|
Encountering Delhi: To capture a city, frame by frame
Three decades of photographing delhi in varied colours, with complete strangers and changing lenses
Seeme Qasim
New Delhi
 |
|
Illustration: Sanjoy Naorem |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
I STARTED photographing Delhi 30 years ago. I lived then on Pandara road, in the centre of town. Life was laidback and the traffic straggly. I used to walk to India Gate, past the Children’s Park taking pictures of whatever caught my eye with an old Rolleiflex camera. India Gate was dotted with pedestrians, tourists and balloon vendors. They would gather near the snake charmers — who opened their bamboo baskets with a flourish — to watch the cobras slithering out, swaying to the sound of pipes being played. Around on the lawns people sat leisurely near dripping fountains.
Then there were shoots in the Qutab area, in sprawling Tughlakabad, invaded by monkeys who swung peering from trees and rocks. The imposing 14th century fortress of Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq is located at a height. His tomb along with his wife and son are also here. There were other places too explored with friends — isolated, beautiful and unknown — which we suddenly discovered as I swerved my car off the main road on to bumpy paths, photographing the moment. Now, decades later everyone in the pictures looks so much younger. And those places now overtaken by the city stand in lost time.
Much later I spent months documenting the city with a 35-mm SLR camera. There was the roadside flower mandi which I came upon while descending the Safdarjung flyover quite early in the morning. There were gardens in winter with men in wheelchairs appreciating my efforts. I clicked farmers doing brisk business on the dry Yamuna riverbed selling gleaming brinjals, cabbages, pumpkins and other wares. Ahead in the distance was the expanse of brown grass and a train passing by over a long bridge.
I felt protected by my camera, meeting the city this way — outside in the sun, away from offices, keyboards and solitary rooms. Whenever I shot in crowded places, the equation between me and the world would change. Strangers keenly observed what I was framing, asking questions, informing me about other places and people I should visit. Photographing the city totally engrossed me and I usually came back feeling I’d had the most amazing day.
|
I felt protected by my camera, meeting the city this way, outside in the sun, away from offices |
|
With modern sophisticated technology, photography grew simple and even film became redundant. My cell phone was usually with me and I could immediately capture on its camera whatever I fancied — a lone tree at night casting shadows, partly lit by a street lamp, dahlias blooming in flower-beds, drizzle piercing a green pond.
It’s Shab-e-barat, the night of forgiveness and the Basti masjid (from 1488 AD) opposite my house is full of people praying all night for the souls of the dead. Even as I take pictures, I draw parallels, recalling similar nights I’ve observed here for the past twenty years. They had the same festive atmosphere on the road outside where people buy caps, attar, ice-cream and platefuls of biryani from the makeshift shops watched by a group of cops, while the silhouetted Jawarharlal Nehru Stadium provides a vibrant backdrop.
I went to Connaught Place last week searching for Anil Book Corner, the old second-hand bookshop. Near Plaza cinema, I see it in its wall alcove with dusty books piled up untidily. It wears a washed-out look now, very different from the slide I have. There are trolleys, cranes and grime heaped around. A man there tells me as we stand near the dugout portions, “They are laying underground pipes and cables for water, electricity and sewerage.” It’s tough to park here and despite the disarray, people browse through books. I record all this near Maghreb restaurant.
Sometimes images border on the fantastical. I recall my mother’s coronary angiography in a city hospital. Later on screen, I saw the parts darkened by a dye around her pumping heart, displaying blood vessels and arteries. I was stuck by the strange beauty within. Its denseness reminded me of stills I had once taken in the Ridge forest.
I caught on camera some of the famous American photographer Margaret Bourke White’s Partition pictures on the walls of trendy Khan Market — commemorating a reissue (2006) of Khushwant Singh’s famous novel, Train to Pakistan published 50 years ago. The black and white photos seared in their portrayal of the brutal ghastliness of that time. Some of them were used in the new edition. I noticed that hardly anyone stopped by to even glance curiously at them there.
It’s late evening and I hear an American accent in the garden. The man appears to be vigorously trailing two elderly gentlemen. I also see him running over a bridge aiming his camera as they pass below. Later, I see him at it again, trying to compose other frames. I want to tell him that often photos should just happen of swaying tree-tops or panoramic grey skies that give an impression of the sea in the distance, even in arid Delhi. Or like those times when I want to let it all remain in the consciousness — much bloodied, alive — because I know the most memorable pictures are those I’ll never shoot.
fwletters@gmail.com
|
