Today I gave jumping Baghdad T-shirt man a new name. From now on I will call him Magic Man. Today was also a compulsory day off for all volunteers at the Mother House. The reason why - “otherwise they would work everyday.” Magic Man, another new friend and I went in search of a photography exhibition advertised in the Telegraph as “India by Magnum – Plural perspectives.” We walked down Sudder Street to where the tarmac thins to reveal crumbling concrete bricks and turns to a small market selling fake sunglasses, hemp shopping bags, piles of T-shirts, boxes of shirts, small plates fashioned out of bamboo and holding pieces of tempting watermelon. We turn the corner onto Park Street – a wider multiple laned road (although the actual 'lanes' are yet to be painted) framed by banks, shops and air conditioned restaurants. Men gathered around the popular Hot Kati Roll: a small window containing a tiny space, piles of dough, a hot stove, chopping board and a wooden painted menu. The menu listed every version of vegetable or chicken roti you would care to imagine – and then added 'with egg or without egg'. The Hot Kati roti rolls were expertly rolled in paper by trained fingers and in exchange for a few rupees passed to searching hands. Magic Man ordered one.
We waited and around our legs jumped two smiling children. “One rupee for me and one for her!” the braver one beamed. Giving money is a tough one. There is always the danger the children are being forced to work for a bigger operation and the money is passed on to the exploiters. Small little hands and young pretty faces have a much greater economic viability than the old and the sick. Add signs of physical injury and the economic pull increases even more and such rumours of forced child mutilation are gradually reaching my disbelieving ears. So Magic Man decided to give some laughter instead. He unzipped his bag and reached inside. Slowly he pulled out a long thin deflated balloon. Small brown eyes widened, and then widen further until they nearly popped. Magic Man pulled and pinged, blew and twisted, tied and sucked....a poooodle! “Woof Woof” Magic Man barked and the newly born blue poodle found its way to its new owner. Clap Clap Clap! Eruptions of laughter. Another round: ping, pull, sqeeeeack...Hurrah! A magic sword! The hilt is passed to a tiny face frozen in awe. New weapon examined. And then tested - “Ow! Be careful with that! Its very very sharp!” warned the Magic Man. Meanwhile, the new owner was contemplating sitting on her new poodle. And new faces appeared below the many older 'adult' ones, who were also enjoying the show. Swords all round, and then....a pink pig! “Oink Oink!”
Magic Man collected his vegetable Hot Kati roti roll which had magically doubled and then halved, turning now into four little pieces of hot tastiness. Poodle, swords, pig and roti's in hand the little gang of beaming children were left wide eyed and wide mouthed and we continued our search for the photo exhibition. We walked past the double windows of Flurys. White china tea pots sat on top of starched table cloths, small trays of cakes and an Indian clientèle more British than the British. “Please Sir any cigarettes?” a bare chested man asked in perfect English. A hand extended as he sat with his young family on his concrete floor. My eyes remained down. Magic Man reached into his magic bag and satisfied the request, and his payment was a smile where smiles do not belong.
We continued our search for “India” which was meant to be at a place called Bose Pacia. Security guards pointed, strangers consulted, wrong turns were taken. However, one thing Kolkata does with sincere determination is to assist lost travelers. Even without asking for directions, arms are raised and advice shouted and before long we found the images we had been searching for. A collection of archival photographs from 1947 to the present day by fourteen different Magnum photographers. The hand out explained:
We continued our search for “India” which was meant to be at a place called Bose Pacia. Security guards pointed, strangers consulted, wrong turns were taken. However, one thing Kolkata does with sincere determination is to assist lost travelers. Even without asking for directions, arms are raised and advice shouted and before long we found the images we had been searching for. A collection of archival photographs from 1947 to the present day by fourteen different Magnum photographers. The hand out explained:
Situated between the political and the poetic, personal visions of the subcontinent [which] embody a continuous concern with documenting the world while challenging the way it is depicted.Simply displayed as a slide show images without captions flashed before us. A reflection of reality. Whatever the photographer decides the reality should be. To see then to show and then to be seen. The salt farms, markets, cities, portraits which silently spoke, staring eyes of women, children, sex workers, awe inspiring beauty. Time. India through the eyes of fourteen Magnum photographers, and only one of whom is India. Is it easier to show the image of a country as an observer than as a actor? Is it possible to view ones country through a neutral lens? Images which carry a powerful message which within just a few days of being here I know 'India' does not want the world to see. But how to make the poor and destitute invisible? How not to see the streets as a home for so many people? How to airbrush the rag pickers from the rubbish? This denial is dangerous and with every day its existence is becoming harder and harder to hide from a visitors eyes.
We walk back as the rain clouds build up. The light fades before it flashes in an electric strip back to the sky. We stop for a Jal Jeera. One with masala, one with salt, all with Magic Man's foreigner friendly bottled water. Crushed limes, spices and “a little ice”. The perfect medicine for 44 degrees humidity. Suuuuuuuuck! A tiny swimming straw delivers the citrus liquid into our arid mouths. We stood at the side of the crazy busy yellow moving screaming screeching road with our little glasses in our hands. Each one watching. Each one thinking. Then each one trying to pay for the other. Generosity is not restricted to strangers without a smile, and trying to buy a new friend a 4 rupee soft drink is a continuous battle. Thunder rolls towards us and then water splashes down on top of us, sticking my kuta to my skin and soaking into my hair. Flip flops squelch as we move towards the metro. The smile of my mouth confuses the frown of my wet eyebrows. The rain brings a welcome coolness to me. To me with a room, a bed and dry clothes. I guess the preamblings of the monsoon rain will mean something very different for the Magic Mans young audience. For the young family with the concrete floor, and the father who speaks perfect English. For Kolkata's five million who sleep in its slums tonight.
We squash into the entrance to the metro, passing a sign; “No Photographs Allowed.”
1 comment:
It's interesting that you are writing about the parts of India that the Government does not want the country to see.....and (unfortunatly) some of the country is like that.
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