Drops of life

“It is life, I think, to watch the water. A man can learn so many things.”
― Nicholas Sparks

There's no water. The overhead tanks were being repaired. By the end of the day even the lone bucketful was depleted and only a couple of jugs could be filled. The jugs became a symbol of all that a daily routine, and life, represents. I became suddenly aware of even drops being wasted.

Strangely, I also became conscious of sweat. In this humidity there can be embarrassing perspiration. However, I'd let the beads of sweat remain on skin; it's as though they were replacing water.

Bath was a towel dipped in water to clean up, followed by lots of wet wipes. If you can't have bread...; the awareness of being elite comes soft-footed. It comes as bottled water and as images that make you cringe, even if momentarily, about the many who walk miles to get just one bucket, about those who have to pull and tug into wells, who have to wait before water taps in a queue, who collect water near rivers where flotsam coats the liquid, who bathe in any collected pool of muddy water, who sometimes die because their thirst was unquenched.

These are images for us. For them, it is life.

Camera vérité

Of all forms of photography, I am drawn most to portraits. Faces. Forms. Expressions. The result is less about technique and more about what that fraction of a second captures. Is it the essence or the superficial? Does it convey more about the photographer than the subject?

Today is World Photography Day and each of us with a smartphone camera can claim to be quite adept at instant access to what may be loosely termed history in motion. We see it when pictures about catastrophes and revolutions are uploaded. Then, there is the history of ordinary people, which is another story for a sequel.

Now that Princess Diana is back in the news with reports of another twist to her death, one cannot but recall her name without the mention of the paparazzi. Those men — there are few women giving the chase — who will risk life and limb only to snoop on a celebrity getting drunk, or involved in a brawl, or caught in an intensely private moment. They and the celebs feed each other.

However, some famous people do not quite get posterity on glossy finish prints. They are the characters that a camera waits to unravel.

It would be so predictable to mention the portraits by Henri Cartier-Bresson, and I have decided to be predictable. There is a reason: he photographs minds.

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It was not easy for him, it would seem, for he had said, “The most difficult thing for me is a portrait. You have to try and put your camera between the skin of a person and his shirt.”

We are so accustomed to seeing Che Guevara in the iconic posters, the pose of angst, of a rebel on his way to rebel, that this smiling man enjoying his spirits — two glasses at that...was there a companion, a comrade, a visitor? — comes as a surprise. It also makes us question our stereotypes. The revolution is indeed on as is evident, but surely a person is not merely one thing?

This is not a great photograph, but it is a revelation.

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Robert Kennedy lounging on a deck chair is expected. It is the contrast that is brilliant. Machismo against innocence. Or perhaps the innocence of machismo, if we look at Kennedy's almost meditative expression and even the hairy overgrowth that harks back to another age, less sophisticated than his lifestyle. His son seems to want to know what is in the balled fist. There is also a sense of detachment. He is not looking at the boy, who too has his face turned away, although his head rests on the edge of the father's thigh.

The connection established here is of give-and-take role-play.

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Cartier-Bresson believed, "Photography is an immediate reaction, drawing a meditation."

Carl Jung's portrait is nothing less than a fine piece of meditation. It is not candid and he might well have been sitting for an artist.

His own words somehow coalesce into this photograph: "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."

The use of light and shadow is always interesting and here it adds dimension because of Jung's own conflict theory about the conscious and unconscious. The trickle of light in the background, the ever-so-slight swirl of smoke that stops short of being cocky, the deep furrows on the brow and the compact manner of sitting are at once disturbing as well as almost holy.

For Jungians, this would make a whole lot of sense. And for others, it would still be about a man with several tales to tell.

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Henri Matisse loved colours, the more lurid the better. Cartier-Bresson used monochrome and even then managed to capture the shades.

This photograph is a bit of a tease. The main subject is not even in the foreground, but he grabs our attention. Matisse loved his still-life, and the birds do look like one of his works. That the cage is empty and they are poised atop it could be seen as the artist's own freedom from using standard templates for his art.

It looks like a scene from a film. This is not Matisse in a typical studio setting with painting equipment. He is surrounded by life, almost bare and rundown. Like a blank canvas in an attic.

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These are all famous names and we would have seen them in numerous pictures. It takes someone like Cartier-Bresson to not just transform them into subjects, but real people with more than the single dimension they became known for.

I'll have to answer my own question posed in the beginning and say that in complexity the superficial is also the essence.

© Farzana Versey

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Images: Magnum Photos, Washington Post Magazine

Gadkari's Basic Instinct

BJP Prez in Sharon Stone moment

This is your friendly neighbourhood BJP party president, Nitin Gadkari. If I were to deconstruct this photograph and the attitude of L.K.Advani and the RSS towards him - the former thinks he should uphold certain values while the latter has termed him the "Nagpur boy" who is pretty much okay - then it is clear that Gadkari does not quite care about what anyone thinks of him. 

His legs are crossed at an extreme angle while his gaze is straight ahead. It means he keeps an eye on what's going on, and yet does not lose touch with who he is and who he is with. 

The generous exposure and view of flesh also conveys that he might preempt his opponents with a 'show me yours, I am showing you mine'.

Of shooting orders, noses, and pictures that brutalise

President Barack Obama can kill anyone. Or, his administration can. Needless to say ‘anyone’ here means persons who pose a “threat”, and for the United States of America it is the al-Qaida. Now that it has done away with Osama, is moving out of Afghanistan, and is a bit strapped for taking any overt action against Iran, the target practice begins at home.

If the threats come from US recruits of the organisation, the President’s office can get rid of its own citizens abroad without consulting a federal court.

US Attorney General Eric Holder said:

“Given the nature of how terrorists act and where they tend to hide, it may not always be feasible to capture a US citizen terrorist who presents an imminent threat of violent attack. In that case, our government has the clear authority to defend the US with lethal force.”

This is dangerous for a few reasons:

• If the US government does not know where the terrorists hide or how they operate, and we have evidence of it by the long-drawn out wars, then how would it assume there are threats?

• If you do not know where they hide and therefore it is not feasible to capture them, then how will it be easy to spot them to kill? 

• If the US knows that there is a possibility of violent attack, its intelligence agencies would know where it comes from. Isn’t it amazing that these agencies can recognise an American citizen as an al Qaida recruit who is a threat, but cannot figure out what to do with him? Has he put up the Stars and Stripes in some hidden location so that people can recognise his nationality?

• How would the American government be so sure that the lethal threat is planned against the US? How many times in the past decade has the country been attacked?

This move is just a carte blanche to do as it pleases, round up the usual suspects and make it difficult for ordinary American citizens whose origins are elsewhere. They may be second generation immigrants who have no links with the country of their parents’ birth.

This is not to deny that young people have become acutely aware of their identity. Part of it is brainwashing, and part of it is most certainly the result of being socially targeted without any cause. These are a few. The US is supposed to know a lot about everything that happens in the world, so why can it not keep a track of its own citizens?

Why did it insist on getting David Headley back for trial? How did this US citizen manage to visit India and Pakistan? The US did not capture him. He was handed over. And the story of what he did and why will continue because the United States of America does not want anyone captured. It wants to kill, and not have to answer inconvenient questions.

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Cosmetic surgery is not halal. An Egyptian member of the Islamic Al-Nour party has discovered. Or, rather, he knew already, that is the reason Anwar al-Balkimy explained away his bandaged nose as the result of being beaten up by gangsters in a robbery attempt.

His fib was exposed and he was expelled from the party and had to issue an apology. However, there will be an official inquiry and if found guilty he might be imprisoned for “creating anxiety among the public” and “worrying public officials”!

Does the public care? If only some of these purist groups took a look behind the hijaabs, they’d find blonde streaks and heavy make-up. Men probably use quite a few things that make them look and feel good.

It is indeed possible that somewhere in the religious texts there is a provision for not tampering with the body. There was no concept of cosmetic surgery until a few decades ago. If a person suffers from severe burns, will there be no skin grafting? This is reconstructive surgery and is meant to repair the appearance, for it does not necessarily hamper the functioning of other organs. So, what is the fuss about? Perhaps, the MP had problems with breathing because of his nose structure. Or, it may as well be that he wanted to alter the shape because he felt like it.

He has not changed as a person, so his nose should concern no one but him and his god, if they insist.

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You are seeing this photograph and are revolted. Everyone is. However, what does come out of this? Today’s Mumbai Mirror had a front page story on this one picture – of a man who survives by begging, has no one and lives on the streets. He was beaten up, and it transpires it was by the cops. The important thing to note is that this photograph first appeared in yesterday’s issue. The writeup expressed remorse and anger, but no one knew who the people beating him up were. In today’s edition, Pritish Nandy says "These brutes must be punished". But, when he states that people just stood there and did nothing, he forgets to ask: did the newspaper’s photographer do anything?

And this is the long caption that went with it:

On a pavement opposite CST, scores of people were momentarily distracted from their vada pavs and chai by the screams of this dishevelled man in the picture. The drama started around 2 pm when a group of six, carrying canes, ordered the man to get into a police vehicle, which already had around 20 others. When he refused, he was thrashed mercilessly; the lashings didn’t stop even when blood started gushing out of his forehead. Shopkeepers by the pavement said the man was homeless, and would often be found looking for food in the garbage bins. There was no confirmation whether the assaulters were policemen; the man was finally bundled into a vehicle, driven away to an unknown destination.

Apparently, somebody wrote this seeing the picture and talking to the photographer. It was a “drama”, and now we have a story.

Is it always about a story, and then the claim of being the first to ‘expose’ how callous we are? Are they not ‘we’? Brutality, anyone?

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Images: Telegraph, The Guardian, Mumbai Mirror

History Through Her Lens

Homai Vyarawalla was always described as the “first lady photographer”, and the thought of someone tiptoeing with a little camera, gently clicking flowers and princesses came to mind. But, when we place her in those historical times, then being a lady was about being many things. And she was.

There is a lot written about her, her photographs of leaders. It is like tracing a period without the need for any other crutch.

These two pictures of Jawaharlal Nehru exemplify this.

1. There is deadpan humour in this one, going where you are not supposed to go. Was there a political message?

2. Here, the image is reminiscent of Michaelangelo. Nehru is releasing the pigeon, but the sky is overcast. One does not know whether Nehru is letting go or wanting to hold on to it, or perhaps reach the sky. It comes across as a pensive, yet optimistic portrait. I’d say it captures the persona of the man and the politician.

And of course among the many others; this is how an Independence Day dance used to be like:

My fascination is with the way she treated her subjects. There is warmth and yet no obsequiousness. She seemed to be part of what was happening, but as a spectator. The black and white images, unfailingly adding a mystique, gave away quite a bit. It seems like a contradiction. It is not. The enigma was in the telling.

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Check out more images curated by NGMA

Hillary, Pippa and Peeping Toms

The battle’s between the rear and the mouth. Pippa Middleton is now known only in hindsight, or as hind site. Ridiculous as it may seem, the new Duchess of Cambridge’s sister has an Ass Appreciation Society that boasts over 200,000 members dedicated to her. They will celebrate her ‘day’ after her birthday on September 9. Will she be as “pert” then? Even if such adulation must irk her, subconsciously she will become conscious.

The brain behind the bottom, Jimmy Wevell, said: “I watched the royal wedding and the only thing that was entertaining me was Pippa's ass, I have to thank her for it.”

How can it be entertaining? I shall not get into the objectification argument because all such events objectify someone or the other and if you televise a private occasion live then the occasion is the object. However, it tells us a bit about how hollow lives have become that people need to seek not heroes but parts of them. A nose here, a pair of eyes there. One can understand admiration, even emulation if it is restricted to style and mannerisms, because individuality is effortless and some people need to put in some work to just be themselves.

The hypocrisy is that the $5m for one scene she has been offered in a porn film is considered crass. Vivid Entertainment’s founder Steven Hirsch saw what the rest did, and what the rest did was a snowball effect. Not everyone can notice a butt at the same time and with the same intensity.

This is really about images, in this case the televised walk holding the trail. One might dismiss it as just another fancy. It is. This too is voyeurism.

Just as no one has a problem over the two million hits on Hillary’s photograph in just one location (Flickr) looking in what appeared to be shock – wide eyed and open-mouthed, they said. How did they know whether her mouth was open since her hand covers it? It became a testimonial for the nature of the goings on in the ‘situation room’ at the White House. What meaning were people looking for, what reassurance, what condemnation? She later clarified, “I am somewhat sheepishly concerned that it was my preventing one of my early Spring allergic coughs. So, it may have no great meaning whatsoever.”

Pictures are subject to perception and we do know that what happens in a fraction of a second is not only a fraction of the truth, it is probably not the truth at all. So, if this applies to Hillary – no shock, and no Miss Universe moment of OMG, I won – then all images can be suspect.

Why not a cheep of protest over the images leaping out now – pictorial and verbal? I am not a buffet person who goes around a pre-arranged table consuming what is offered. I like it a la carte, especially if I am told it is available. The chef cannot just say he’s cooked it, describe the recipe, put it on the menu and then tell me it’s not worth it, it won’t suit my palate. The chef says it to everyone. Not everyone has the same palate and taste buds or visits restaurants for the same reasons.

My ‘voyeurism’ – the right to know really – has been vindicated by these two ‘harmless’ images of the ladies. Interestingly, the men are not analysed.

Well, not unless they took ‘herbal Viagra’. How everyone is lapping up all this information. Avena syrup, an extract of wild oats, is marketed as a natural Viagra. There are many natural aphrodisiacs available all over the world. But you say Viagra and the potency of the image leaps out. I read a bit about oats and they add to fructose content and are not all that great for several other reasons. And if the dead man suffered from kidney failure, he was cured with watermelons!

There is no need for aphrodisiacs. People can just get off on such imagery.

During the Bhopal gas leak, we got to see some rather ‘artistic’ award-winning pictures, with slippers carefully arranged near a child’s half-buried body. It was half the truth, which was way more horrific.

The picture of Pippa reduces her to one thing and Hillary’s, the ‘hitters’ hope, stands for something more profound and revealing. Neither is factual but impressionistic. These give vicarious thrills and not the reality.
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Updated:

An unseen photograph of Princess Diana in her dying moments will be shown in a film at the Cannes festival. As a report says:

The documentary 'Unlawful Killing' is backed by actor Keith Allen and Mohammed Al Fayed, whose son Dodi also died with the Princess of Wales, reports the Daily Mail.

The 90-minute film will include a graphic black and white close-up of the late princess taken moments after the Mercedes carrying the couple crashed in a Paris underpass.

The distressing image, Diana's blonde hair and features clearly visible, has never been publicly seen in the UK.

It will be shown around the world but not in the UK, prompting Allen to say: "Pity, because at a time when the sugar rush of the royal wedding has been sending republicans into a diabetic coma, it could act as a welcome antidote."

Al Fayed is an opportunist, but I found Allen's statement more so. Yet, unless the film is an expose, such a picture will only be exhibitionistic.

Tech that...

It’s maroon-coloured, slick and light. I’d lie down with it propped on my stomach like a baby as words would dribble out of its warm, white mouth. When it fell asleep, bubbles would appear on its chin and rise up to the cheeks. My little notebook with thousands of sentences spanning six months just gave up on me. I made the error of treating it like a big child, one who could take the knocks and could hit a mean punch. It obviously couldn’t; it was not born for that. It was meant to be coddled, taken in a perambulator, stuffed with a nipple in its mouth to keep it quiet and put gently to sleep to save on battery life.

I thought I was doing everything right, except that I did not treat it gently enough. It handled my jabs, my tears, my maniacal laughter, but that day it just curled up. I thought it was a petulant sulk and I poked it, tickled it…there was a gurgle, but no delight in the sound. A balloon came up: “Critical HDD error.” I did not know what HDD was. It sounded like an illness. I persevered. It rebooted many times and it was back again to nothing, although those bubbles did appear. I had not backed up the pictures, the documents, the notes…I did not know this would be over so soon, like a fling, a brief encounter. It did not appear to be this way. After all, it had been with me to protect me when I was laid up, it was there to make me not feel lost, to stand by me and renew me. But this was just another man pretending to be a child.

I should be crying. This is my work, my memories. And they are gone. For now, at least. I may never retrieve it all. But I am not crying, I am not even angry. For me this means taking more pictures, making more notes, finding newer words.

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The dependence on technology frightens me. I have begun to make notes on my cellphone about every little thing. My calendar is full every day – to remind me to get what I have got, to make calls that I will not make, to sleep on time, to wake up, to read, to write…I have not yet posted one that reminds me to breathe.

It disgusts me, for I do have a keen memory. I can remember even what did not happen.

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The other day I misplaced my credit card. The company said it was lost. Lost puts the onus on others; misplaced is about one’s own fault. What is the difference? There is a lost-and-found department, but not a misplaced-and-found department although in the latter case you are more likely to find it. So, I reported lost and all transactions were blocked.

Now began the problems. In order to make my life simple I had signed up for the automatic clearance of certain bills. Poof. Calls, text messages inundated me…the bills were boomeranging. My phone would be cut off. I did not bother, until it got serious. I find these cellphone companies quite funny. You have to go through the whole computerised crap till you reach your desired destination – ‘our executives are busy playing with the dog, your call is as important to us as canine biscuit, so please stay on the line’…then there will be this horribly happy tune playing and finally someone will come and announce who they are. I am unfailingly polite.

I say, “Hi, this is Cleopatra and I want to know where Egypt is”…well, you get the drift. I give them my name, my number, and whatever else they ask.

When I mention my problem, the person at the other end sounds as though a condolence is necessary. “Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry to hear about it.” Huh? Get to work, damn it.

“Can I put you on hold while I check?” Yes, please.

“Sorry to keep you on hold for so long,” says the bloke who has appeared within five seconds.

“So, what do I do now?”

“No problem, F,” (yes, they do get familiar sometimes), “Just log in to our website.”

“Just a minute. I am calling you, so you tell me what I can do.”

“You first pay at our billing centre or through online transaction or the phone, and then we will adjust the amount in the next cycle when your credit card accepts.”

“But my credit card company is ready for you.”

“Please discuss this personal matter with Mr. X who is in change of your account.”

“Is there a Mr X in charge?”

“Yes, yes, he will be happy to help.”

I dial Mr X who listens patiently. He is on the road so will solve the issue as soon as he gets to his office. “It’s all cool,” he says.

“Cool?” He really said it and told me not to worry since I am an old customer and have never reneged on any payment. I feel like a prison inmate who has been let out on bail.

Problem is almost getting solved. I send an email. One little glitch. I typed out my number wrong!

Poke, poke, poke. Little note. Reminder. Call hotline. Send email saying I am me, but my number does not have that particular digit, so do make the rectification. I am not paying for someone else.

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The touch screen froze.

Hands and Feet

Hands and feet and fingers and toes are just so enticing, especially when seen differently. The tips of the fingers caressing, the hands holding, grabbing, reaching out...the feet sinking deep into sand or walking on grass, treading purposefully towards what looks like a destination.

Here are some pictures I have taken. They convey so many things to me…

Start of the day, the sun creeps in and the feet decide to have a cuppa, read the papers and lounge on a rocker!

A closed fist seen from this angle can appear to be a foetus:

The hands open out, like a flower…or more like a leaf spreading itself on the branch languorously:

No fingers are empty…they shine and they have ears that listen to that sheen:

Feet are larger than hands, but hands can reach out and touch them. Look through them…at them…indulgently, as though wanting to hold them forever:

Folds

Cotton silk. Two disparates. Coming together. Woven. Warp and weft. Coloured red. Darkened deeper. Splashed. Touch the fabric. Without me. Soft. It folds. Between them. Me. Lie a hundred secrets. Open them. Discover. The rough edge. The smooth soul. The knife. The pain. Jab. It’s only fabric.

The labours of May Day

Psalm of those who go forth before daylight

The policeman buys shoes slow and careful; the teamster buys gloves slow and careful; they take care of their feet and hands; they live on their feet and hands.

The milkman never argues; he works alone and no one speaks to him; the city is asleep when he is on the job; he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls it a day's work; he climbs two hundred wooden stairways; two horses are company for him; he never argues.

The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders; they empty cinders out of their shoes after the day's work; they ask their wives to fix burnt holes in the knees of their trousers; their necks and ears are covered with a smut; they scour their necks and ears; they are brothers of cinders.

Carl Sandburg

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The concept of labour invariably involves adults. When I do mention children working in the streets, I am accused of romanticising child labour; I and many others do know the reality is different in many parts of our subcontinent.

Several years ago I was asked to present a paper on Human Rights and the Child at a seminar organised by the Indian chapter of Amnesty International. I must admit that I did not think I was qualified; the organisers thought differently. I typed out the manuscript interspersing facts with opinion. It was a pretty clear-cut and sharp picture I recreated.

That morning I made my way to the University Campus; the other speakers were all somebodies, in that they had done extensive work in the areas they were to speak on – law, trade unions, academics; I was the only novice, so to say. The one advantage I had was that many in the room had read me…and disliked me!

Copies of our papers were distributed to the panellists. Mine was the only one that did not have footnotes.

I was to speak in the afternoon session. There was a break for lunch and some people came up with their dessert plates to tell me they had gone through my paper. This was rather unfair. Reading it was then a mere formality; they were already armed with queries. It was a bit queasy.

I did the ahem-ahem authoritative cough routine and decided to alter the beginning: “By the time you finished your lunch X number of children have died”. At least one smirk was wiped out.

What surprised me was the nature of questioning: “Your paper is very good, but why have you not provided solutions?”

No one else was asked this and no one had provided solutions. Which is why trade unions exist and there are constant battles for wages, working conditions and a lot else.

Did I have a reply for them? I merely said I had no answers but I asked the right questions.

And I believe...

"He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God's creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all."

- Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers

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Image: This picture I took in Varanasi.

Shadows

Remorseless. Shadows. Chasing. Sun. Hundred. Suns. Erasing. None. Dipping. Into. Another. Horizon. Leaving. Darkness. Chasing. Hounds.

Picture 1: Came upon my shadow on the wall quite suddenly.

Picture 2: Made it look ghoulish, a metaphor for how sometimes what follows is not your own shadow.

Today morning

Sitting with my back to the sun, I liked the shaft of light on the floor.

A song that may seem unconnected but which I hummed...

jalate hai.n jisake liye, terii aa.Nkho.n ke diye
Dhuu.NDh laayaa huu.N vahii, giit mai.n tere liye
jalate hai.n jisake liye

dard banake jo mere dil me.n rahaa Dhal naa sakaa
jaaduu banake terii aa.Nkho.n me.n rukaa chal naa sakaa
aaj laayaa huu.N vahii giit mai.n tere liye
jalate hai.n jisake liye

dil me.n rakh lenaa ise haatho.n se ye chhuuTe na kahii.n
giit naazuk hai meraa shiishe se bhii TuuTe na kahii.n
gunagunaauu.ngaa yahii giit mai.n tere liye
jalate hai.n jisake liye

jab talak naa ye tere ras ke bhare ho.nTho.n se mile
yuu.N hii aavaaraa phiregaa ye terii zulfo.n ke tale
gaaye jaauu.ngaa yahii giit mai.n tere liye
jalate hai.n jisake liye

Lyrics: Majrooh Sultanpuri; Music: S.D.Burman; Singer: Talat Mehmood; Film: Sujata

Sunset boulevard

These series of pictures were taken at a park rather late in the evening. I had turned and found the sun looking through the trees, just a hint of it going down. That became my first moment.

The next was when the sky was swathed in the afterglow; the foreground shows the barks of the trees glowing in the artificial lighting in the park.

The last was when the sun had set and the green circle you see is a light outside.

It takes a village...

I recall visiting this hamlet in Mahad years ago on assignment. It was with a group of people who had adopted that village. We reached around late afternoon and were taken to the circuit house for lunch. Then we went to a small guest house.

I spent a sleepless night. Dogs were barking a little distance away, the lady I was sharing the room with was wheezing from asthma; I had never met anyone who suffered from asthma until then…and I was worried sick that something would happen and I would get hauled up to the police station.

New to the profession, this was my first real village experience, and all my ideas about the gaon ki gori (the village belle) walking around with a matka (pot) perched on the hip were brought crashing down.

Next day we set out to see the work being done - what they made, how it was sold. I realised they had flourished because, although financed by outsiders, they were empowering themselves. People tend to be more comfortable with their own and that is what I keep harping on: the best way to bring about change is to use ‘key workers’ trained from within the community.

On the last night we went to the interiors. Our group had torches. We came into an opening and saw lanterns flickering; the smell of kerosene emitted from them. Women were sitting with rice in straw trays open at one end; they'd hoist it up so that when it came down the heavier pits would be visible. Then they’d pick them out and throw them. A little away, large vessels heated on wooden stilts held brown watery dal. We sat there talking even as some sang folk songs; they did not stop work even as they spoke.

They run a community kitchen to save on firewood. After the food is cooked and eaten and they have cleaned up, the lights are dimmed and they sleep in utter darkness.

Why am I recalling this today? I had recalled it a few days ago when I wrote about my bed lamp. I realised with some discomfort that the colour of the walls that I adore so are almost the shade of a villager’s hut. They did not even have basic electricity. And here I was romanticising about the play of light and shadow.

How do I deal with the conflict of what I possess and what others don’t?

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This picture is only a representative sample; it was taken in a village in Bhuj, Kutchh on a non-working trip.

Stumped

Taken as part of series of pictures in Ibaadat India, today I see this as a symbol of me. What I wrote then was: This is in the middle of the Periyar Bird Sanctuary, but could be anywhere. To see the bare remains of a tree in the middle of the sea when there is foliage in the background is a rather humbling experience. Shorn of its identity, its faith in where it belongs remains intact. It also symbolises the common citizen who stands out despite having nothing.

My pic of the picks