delhi one hundred

#16

vasudhawadhera — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 15:16:00 -0500

In which we try a HOND

For quite a while now, Brandon Stanton’s Humans of New York has topped the (mental) list of my favourite photography projects ever (also, Mumbai Paused is a regular feature on that list). HONY started off as an attempt to create a photographic census of New York, which then developed into a much more intimate form of street photography, with snippets, trivia, secrets and social commentary accompanying some really striking portraits from the streets of NY.

Last Saturday, the photography club at my office organized our first photo walk at Chandni Chowk and Chawri Bazaar, two of the oldest areas of Delhi, which (or maybe because of that?) are also home to some of the best food in town. Being a silent but ardent HONY fan, I’d long been meaning to try taking street portraits similarly: collecting stories from the streets and bringing these out in the portraits. Well, we put two and two together and set off early morning.

In which hopes are deflated

Photowalks aren’t usually my thing; I prefer smaller groups (maybe three people tops?) or solo ventures that allow me more space and put lesser pressure on someone being photographed. Would you really want to be stared at by a bunch of squinting slash frowning photographers while another of their ilk brandishes a camera in your face? Not really, no. Add to that the fact that you’d most likely have to stay for more photographs, given that it’s a tough call to get people to agree to portraits by random (sometimes creepy?) strangers and it’s not really a comfortable prospect. Anyhow, one can hope and one did too, but hopes were soon dashed.

We started on the main road from Sis Ganj Gurudwara to the Red Fort, in which I was shooed a total of three out of four times. While one was an outright “No. NO.” to what I imagined was a friendly query, the second and third tries failed for want of money. “Thode dollar, ek do hi de do..” “Paise nahi degi? Toh khadi kyun hai, chal phutt!” I started reevaluating my own approach slash creepiness.

In which we have photographs

Once we progressed to the inner lanes of the market, I discovered a smile worked better than a question upfront, Maybe in Delhi we’re prone to distrust someone taking a photograph for no apparent reason. Would you trust a stranger asking for your photograph out of the blue? Would you stay to hear why? Would it matter where the stranger was from? I don’t know.

The downside to conversing through smiles in the latter half of the morning was that the rush of the market prevented the conversation from furthering to more verbal means. A snatched look, contact, a smile. Hesitance, permission. Disappearance.

But Brandon Says…

Don’t Let Anyone Make You Feel Weird

This one is hard to explain, but very important. There are mean people in this world who will make you feel like you are “out of line” or “rude” because you politely asked for a photograph. If you don’t have much experience, these people can really shake your confidence. When I first started, one bad interaction could really make me question myself: maybe they’re right, maybe this is weird, maybe I’m a bad person for doing this. I don’t have these thoughts anymore. I’ve now stopped over 10,000 people on the streets of New York. I’ve had pleasant interactions with over 9,800 of those people.

I’ve learned this: Less than two percent of people in this world will yell at a person who politely asks for a photograph. (And that’s in a tough place like New York City.) If someone does yell at you, it’s very much their problem, not yours.

As we moved inside, the tourists thinned out and the responses got warmer. The woodworker heard the light click at my first shot, looked up, nodded in agreement and paused; still, tense, closed, unmoving. As my finger lifted up and I rose to thank him, his face broke into the widest smile possible, and a different man unclenched.

#15

vasudhawadhera — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 14:01:57 -0500

In which Delhi erupts.

The anger has been simmering for a while. The city is unsafe, period. It is pouring forth now, on the streets, in debates and in retaliation. But in the face of inaction by the government, the anger is giving way to violence: violence, with the potential to deviate the debate from rape and safety to containing and thwarting an apparent riot. As the protest approach day three, there is a need, more than ever, to let the cause supersede it all. To let a unified, uni vocal message resound above dispersed, politically led protests. The anger is justified, and absolutely necessary. It is imperative we rise above the violence.

#14

vasudhawadhera — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 14:47:00 -0400

Every year in late September, the roads in Tagore Garden are transformed into a sea of dissected bamboo and papier-mache body parts. An arm here, a torso there, and many a crown. This is the centre of Delhi’s Ravan making demi-industry, and these are the people behind the scenes.

[as part of a story on Dussehra to be published next week on Halabol]

#13

vasudhawadhera — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 03:11:00 -0400

Delhi is yellow. Yellow like gurgling laughter on a ripe summer day, a small hand clasped tightly in a deeply lined one, a dribble of orange bar down a chin.

Delhi is green. Green like water rippling behind a rickety boat in the Old Fort lake, a sudden indulgence in childishness. Or a stubborn blade among a sea bowing under the wind.

Delhi is blue. On a wistful day at the window, while a cup of tea waits patiently. A foggy blue. A murky blue. Or sometimes a lilting blue, that pulls you to the terrace when the rains first fall. It tugs softly, drawing you in. A sneaky blue.

Delhi is red. Oozing forth deliriously on dark paths, pushing further, farther away. Unstopping and turning, again and again.

#12

vasudhawadhera — Sat, 02 Jun 2012 14:08:00 -0400

What the stars fortell.

Delhi’s romance with the stars. Choose your favourite heroes, maybe your kid’s photo too. Go to Jama Masjid, communicate your request. Get your very own personalized flex printed, your ware proudly endorsed by those you adore. A sampler.

Salman ka Preity

Well, everyone’s a star in their own right.

Rajni’s guarantee. 500 rupees inaam.

Meanwhile in Mathura..

#11

vasudhawadhera — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 09:54:00 -0500

One day I was in Connaught Place, looking like this:

Then, I spotted this:

Then, this:

Taking this to be a Sign from the Universe, friend and I headed off, walking towards our destination.

We were at Odeon, one of the oldest movie theatres in Delhi, which opened in 1936. Right in front of Odeon is a circular kiosk, home to three paan shops- Odeon Gupta Paan Palace, DN Shukla Odeon Paan and Milan Paan, with a history of their own. Almost as old as their namesake, between the three of them, the shops offer some of the quirkiest paans in Delhi.

You could have a chuski paan, the offspring of a traditional chuski and your regular paan, which will lead to immediate brain freeze. Or its elder brother, the massive flood paan, with even more crushed ice, pushed deep inside your mouth by the paanwaala.

I took the easy way out, I had it in smaller bites. :P Don’t do that though, it ruins the experience.

Chocolate paan, with huge dollops of chocolate sauce and chunks of chocolate inside!

Also on offer, strawberry, mint, rose, raat ki raani [the smell! totally similar to the flower], khus and marigold flavours. There’s also a Choko-Moko Chocolate Paan, which is not a paan with chocolate inside, but chocolate with paan inside. Only at Gupta Paan Palace.

Gundi Paan, hailing from Calcutta. A set of four small paans, for twenty rupees, they leave you with a cool sensation, post eating.

Meet Chawanni, who has been working at Milan Paan for the last forty five years. He says this is his role to play, and there’s no question of him going anywhere else.

Also nearby is Yamu’s Panchayat, [pictured way up above, go see], India’s first pan parlour. If you’re willing to shell some, on the menu is Paan Adaab, coated with real gold foil, Rs. 251 apiece.

They have a very interesting list of why paan flavoured chocolate is better than love. You can eat it shamelessly in front of your parents!

See the full list here.

#10: To Build A Home There is a house built out of stoneWooden...

vasudhawadhera — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 13:21:00 -0500

#10: To Build A Home

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don’t feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home

And I built a home
For you; for me

Until it disappeared
From me; from you

And now, it’s time to leave and turn to dust

Everyday I walk to the metro station on my way to college. In a 100 metre distance, there are 4 houses that have been razed, bungalows giving way to high rises, currently occupied by their transient creators.

To Build A Home: The Cinematic Orchestra

#9

vasudhawadhera — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 14:13:00 -0500

On a Sunday winter evening at Hauz Khas, I accidentally walked into a Delhi Drum Circles jam at the Deer Park. I’ve wanted to attend one for the longest time possible and plans have never worked out, so it turned out to be quite a pleasant accident.

Drum circles are community gatherings where people from all walks of life come together to play hand-drums in a casual, community-orientated and safe environment. The Delhi Drum Circle jams together every week at the Deer Park, usually Sunday afternoons, and everyone’s invited. Percussionists, playing djembes, tablas, daflis, even tambourines come together. There’s a sprinkling of other instruments too: I saw a manjeera and harmonica as well. And then those who dance, free spirited, inviting others to join in the cheer.

It’s like a community outpouring of happiness, music and goodwill. Go for a jam. You’ll find yourself swaying to the rhythm, smiling, clapping along and probably even deciding to join in soon. Do go.

The next jam is on the 7th of January at the Deer Park at 3 30PM.

[Most information in the post is from the Delhi Drum Circles facebook page]

#8

vasudhawadhera — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 07:51:00 -0500

Ghevra, located near the North West border of Delhi, is home to 10,000 families. 10,000 families that lived in slums across Delhi, from Pragati Maidan to Laxmi Nagar to Khan Market, as recently as 2006. But as all good things call for sacrifices, so did the Commonwealth Games. To make way for the Games’ infrastructure, these slums were razed, the families uprooted and shifted to Ghevra, with the lure of a better life.

There’s electricity round the clock and schools are nearby. But the jobs that fed the house are still where they once lived. Most of the residents worked as domestic help or drivers at their nearby colonies. The braver ones still do. They take the sole morning train from Ghevra at 4AM, coming back home at 7 30PM. For some of the kids who were in school, their shift to the government school at Ghevra is yet to take place. The same routine follows.

The houses measure 12 to 18 square feet. With entire families pushed into that space, cooking, bathing and studying occur outside on the streets.

Most dwellers have lost hope that the government will pay much attention to their needs or that there is any weight in dreaming of a better tomorrow. As a result, about half are jobless, without any inclination to find work. The richest man in the settlement owns an alcohol shop.

There are some who’re trying. They work as daily wage labourers nearby, or as help in the surrounding farmlands. “Jinka khush hona hota hai woh khush rehte hai, jinhe dukh se matlab hai woh dukhi.” Those who want happiness stay happy, those who don’t, wallow in grief. She set up a small snacks shop with her husband, and also found work at the local school, supplying their meals.

Some say it’s for the better, and with the increasing growth in suburbs, jobs will be aplenty here. But for now there are none. And with no money in their pockets, having electricity and a school doesn’t provide much comfort.

#7

vasudhawadhera — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 11:11:00 -0500

Once a week, in most Delhi localities, a street bazaar is set up. The market is a frenzied hub of activity, which runs late into the evening. The day varies from place to place, but the goods are similar-clothes, jewellery, glassware, utensils, spices, chhole bhature and jalebi stalls. :D

This week’s market near my locality saw a new entrant though:

The Man Selling Permanent Bubbles

These were bubbles quite like soap bubbles in appearance, except that they were made from a gooey, thicker solution, and had to be pulled off the blowing tube and sealed off. He would loudly advertise these awesome bubbles, gather a crowd and demonstrate, while everyone watched, rapt.

10 rupees for a small tube enough for 20 bubbles.

Also,

Pastries!

Around

#6

vasudhawadhera — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 05:28:00 -0500

The Making of a Diwali Mehendi

So, here is the backstory. As a kid, I would fiddle with mehendi cones that would sometimes come free with things, or I would cajole my mum to buy. They would go waste, resulting in some squiggles on newspapers, on bits of paper, on the floor and sometimes, by mistake, on hands. I even bought a mehendi designing guide, but all I did was look at it.

This Diwali, as part of the hamper sent in by my mum’s sister, was this little mehendi cone:

At once, unfinished plans of yore came to mind.I had to, HAD to put to use.

So the second step? Finding a suitable target with suitably low standards for mehendi excellence. Enter five year old cousin.

Step three, sitting with the cousin and brainstorming over a potential design. After much thought and brilliance, we came up with the path breaking Mickey Mouse Mehendi Design:

Step four, the excruciating wait for the mehendi to dry.

A quick tour of the local Diwali market while we were at it:

…and we’re back to work.Scrape it off, don’t let water touch it [why?] and AAAAAH!

The kid was happy. She made do the other hand and the back of both as well. Happy Diwali, everyone. :)

#5

vasudhawadhera — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 12:56:00 -0400

Love at the New Delhi Railway Station

Psst, is it me or is the Rs.-99-novel-genre really annoying?

#4

vasudhawadhera — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 06:49:00 -0400

Going Home

Sweaty hands stuck to a glass door.
Palms pressed against the steadily mistyifying and demystifying canvas.
Eyes that cringe to avoid the yellow glare, and in a blink, open to soak in wonder.
A gasp, and an intake.

“Yeh darwaaze apne aap kyun khul rahe hai? Hum raat hone se PEHLE pahuch jayenge?”

Then the doors slide shut, and Papa gently pushes her open jaw upward.
And the Metro races ahead, only to be engulfed by another hollow serpentine station.

[from the old blog]

#3

vasudhawadhera — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 11:49:00 -0400

Lodhi Garden, peace in Delhi at 6AM.

You watch the army of joggers swift past. Track suits. Salwar kameezes with chunnis tied at the side. Sweaty undershirts and shorts. Some walk their dogs, some walk their walkers. The expanse offers conversation, company and solitude.

A woman in her mid fifties looks expectantly at our band of camera wielding commandos. She has been sitting for a while now, eyes on the lake lazing out in front of us. I take a seat on the stone staircase by her side. “Bahut achha lagta hai. Sab hai yahan. Subah subah aana ki mazaa hi aur hai. Tumne yahaan fuvaare dekhe? Abhi band hai kya? Main dikhaaon?” Oh no need, no..Thank you. They’re just by the side we walked past. Does she come here often? “Main GK main rehti hoon. Itna paas nahi hai waise. Par jab mann kara bus pe chadh jaati hoon aur aa jaati hoon!”, she smiles.

#2

vasudhawadhera — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 15:12:00 -0400

3 kids walk down with their mother, after school.

“Tum paise kaise laogi, Mummy?”

Incoherent.

“Tum naukri karogi, Mummy?!”

“Sachi?!”

Keeps walking, resilient.

“Main bada hokar sarkari naukri karoonga, Mummy.”

Smiles.

#1

vasudhawadhera — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 13:50:00 -0400

A being enters the narrow winding lane and transforms into an oasis. Nudge-nudge-push-shove, and the hawkers try to peddle you all they can: beads, boxes, ittar and incense sticks. The more pious looking ones are offered chaadars to be draped at the dargah. Through glitter, grime and tiny portals, the oasis reaches the main gate.

Guarded by a wall of white, the main dargah hall is a square structure around which the entire enclosure is designed. The white holds fort, broken by a patterned lattice that lets light and life seep through. The oasis gazes at the new expanse and finds a corner to blend into- hard, among the faithful poring over their holy books.

To the right are two brothers, entangled in a playful scamper, with hands and feet trying to make contact. One, in borrowed royalty and a brown sherwani, is about two. The other, more successful one looks to be around six. The younger one contemplates a run up from the opposite direction to finally be one up. Pulls up his shiny blue trousers and dawdles full steam ahead- only to end up flailing on the marble. His fall breaks the reverie of a man in prayer who hastens to get his nirvana back. The mother notices the hullaballoo and picks him for a feed. The brother, who up till now had a smug grin etched on his face, looks crest fallen. He trudges back to the father, who sits leaning against the iron fence separating one compound from the other.

The backdrop to this is provided by an old, rustying man sitting with a harmonium, directly facing the namaaz area’s entrance. The Caretaker of the Harmonium. His spindly fingers hold four keys on static, pumping air into the contraption whenever people come near. Directing them to sit with his voice and his machine, he continues raising his hands, timing them to the music that leaks.

To the left, a man in white seeks his manna, one green bead at a time. He sits on his haunches, with closed eyes, a string of translucent green beads in his right hand. He sits oblivious to the world, ignoring the wails of the kids and the Caretaker’s croaks.

Meanwhile, the feed is over and it’s time for rolling-the-wheel-on-the-elder-brother’s-belt. The younger one happily whirrs the wheel, his gurgling laughter animating his eyes. In the compound housing the studious word readers, there is one at least at peace.

The croaks are replaced by a discernable tune and the Caretaker jaggedly makes way for the old harmonium player, clothed in shimmering green. To strains that sound like Chhap Tilak, a man on the roof far left brooms fallen leaves to the floor. In gusts of gold dust, the yellowed leaves fall to the floor, creating an iridescent cloud that rises upward and then dissipates.

Right in front, a man sits cloaked by a dirty black screen with a flame atop its black counter. A wrought iron candelabra next to him holds lit incense sticks. Families come clutching bunches of agarbattis which he lights and they then place them on one of the black branches.

A round of the square structure in the centre takes one around men and women in prayer, reading from copies of holy books stacked against the side of the structure, each enclosed in satin. At each corner wall, a round black and white clock shows the time. All except for one, that has no more time left to tell.

Tiny exits lead to peddlers selling books and trinkets. In a hidden corner, a man with a pointy skullcap asks for alms. Rose petals lie strewn on the marble floor. One exit takes you to the mausoleum of probably a discipline of the main saint in whose honour the dargah has been built. A young qawwal sings praises, often rising on his knees with the song’s force. A man with a fraying leather waterbag offers water to tourists carrying heavy cameras, who shuffle enthusiastically ahead in their olive and cream shorts.

A retreating turn and the piercing glare of an eerily fat white cat meets, singling you out yet again. A hasty walk forward; scouring the pile of shoes at a nearby shop for yours; briskly passing through the tunnelled exit; past musty green staircases tucked in the dark; past meat-shops pouring forth their stench; past wrinkled faces asking for pity; onto the busy street, with its cars and harried pedestrians and cyclists and strangers who push you forward. The oasis lives no more.

[from an observational exercise conducted by my college’s photography society at the Nizamuddin Dargah]