Untitled #5

The sonorous beats of fluctuating temper are crashing on the shores of infinity. Everyone needs a quivering sense of safety. One that actually shakes and makes base infirm. Stagnant waters splashed sideways and dead-centre. Unending avenues of blank blackness and wet nocturnes. And preludes to violent queasy aberrations. 

Could you smell that trippy coldness? Could you see the serenity bathe under the shadows of decaying sun? Could you see the pathos lined red under the folds of musty shirts and ill-fitting brassiere? He could go hugging ancient trees and chance eunuchs. He could ask for a cheap suit and few consoling lies. He could have simply begged for caresses and touches. The crests from pangs of an isolated existence meets the low tides of late rainfalls. 

The trembling yellows and oranges are closer than we think. Just as overlapped the Bageshri rag is in the fifth harmony of Barkha Ritu Aayi so is the sense of happiness and end. Or death. Bade Ghulam Ali Khan is ruthless in his meting out despair. It could be numbness on weak epidermis. It could be the nip in the colorless airs. It could be the charcoal sketch gone haywire. It could be the thin layer of impenetrable soot blocking what the spectacles wanted to see. It could be the vast sea of limitless silence on Red Road, where distant dots illuminate a receding emotion. It could be the the absence of the pressure of having to return back a reply in time. It could be the red of the taxi meter screaming and scurrying in the room of rushing montages. It could be the sensation of not having to care for anyone, care for anything and be equally careless. It could be the ability to intake low lights with brighter spirits and better hues. It could all be the rush, the rush, the cold, racy, unforgiving rush.


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A tipsy ride from Broadway down a silent darkness.
Gaje Ghata Megh.
Wind on face, ears and hair.

Of Unfamiliar Cheers

An almost deserted Chitpur Road at 12 noon. Where are those blaring loudspeakers, thunderous emblems of euphoria; bright, big, roadblocking structures, festoons and 
designs? Where are the masses, where is that mindless hysteria the city familiarized itself just a few days back? Isn't there a festival today, I asked myself. It can't be over by now.

But then again, a festival, need not be loud, by definition. You can celebrate it inwards, indoors, internally - sunshine. Just like the day itself. 

 

I started wandering past MG Road into Rabindra Sarani, and the bright streets had sporadic jaywalkers, tired Bihari coolies and tireless street urchins wearing glows of the day. Kolkata Police's diligent servants had made themselves comfy in the shades available on the scant road edges, tea stalls and wooden carcasses which go by the name of traffic guard stands. They were on the verge of sleep. Hard-earned one. The four-day strain, preceded and followed by more tortures surely entitled them to a siesta. A minority community's fest, puff, hardly an ache.

Royal Hotel's entrance was a humdrum affair. Where's the essence?

But in the ledge where the air was cool and mood festive a group, dressed in unblemished whites were found planning their affairs in hushed tones. Surma. Fresh, bathed, neatly poised. Surely a foreigner, one whispered. 'Aareyh chappal toh dekh - ' My all-season Paragon waterproof has given me away. (BTW, Avik once warned me about my mongoloid features. Never paid damn concern.)

A passer-by group posed for a united gleam. I forgot to ask their names.

A boy, with great effort, drags away a pile of leaves.

There were scattered faces. Aimless. Nakhoda's entrance had regular beggars lined for some thankful alms. Did I catch a few in better-off cloths? Surely it is their happy day, too. Some lowly men, men of streets have come to offer prayers at this hour. When buzz dumbs down. Empty courtyard. Doves making havoc in thin air, chasing tails, making merry. Or love. Wizened faces wait for coins, food, or care.

Vermicelli. Simui, vernacular. People have had their share. Now he sits shooing off flies and his natural tendency to doze. Golden stuff. 

But the aged woman stands without a twitch. Skull buried deep inside her crevice of a bosom. She doesn't move; I can not ascertain her age. I move on.  

KaNthal ka patta are essential to be fed to the bakris. Roads are lined with heaps of leaves. Five rupees per bundle. Md. Zulfikar and Sabir Hossain Gazi have set up their stall. They are selling this since morning and would be doing so for the next one and a half days.  Zulfikar has his eyes lined with surma, red lips, red scarf tied across neck, fingertips dipped in mehendi. Bright in colors, but business in conduct.

Their sister Hasna Banu is too delighted to give a smile. She sits perched on the thela in a bright-motif dress. Her brothers ask her to raise her head so that I get a better vantage point. She falters. Toothy grin, ashamed. Hasna.         
    

I found this pair of gentlemen, old, sharing pleasantries. The scene is that of a tailor-shop, belonging to the person on the left. Old school. 

But whom you would encounter most on the streets are the Kasais. Each with their stout cylindrical log to mince meat, which has a portion of rubber bicycle tyre to aid in carrying around. Waiting for customers who would take them home for the halal. Twelve to fifteen hundred per halal. Armed with the most filthiest bag, which is stuffed with knives and sharp blades to kill the sacrificial goat and slice the juicy mutton. Their dresses are characteristically stained with blood, splats and blotches and drops, blackened, or fresh crimson, on their vests, folded trousers, head gear, up their chins. Zahir and his two mates were cooling off their heels, and knives. 

Salim Qureshi and his brother are the head of a chief operative gang in these lanes. When I discreetly clicked a few snaps of the kasais waiting, a group asked me to take their pictures. On humoring them, they invited me to a large group of people waiting on the other side of the road. By the look of mine and my camera, the Qureshi brothers requested me to take a picture of theirs. No. not quite a grinning close-up. They hastily took out their knives, and a small piece of meat from their bag. Mark of profession. Pride.

Others of the same trade crowded around. Excitement of having faces emblazoned on reels. Which newspaper? Or Zee Bangla? Will it be published in papers? N-24 Pargana te pawa jaaye? Bakra? Kalke kaagoj ta kinboi, ki naam bollen jeno? Bohut shukriya, hamara foto kheechne ke liye. Hum jaise logo ka.

With reluctance I lie. Kal akhbar mein foto aa sakta hai. Maybe they believed. They did, surely. I move on. The man with white beard who sells shiny stones and sits regularly in front of Mars Pharmacy is clearly unperturbed by this cacophony. Somebody,later comes and wishes him Mubarak. He wishes back without glee. 

Just at the confluence of Zakaria Street I meet this duo. Samarth and Vansaj came to wish their Muslim playmate and friend festive greetings. No, they would just meet and greet him, won't join him for lunch. While they waited for their friend to come downstairs from  his three-storied house, the youngsters beamed in happiness. Samarth exclaimed on hearing that the camera costs less than 10K. Vansaj wanted my number; he said he would check on next day's papers if it carried his photograph. 

A Gujrati Niwas was just a few yards off, and a small 'Mata Ki Mandir' with its collapsible gates on. the man on the nearby Vodafone store expressed anguish on being aimed at with a camera without seeking permission. Kahaan kahaan foto chala jaayega.
A small eatery is lined with people queued up for kebab. White smoke emanates from the coal chulah. The poor are squatting in their meanest appearances. Patient expectations. A fattened bulged-up pair of goats are watching all of these closely. They know not when the time is to come. Not far from them, a highly adorned cow chews away to merry.

And then again I find sellers of kaNthal ka patta. A number of them. On this day of festival, what's better to have myself clicked, asks Anwar. 

Md. Shafiq and Md. Sabdullah too request me to take their pictures. Akhbar mein foto aaye toh mehrbaani hogi. Sabdullah complains that he looks a tad plump round the cheeks. I blame his mouthful of paan. 

Qayamat and Ayyub silently face the lens. I get words of thanks. 

Abul, whom they jokingly refer to as Sher Khan, sits next to him with his huge bundle of leaves. He doesn't ask me to take his picture, neither comments when his neighbors pose. He watches all of these with a fingers resting on his mouth. Introvert. Take his snap as well, others comment. I would have, anyways, a calm demeanor. 

I take a picture of Md. Shabur and his niece. But he insists that the frame must bear signs of his trade. So oil-fried delicacies find a place in the frame. His son is busy offering tea. just nearby. He is dressed in his best kurta.  

Moti Khan is past seventy. Not an age to engage in something physical, so he has set up his roadside stall where he serves tea in small cups, placed on a tiny saucers. His wife drinks her afternoon quota of sip as he watches the next door eatery's dwindling quantity of biriyani. Perhaps wistfully wishing for her full plate. Khan holds a firm grip on his kettle. His pride. He offers me a cup when he hears I am associated with a newspaper. I decline politely. I can not help but admire his slightly lit-up face, the shine. What small joys can a click bring!
  

People moving about in alacrity. Families. Fathers holding hands of young boys. Group of boys in gaudy sherwanis, well-oiled hair. Destitute women in search of generosity of the well-off, if the cheer of the day permits. Girls moving in herds, giggling in high spirits. Housewives sucking orange sticks, the youngest boy-child gets a choco-bar. Shopkeepers, with no customers to attend to, are also savoring chill of bar candies. Slight stench of mutton pervading nasal senses. In one of the communal water-sprouts, a heated exchange had begun. A man came in with a bundle of goat's innards. The intestines and softer tissues are to be washed and sold off. But cleaning them in these water-sprouts do mess up the place where people did their ablutions. Yahaan par nehin hoga, uss mohalle mein jaake gaanda karo. I had witnessed a few instances of cleaning the innards on the way , the stomach turned over to flush the undigested fodder; the tissues scrubbed with care. Men selling off hooves, hides. Nothing goes waste. Not everyone can afford meat. But a taste of bakri, for everyone, slightest piece. Md. Rizwan and Md. Asif, on their way to celebrations, gave me a smile. They were shining. 

At the end of Colootola Street, the boy on the sugarcane-juice stand was plain morose. Maybe all his playmates have gone away for the festivities. 

And a ice-cream cart trudges along gently. I guess slowly people will hover around. It won't be deserted.

The attar seller has opened up his fares and is searching for customers in these nearly empty streets. A group of men arrive on the taxi and are greeted by another on their arrival. The driver also gets a hug on the occasion. Smiling faces, ripe with grace that comes with renewal of acquaintance.

And the Mosque, silent, staid, stands by. Admiring the festivities. 

 
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Just a walk down the streets on a festival day turned into a photo essay. The faces responded, so did my camera's sensors. Had it been some other day people wouldn't have cared much. Though the day of festival itself didn't inflict any particular happiness, but that someone cared to capture their ordinariness was a gift for many. Must be shining faces on next day's paper. Curious about probable popularity. Speck of fabulous among humdrum. That was festive. Joy.

Of A Visible City #2

The city has put on new mirrors. It needs to see itself clearly - those dents on blackened skins which cosmetics can't obscure, or those deep down perforations and creases which Botox can't obliterate, those crimson blotches running down the length of spine like ants without a sense of direction, or those million more granules and scars on nubile wrists and dry vaginas, and those spaces between broken toes where secrets are tucked with sheer desperation. The city can not see all by itself, it needs new eyes. Not fresh, just new pixels. The mirrors, tiny, scurry along the cracks and rough edges, occasionally. But mostly, they follow hues and gaiety, cheers amid confusion, silkscreens and sunshines, glows and glitters and gleams. It needs to remind itself of the how happy it is, since it is so very essential. It needs its stockpile of essential hallucinogens. It needs its MBs of routine memories.

So the city has aligned itself with the masses, 'cause everyone says so. It is grappling for breath in order to stay afloat, in order to find base. The flashing mirrors are churning out deluge of visions, with every wink of finger and drop of gasp; but you need something more permanent. Because you never cared to retain, you just went by the tide.

Men, women and wanderers populated the thoroughfares. Simple men, regular women, and madmen/necessary lunatics. They needed new destinations. They needed bright dresses. Gaudy bedsheets and counterfeit chinos, uneven stilettos and hopes. At least they were real. They knew what they wanted, and they saved every penny of their desires. The city caught the first train from downtown and landed itself in holiday's market. Where the simplicity is not yet marred by opulent desires. 

Beyond the busy streets are silent lanes where corrugated sheets and labyrinthine sewage pipes lie in a dream long asleep. Marxist fallacies share communal space with muttonchops and soot-stained economy. People move in slow paces, care only about neighbor's allergies, or watertanks and telly's agony. Magnified cut-outs hide broken pillars and their muted heritage. The cut-outs shout, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!" Glistening faces usher you to the orgy of sensual blasphemies. Adverts slap you left right up and straight. Economy is shining, up in those streetlights and monstrous hoardings. Face-packs tobacco derivatives fizz drinks embellishments things of no need things of consumer make-belief things of forced preferences things you think make you elated. Nails hammers bamboos vinyls glowsigns flexes plastics - so much for self-gratification. The city's veins are populated with faces who are proud, proud of having found a meaning to stay smiling, smiling as they found a chance to remain happy, happy because everyone else too is trying to do the same. Ganges trembles at this temerity. A lonely footwear lies unadorned. Red blood smells of fresh chickens. Dried leaves have been shooed off since they brought to much dull into the canvas; the ascetics found a kick on the crotch as the polluted the lush landscape of general jubilation. The mirrors, and their minds, shamelessly watched Her dress with the minimal simplistic attire She can truly afford. They thought it was all a cosmic celebration. They shook the beggars and lonely tarpaulins, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!" 

Phantasmagoria. The city ached in silence, retreated its steps back to forlorn palaces and watched its body twisting in the vile carnival, of dust.