the greasepaint, they were oceans of sorrow, still and heavy.We are so used to clowns as symbols of cheerand fill tents with laughter. But in that moment, I saw the truth that hides beneath the painted mask: every clown carries a silent ache.How often do we look beyond the colors and chaos and truly see the person within?That day, I didn't capture a performer, I captured a fragile soul wrapped in joy.
It was very challenging to capture him beneath the tent in low light. I took plenty of shots from al the angle but i loved to capture it from the front side.
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