Blog

Bob Dylan WFMT Chicago radio – May 1963

http://tinyurl.com/qymqjd3

The song and dance man at 22 (I think), being interviewed very early in his career by some guy who totally knew where this was going to go. Dylan responds to the interviewer’s enthusiasm with an openness and honesty that you wouldn’t believe the guy possessed seen 4 years later in Pennebaker’s documentary. Somehow it’s always very late in the AM when I do anything on this blog so I’m gonna go back to my Stallone flick and hopefully sleep at some point and you can go ahead and listen to the tracks I’ve compiled for you (start with the second). It was very important for me at one time, although just right now I’d rather join the SS and give up processed sugar again.

Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis

Which sounds like something from Game of Thrones but it’s not.

Thanks to original uploader, long lost and forgotten

Advertisements

View to a

Here’s our featured guest post by Rosheena Zehra. You can find more of her work at her blog here

It’s a fine bright day and the classroom discussion is about being stuck in an empty bus with only the driver, the conductor and a seedy looking passenger. The participants of the conversation sit and laugh about the number of times they have been stranded in similar situations, the fear they felt and how they are glad it all ended in a way that has allowed them to sit and chat about it in a classroom today. It’s indeed funny how the possibility of rape is part of the normative order to the point that there is no choice but to include it in our lives, garbed in the form of humour. We live a reality where it’s an achievement to survive every day without the threat of physical and sexual violence. Good, you were not asking for it by dressing in a particular manner. Pat on the back. Good, you were not out after dark. Pat on the back one more time.

It is a strange world where the eyes of a seven year old rag-picker at the nearest Community Centre have a disturbingly ill-placed maturity staring back at you.  They tell me there is no hope left for the world, but sometimes I choose to believe otherwise.  It is sad to have children lose their innocence before their due time. When a friend tries to adopt an orphan child from the same community, one of the two contenders of the struggle is the possibility of education, a stable roof over their head and regular meals on a daily basis- a phenomenon previously unheard of. However, it loses to its far stronger adversary – the addiction of sniffing a specific item of stationery.  Soon the orphan slum-child refuses to eat with you, or take the clothes you give, or attend your lessons.  He already accepted his fate somewhere during the course of his eight year old existence, and now refuses to see any other reality beyond it. They tell me there is no hope left for the world.

A country where land mines are part of the daily reality of school children is yet another achievement. Ladakh- it’s a bitter realization that there exists a world where courting death on an everyday basis is a lived reality, where warning signs of land mines are just as normal and mundane as the nearest sign post around the corner.  Kindly stay close to the main road, to avoid being blown up into chunks smaller than your pinkie. Have a good day!

A little world of comforts- which in turn gives rise to more illusions prepared, garnished and served on the silver platter of neo-colonialism, patriarchy and First World privileges- is sufficient to make us feel good about ourselves, probably even indulge in a feeling of self-importance. However, beyond this world of palatable truths lurks a reality somewhere out on the streets -that place we have never been to, completely untouched by the naiveté of the existence we are often deluded into leading.

We Are Everywhere – Jerry Rubin and We Are Everywhere – The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalism

There are two books here. Yes, with the same name and pretty much about the same thing. Each worth going through- do so with caution. Caution caution caution. Sounds like

We Are Everywhere – The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalism

Very 2000’s-sy, which is to say that thanks to the flashy editing and clean, uncluttered type, this book very nearly sucks and is almost unreadable because it looks so fucking boring, but there is some very good writing in there (check out the article by Kate Evans on page 290 and the one immediately after it by Medha Patkar and other stuff I haven’t had time to go through)

We_Are_Everywhere_The_Irresistible_Rise_of_Global_Anti-Capitalism_2003

We Are Everywhere – Jerry Rubin

My kind of book, all stitched up and with pictures of kids posing with guns, using guns, getting shot by guns; though no idea what it’s about. Some stuff on Black Panthers, lots of naked hippies, writing like

“Can we take your handcuffs off, Jerry?” asked the sergeant.

“Will you behave?”

I growled.

They got the message and stood back. “Cutting our hair is like taking off your black skin!” I barked to one sergeant.

“Jerry, I wish you could,” he answered. “You don’t know how much trouble my black skin has given me”

What contempt the black bourgeoisie hold for us white hairy niggers! They have fought so hard to become an equal in the white man’s society and we are trying to give up out white skin to become a nigger.

We don’t appreciate what they want so much.

The barber made good on his whispered promise and left much of the hair on my head.

Sheared, humiliated, beaten-yet still proud of ourselves for resisting…

We_Are_Everywhere_smllr

Hear – Advised on Urbanity

And here’s our first guest post- a poem by Alia Sinha, a student of Media and Culture at the TATA Institute of Social Sciences

Listen,
Before you spill your secrets to strangers
Or to me
This is the wrong time to be thus-
Wandering with swollen ankles and
Looking through curtained windows
For love.

Towers are crumbling into light splinters as
Helicopters crash in fields of wheat
While all along
Sorrow plays out in pink brassieres
Sold on the sides of streets

Here steel-shod golden eyed
Electric-lit
Monsters stand
Breathing mad music into sweet wine
Breathing sweet melodies into the night
They cannot roam with you
They can only grieve or charm.

Once
Dreamers owned these once-forests
Fire they cried. They were not wrong.
But so what?
Weep no more for the sensuous or the tender
Only remember
Once
They were strong.

Meanwhile torn-eared hyena be
With gilded fur and moony eyes
With delicate shoes
With throaty cries
Grin yellow toothed for cameras,
and acknowledge irony.

SIGHTS: MTV, LOWER PAREL; TAKING Part 1

“I say. You know this does utilize well” Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Acting on the information I know, I’m carrying a green Giordano blazer; It must be 35 degrees but not where I’m going; and headed to classy South Mumbai. I’m going to the Palladium, a gigantic mall where all the world class fancy tiling and foreign boutiques can’t seem to shake the evil stench of Neutrogena or mask the pallor of regurgitated creme fraiche – but I admit, the AC is top class and draws the potential from the city’s dress sense- Calvin Klein and Aldo, not exactly Versace but Tommy, and thankfully little in the way of Fab India. A foreign pianist plays elegantly on the Steinway parked next to the customer care counter. Brahms? Yes, yes, I think so… well, fuck knows.

Anyway I’m at the wrong place, the venue for MTV’s Youth Marketing Forum is next door, at an equally cushy ‘indie’ (in the way such things tend to be) furniture store, the Good Earth. I find the place- last stop in an enclave of exclusive decor stores and enter. Upstairs, against an arty little cafe filled with foreigners (good design, obedient art hanging against each table- very money), I find the door- it’s a large sized space with a stage set up against the wall, taking on the guise of a teenager’s bedroom with Bob Marley posters and stuff like that, and a huge LED wall playing an MTV graphic over and over. The cameras are just finishing setting up and there’s a crowd of some 200 people ambling in- I take a seat. Cyrus Brocha is mediating, assuaging the angst of those collected- no one seems to know what the thing is about. So we wait. The room is hot, the blazer is on my lap.

Aditya Swamy, MTV business head, comes on stage in an unimpressive, if shiny, gray suit jacket (that  is not quite Zegna and I wonder why, I’d be surprised if he can’t afford it) and begins to talk about some project they’ve been working on called ‘Curious Minds’.

“We’re in the business of young people,” he proclaims, and somehow the thought disturbs me- being the first hint of something I will figure out in the next few hours. The project turns out to be an international survey of some 11000 kids to gauge their priorities, desires, aspirations- information they used to hire experts for. I wonder at the change in tactics, but the graphics change and Swamy exits, leaving the stage for something I was not expecting.

So what they have come up with is Aryan Khanna, a 16 year old bastard child of consumption that seems to exist in a state of perpetual exhilaration. He has a little laptop with all his friends a on it and a compulsion to engage in spirited appreciation and sharing, centered suspiciously around electronic dance music defecated by MTV India’s most recent imports. As he air drums, guitars, etc to the music, sharing the passion of his consumption with his friends (all blown up on the LED wall for everyone to learn from) I realize I have walked in to something a little different from what I think it was supposed to be. Seated in the third row, I look at those ahead of me, on the reserved seats- Swamy, Brocha, other, nameless execs are studying the kid in engrossed detail. Suddenly I realize that MTV has no interest in catering to a market- it aims to create one– and this silent freak show of a human being that can’t enter a room without wearing Beats headphones and dribbling a basketball like it is so essential that every moment of his life, even the time it takes to cross over the room to his couch, is spent doing something, using something- is not only their imagination of what youth, all youth, look like, but also concept they’re trying their damndest to bring to actuality.

I think of S, and A, my friends that work here that invited me, is this the world like they see it? What are they building here?

A swarthy, glazed eyed European comes on and begins to drone about MTV having it’s “finger on the pulse” and begins to talk about youth. “Young people around the world are surprisingly similar,” he interprets from the statistics they’ve established from the survey. They’re “all travelling in the same direction.” The numbers are insane, perverse and the powerpoint slides conflict each other. They suggest a mechanical world that thrives in isolation, where consumption is achievement and social commitment and nuance boils down to “if you don’t share that funny thing, you’re out of it.” They’ve know, they’ve assessed the “market”.

Some guy comes on- it’s a politician, Shashi Tharoor. “India is owned by the young,” he says with a straight face, blown up incredibly on the large LED directly behind him. I wonder at the signs, the superimposition of Shashi Tharoor on Shashi Tharoor, what the hell does it mean? I’d be tired but this guy is electric and owns the room in 10 minutes with his irreverent banter with Cyrus and masterly command of memes. He has a voice like rough silk and is talking about the participation of youth in the election, saying exactly the right things- it’s easy to forget this guy was in the news recently- where the best case scenario, the one that the courts eventually believed, was that his wife had killed herself after learning of his infidelity and that’s all he had to do with it.

Inevitably, conversation turns to the Aam Aadmi Party, which he and Cyrus take turns bashing it until he turns and is serious, suggesting that while people may be sick of corruption, “there are no quick fixes, no easy solutions.” That’s what she said?

The interminable vision of a tyrant – a Czech guy comes on, he’s selling Tomorrowland some kind of EDM festival like a hundred others these motherfuckers seem to hold in Goa. Nothing new about this, nothing definitive- just one more. Taking in his short, stocky frame and the spotlights glinting off his white, shaven head, I think of the Portuguese, flooding the shores of our nation (if in khakis this time), wave after bloody wave of incursions that had cost us grievously then. He reads my mind, “We ARE coming” he says, describing his determination to win over the competition. No one contests, nobody cares. Yes, it’s finally sinking in- it’s all happened before and they’re back – this is the new Jalianwalla Bagh- Goa- a city we’ve set aside for them to see how far they can go. Describing Tomorrowland’s relationship with MTV, he slips, and he calls MTV a “big commercial monster” before he corrects himself, “of course I mean monster in a nice way.”

What I feel is dread. I realize I’m with the wolf in his den, where he thinks he’s among his own and speaks freely. I try not to blink when our eyes meet and say nothing. This will be over soon, I have only to sit still and make no sudden movements, and I shall pass unnoticed. All through the day I have been hearing the corporation talking, like from a huge machine head, delivering machine thoughts, perfectly rational in its mind, to an audience of mediums that will convey the message- and in the process, create the environment the message is to be delivered, and received in.

Collectively, we will await avatarati- our passage from this state of consciousness into the one they’re creating- a mass produced, perfectly referenced one that would be very viable indeed. They’d know. They took the goddamn survey, didn’t they?

Reflections: Witness, Memory

He stood behind us as N. tried to teach me roulette or whatever it was in the same way that he tried to teach me the bus routes or anything- mumbling endlessly to hear his own voice. I despised him completely, but maybe I didn’t know it then. He watched the screen as N. played, clearly, or not so clearly he was waiting for the low stakes unit to be free so he could use it. N. would walk away at times to see the television thing or something and I would slide in so the seat was saved for us. The man stood there for a very long time, 10 or 15 minutes right behind us without any inclination to communicate. It was interesting. Somehow he got to speaking, I forgot how. I think he made a recommendation to N. and they got to talking from there. He warned me against gambling, said he’d been at it for 12 years, or was it 14, and said it leads nowhere. I asked him why he did it, he said he came when he had nothing to do, and was there most nights. Well dressed Eastern European with a Muslim finish- Albanian, Bosnian, he must be, I thought. There was too much in London for me to wonder what he did, if I did I do not remember. I told him I had no interest in gambling, was only accompanying N. because it was 2, 3 maybe 4 am and what else was I supposed to do.

An oriental girl massaged some guy’s neck on the corner machine for a pound a minute. I was staring at the television where the roulette wheel was streaming live from the floor on the ground level. Or something, I don’t remember what I was watching but I was watching intently. Something hit the back of my head. What the fuck? I look around, there’s a pen on the ground beside me. The Albanian is waving a hand a couple of rows behind me- it was him. He had wanted to break my concentration he thought I was being drawn into the game. Or maybe he just couldn’t see the screen. I moved away.

Hours later, I am bored and I’ve just had a cigarette on the little balcony overlooking a minute portion of the bustling night. I’m looking to write, I think it’s a good time to. I find a sofa with a guy sleeping in one corner, I take the other side and settle down with my book and find my pen. The Albanian guy is coming up the stairs, he spots me and says hello. I’m ready for some conversation and I depend on people to sense that and I guess he does; he looks exhausted- an hour or so later he’ll ask me how old I think he is I am 3 years off but that’s his weariness I was accounting for. We talk, I don’t remember what, what I do comes up. I tell him I’m a photojournalist, I’ve been telling everyone that. He doesn’t discount it. He makes me an offer. He has a story he says, and he’ll tell it to me in full, God knows we have time, if I can tell where he’s from. Bosnia, I’m wrong. I know he’s not Albanian. He gives me 3 chances. Says he knows instantly where I’m from, I feel fucked and know if I don’t get it right I’m not getting what I guess I was brought here for. Serbia. It’s the same thing you know, he says, Bosnia, Serbia. Why, how do I think he’s from Bosnia? Semiotext(e)? Why? I just do, I’m usually never wrong, and never with South East Asians. I tell him I’m from the wrong part of the world to be able to tell him where he’s from. I wonder, today, months later, if he was going to tell me the story he told me had I not made it out. He gave me a clue, he was Muslim- Algeria, I said, he said yes, I said no and he showed me id. It said Algeria. I couldn’t believe it and couldn’t have guessed it. I was eager to hear the story- this is what he told me.

When he was 18 he faked some papers and joined the Algerian police against his father’s wishes, I think he said it paid well. This was the late 80’s. The Islamic party had been elected unexpectedly. The country was still reeling from the French, who had fucked them and slaughtered them and the people wanted to get as far away as possible now. A civil war kicked off and people were killing people again. His unit would dress up as Mujahideen and slaughter villagers and outskirts people to inspire hatred towards the Islamic party, it must have worked. He said it got real bad. ‘Brother killing brother’, made real how he said it. A country fighting to become what it wanted to.They found out and started killing police. All government workers- teachers, politicians, whatever. They started killing off his unit. Three attempts on his life, they tried to kill him but couldn’t somehow and he left. I don’t remember the details, did someone try once to slit his throat. I think someone shot that man. I don’t remember. I think it was a boy. Another attempt had two cars full of armed men raining bullets on his car.

I think he left his family behind. He never admitted to killing anyone himself, or being involved in the dressed up in disguise killings he was telling me about. He moved to London without a thing and he’s an accountant or something now. Won 60 grand at the casino once. Or was it 30? He said they start watching you if you go over 40, and then they want you to leave and they’ll kill you on your way home if you don’t. It’s a mafia business, he said. He told me his name. I’ve forgotten that too. I only met him once, and all the things he told me are lost to the world now, through me. But all that remains is sacred, because it happened. He said his friends who were there were having a meal and some French guy, 20, came in and everyone was wild and the French guy kept saying ‘but I had nothing to do with it’.

But that’s not the point. I faltered, and no irreparable harm was done, and no amount of Baba O’Riley can bring back the moment lost into nothingness, my careful signing hand, too busy to choose- I refused it then and it left. ‘No take it with you’. Last cigarette to remember it by, but it’s borrowed; the 24 hour pharmacy does not sell them downstairs, but they sell chocolate. All wrapped up like a shiny pretty thing, all dolls. But not that thing I like. And the fear I felt in the afternoon when I was thinking, that’s also gone, gone too and I’m safe here, for now because no one’s been asking me to leave. When I do leave I’ll have to leave without it, his story, so many stories because I’ve lost them- I was a witness and I’ve moved on. Now one lone mosquito stirs the air in this room and is my only concern. I don’t remember what happened in Algeria or how it affected me. I don’t remember the names of the people or the political parties and hardly recall anyone’s motivations and who got killed and who nearly got killed or how- though someone told me, I’ve forgotten. I keep these things as I keep air. I keep many things as I keep air, not the least of all many other people. What was his name? Come on Baba O’Riley, tell me his name too. I just don’t remember.

Sights: Belfast, Amazing

Steel wall leading into Protestant side, shuts after dark, sometimes for good

Steel wall leading into Protestant side, shuts after dark, sometimes for good

I’m freezing on the ferry, all wrapped up like an eskimo; I won’t go inside. Ireland is coming, I’m dreaming.

I’m writing a story for a short film, it goes something like this, from a boy’s perspective- I flattered myself the bulge of a pack of Marlboros in my pocket. Tom’s mirror was quite expansive and presented an awkward view of his room from the wall. I wondered if my friend was influenced by this strange repetition and if it confused him as it often confused me, or perhaps he revelled in it. Was he very much in touch with who he was? Where would he hide to aspire? How can you lie in bed and dream when you can see yourself, your world and all of it at the flick of an eye? How, where, do you hide from yourself?
There’d been riots in Belfast and I’d caught the news a month ago and I wanted to see it before I left, it seemed the only interesting place in the UK, where people were still deciding things- what flag to wear, who to be. Every place else there I found dead, miserable in hopeless certainty- I blamed it on the architecture- so rigid and permanent, no one could imagine the place as anything other than it was, that it had been for many years. A fucking bore.

I thought I’d make a short film in Belfast- about a group of middle-class Catholic boys that go on a bicycle trip and get lost in a Protestant neighbourhood on the eve of a riot. So I go to Belfast, the fare is cheap and the passage beautiful.

John looks out at his city

John looks out at his city

(Belfast is brown in the rain) At the bus station, John, my host comes over to meet me. This guy has walked out of Hemingway and is exploding with drama and information. Just outside the station, he walks me through Bill Clinton’s arrival at the much bombed Europa Hotel and the signing of the peace treaty that put a relative end to the civil conflict that had raged in Northern Ireland for over thirty years. The way to his exquisitely decorated apartment is short but vivid with life and culture- culture like in this particular neighbourhood no one locks their front doors, because it’s all Catholic and extended family-like, and so no one has to fumble with keys in a fire-bombing.
John shows me a map of the city carved out as Catholic and Protestant camps- go there see that, be careful here, don’t go there. I take his advice the first few days. I see walls, walls like I haven’t dreamed of and here they are in a modern European city- 20 foot high with barbed wire to separate communities and prevent violence. Taxis from one side won’t go to the other. The bus routes are split between two companies, each representing one side. Smells like Beirut.
A SPAR cashier wishes me luck finding a job, I tell him I’m not looking for one.
Never been more aware of what, whose, area I’m in than I was in Belfast- you just had to look. The flags on the streetlights- Irish for Catholic, Union Jack for Protestant. You had to look at the graffiti on the walls, it was always there- I told John it was like in Life of Brian with the Judean People’s Front and the People’s Front of Judea and the Judean Popular People’s Front all horribly at war with each other- there were dozens of these groups, all different, all the same.

John walks me through the most fortified neighbourhood in the city, Short Strand- place looks like something from The Walking Dead- huge walls, barricades, CCTV- or, uhh, Finchley. I ask him why IRA dissidents (when the IRA got the boot in 1997 after the cease fire, it became the ‘Real IRA’ and the government became the new ‘IRA’ that now hunt the ‘dissidents’ from the ‘Real’ one) are tolerated in areas like this and he said because they have guns, and when things get bad, they bring them out and they’re needed.

Derry, or Londonderry- depends on who you ask

Derry, or Londonderry- depends on who you ask

The Protestants are insane. Some strangeness aside, I never felt afraid in the Catholic are as, but these Unionists are fucking loonies. They constantly hold parades, march up and down their neighbourhoods in military buff with drums and trumpets under their flag studded streets.
I tell John about my short film, he said it’s happened, didn’t turn out well. He leaves for Dublin, I watch Cabaret on his tiny television. It’s a great film and I love it- John had played me a song from it- Tomorrow Belongs to Me, about the rise of the Nazis, illustrating the Belfast situation. It’s apt. I want to go to Dublin.
I go to Derry. A barkeeper gives me a bunch of postcards with great photos of important people on them- Spanish anarchists, South American freedom fighters, a photograph of a wall of photos of Chilean poets. At the bar I also meet a miniature artist. That is, an artist who paints miniatures. Landscape? I ask. Portraits. Now I’m always interested in miniatures.
I go to Dublin. They stop the bus and take me to a police station because I don’t have the right VISA. I feign ignorance, they leave me at a bus station, deporting me, ‘Go back to Belfast’.

I go to Belfast, it’s amazing. John keeps the photocopy of my ‘denial of entry’ as a souvenir. He takes me to a bar. A guy is getting drunk with his friends. Then we are friends, his name is Stephen. Mo chara! They have this funny thing in informal social settings in Belfast, they only ask your first name, I suppose it keeps things simple. I’m talking to Stephen about the ‘Troubles’, he tells me his mother used to work at the Europa Hotel, it got blown up when she was in it, a British soldier was helping her out, he, Catholic, rushed, or his brother did, and took his mother from the soldier because he didn’t want anyone to see her being helped by a Brit. He’s drunk and asks the bouncer to tell me stories about the IRA, the bouncer looks like he would know, and politely avoids the subject. The night is good and the place is too, but this could have gone badly. I make a note- be careful who those you talk to talk to.

Stephen 'Higgies' after some 12 pints of Guinness, 4 shots of Vodka and a whiskey- what's this thing in my hands?

Stephen ‘Higgies’ after some 12 pints of Guinness, 4 shots of Vodka and a whiskey- what’s this thing in my hands?

Got an email from Stephen recently (well not that recently) – ‘I am only writing back to you now as I just recently got my arms blown off in an I.R.A style bombing, hope all is well with you.’ I was right, I as Indian do have a lot in common with the Irish. We were both under the yoke of the British. We starved.
Boondock Saints.
They found a bomb on Jamaica Street. I go out looking for St Anne’s Primary school, scene of vicious riots in very recent past. I find the sport bar John told me about (Don’t go there, he didn’t say, but something to that effect). Windows are bricked up because they used to toss grenades in. Very IRA pub. I start talking to some people. We go into the back where we can smoke. The stories. They tell me everything I know, I pretend to be a social worker. I pretended to be a social worker and got to talk to a local NGO at length about the rehabilitation of children through art, so they can learn to live together. I told them I was something something Indian riots work with children. I got tearful. It was honest tears, funnily. Still have the literature. Must be priceless here. Rotting in my suitcase.

At the bar they say, you don’t know what it’s like, you walk to the bus stop and get on the first bus. We’re worried about you, this is a terrible place to be curious. Someone offers me a job, I decline. Fool!

'Our revenge will be the laughter of our children' Bobby Sands, Irish freedom fighter

‘Our revenge will be the laughter of our children’ Bobby Sands, Irish freedom fighter

I leave. I walk towards the bus stop, it’s a terrible place to be curious. I turn around and walk deep into the troubled neighbourhood. Someone was watching me from a maroon van as I studied the wall art, IRA martyrs, some taxi driver who was shot for ferrying people around on a crucial day on a strike day. I walk walk walk. End up on Jamaica Street, where they’d found the bomb maybe 2 or 3 days ago. Quiet residential. Bikes in the yard, little children being loaded into cars. Strange place. Catholic.
I walk. Spitball. Little kids, ass! I congratulate him on his aim, suddenly they’re all over me, something like 10 year olds. They’re curious, I tell them I’m Indian. Are there tigers in India? Snakes. Yes. Yes. We walk, I ask them about their relationship with the people across the street, it’s an interesting location, just across the main drag begins a sprawling Protestant hood. They say they both mostly keep to themselves. But some kid crossed over and was beaten up recently. It’s wonderful, I’m getting what I want. We split, I cross the street into the Protestant side. It’s insane. I ask the kids there for directions, three younger ones, 2 older ones about 15 on bikes. The younger ones tell me, the older ones stare at me, a very strange expression, incredulity. How the fuck, they can’t imagine, did I just do that? Just crossed over from one side to the other like it was NOTHING!!! Blew their minds. Strange place.

I get on the bus, I feel sick. Too many flags, too many names, abbreviations. This is 2012.

I’m learning how to look. It’s incredible, difficult. John says read the last paragraph.

620867_10151078766571759_70220716_o

Reflections: On Fear

‘They hold it in,’ she says gravely, matter of fact-like, looking me in the eye past my camera as the other two nod. ‘They prefer it to the shit they have to take from the bastards on the way to the (community) bathrooms. They’re too afraid and they don’t go,’ she says, talking about the girls in her slum. She’s in her 60’s, having moved to the city from god knows where with her family, she’s a resident of Ambojwadi, a vast slum frozen in various stages of development in North Mumbai.

I’d be there a few days later and take the 15 minute walk from the residential gulleys to the designated toilet area myself- it’s a large field with some scattered shrubs in the way of privacy and little else. Don’t forget your lota. I stood there after a night of bad Chinese, having slept on the floor of a small NGO office, and looked out in the haze, west towards the sea, fancying the facilities 2 miles yonder, off Madh Island on the exclusive Aksa beach.

The ladies notice the tear, the only betrayal of emotion, and I’m coughing too much to be recording anyway. It’s cold in the open here in Azad Maidan, my third night at Medha Patkar’s Andolan. I put my gear down and make to leave to find my place for the night. They ask me to visit them in the slum sometimes, I tell them I’ve been getting a lot of invitations but they say no, don’t go with the people you’ve been talking to we’ve seen you talking with, they’re thugs. They sense it’s been a rough day for me and invite me for a coffee to cheer me up.

Most of Mumbai grinds to a halt when the local trains stop at 1 AM, it’s now nearly 2. Outside the park, solely in the company of a van full of sleeping cops, I wait with them in the eerily quiet, empty city for a bicyclewalla to roll by, chiming his little horn.

The women are excited and it’s thrilling- they talk about everything and I feel like family. When the coffee guy does show up, he’s a little surprised when they women insist on paying for it but pours out the sugary drink in little white plastic cups from the steel box on the back of his bicycle with aplomb when they explain its their treat. He says something, something rich and large, but superficial and makes no sense. Maybe he was just lonely. We go back inside.

A guy in a cap, someone I’d spoken to earlier invites me to a person-wide space on the tarp he seems to have saved for me, it’s the only space left that I can see- there’s a lot of people sleeping in the park tonight. This guy is in a small group, some three men in their mid-thirties, awful and dirty but who isn’t? We make small talk, they inquire about my work, my gear, about the price of it- I quote them a third of what I’d paid, but here in the dark it still makes their eyes widen.

A guy, Javed whom I’d also interviewed, bedded a row down from me, catches my attention with a wave and comes near, ‘You want a coffee?’

Javed is one of the guys the women called a thug. He’s small but firm, and I had a very unpleasant experience with him a few hours ago when he took my East German Braun lighter and asked what I’d do if he didn’t return it to me.

‘Now? I’ve just had coffee’

‘Come on, it’s good coffee. It’ll keep you warm.’

I used to have this thing, something I’d say to myself every now and again like a fucking mantra- never say no. So I take my gear and join him.

We talk about weed. He tells me of the crazy shit they have in his area and invites me to visit to have my mind blown. We’re crossing the street towards the station, no cyclewallas now but Javed is confident we’ll find one on his return journey on the other side. In the 2 AM desolation, the city is vast and the broad lanes that were incredible with traffic just a few hours ago are deserted and wide in the pungent glow of the orange streetlights.

Javed crosses nimbly, jumping over the side railing on the street, where we wait behind some dividers which is normally a taxi stand. A couple of drunks join us, materializing out of nowhere. We all wait for the coffee guy.
Javed turns to me.

‘Those guys are gonna rob you tonight. That’s why I brought you here for a coffee, to warn you. Why do you think they offered you that space? What are you crazy, trusting just anyone?’

I knew he was right, I’d seen as much when they’d targeted a poor drunk sod in front of me, attempted to relieve him of a canvas bag he’d been carrying. I hadn’t thought anything of it then, which is insane in retrospect, but that’s how it was.

The cycle rolls by, we have more shitty coffee. We go back.

I return to my space, there’s no other. They welcome me back and adjust so I can be as comfortable as the situation allows. I settle down.

I turn to Javed in the distance in the dark; he nods, I nod back. I’ve caught it- the fear, the paranoia. Welcome to the jungle; trust no one and never sleep. I’m sitting next to the guy with the cap. He recommends I lie down, I don’t. I turn to Javed again, in the other row, I can’t tell him from the other bodies until he laughs, sniggers, smirks. It is acknowledged. I want to sleep. I need to. I want to sleep.

Sights: Chembur

IMG_0369c

Peering at the LCD, he congratulates me on the picture as he puts his shirt back on. I feel the familiar wave rise- oh, all y’all are too easily impressed. As he adjusts his collar, I catch sight of some discoloration on his neck, and suddenly it’s far too late to unsee the two slits that run across his throat. He smiles, a wide, satisfied smile with a twinge of something I can’t quite place, and says something to the guard standing behind him- we’re at a side entrance of the Bombay Presidency Golf Club. My eyes drop to the preview panel on my camera, I can’t believe I missed that. His body is a map of scars running like snakes in patterns too organized to have been a product of chance or accident. I look up, what the fuck is he still smiling about? He tells me his name. Rajesh. Ramesh. Raju. Come five minutes and I won’t remember. I take the guard aside, my mind flying to thoughts of maniacal gangland torture, some kind of incremental punitive measures ripped off all screwed and twisted from second-hand rumours of the East; there are, after all, a few hundred odd meters of roadside shacks lining the perimeter of the golf course and this is Mumbai. I ask the guard.

‘What did he say,’ he asks back, I don’t realize it’s a trap.

‘Too much alcohol,’ I reply.

‘Then that’s all you need to know’

—————————————————————————–

A few weeks later, it’s around 2 AM and I’m returning from a December 6th B.R. Ambedkar service with a few gangster types (Jai Bhim!); one of them is trying to convince me that doing it with a homosexual doesn’t make you one too, since it’s ‘normal’ for the other guy. Not entirely sure how to counter the argument, I try to enjoy the chill night air and relax. The road is unlit and deserted; unrecognizable at this time, but my present company lays all fears to rest- I’ll be perfectly fine for the next half hour.

There’s a glow in the distance, at a bend. ‘They’re burning a body there,’ one of my companions points out. I realize I’m on the same road as before as we pass the entrance of the golf course. Not sure how to bring it up to the fellows, whom I suspect would probably know something about the guy I had photographed, I tell them about the last time I’d been on this road and I’d seen this guy with these scars…

‘Yeah, he does that to himself’

‘He does that to himself?’

‘Yeah’

I don’t even recognize him in this picture. Some gone boy… where did he find that face? I’ve adjusted the picture, made him gleam like a car. But that’s not the man I met that day, who’d taken off his shirt for a photograph that I didn’t know I was about to take. I don’t even remember his name.

I lost you son. I wonder where you are now if you’re even alive. But I guess in this city you can say that for a lot of people.