Photography: Tasveer ~ Collecting fragments of captive time

Abhishek Poddar at Tasveer

(Written in 2006)

DOES the Indian market recognise photography as an art form? The opening of Tasveer ~ a four-city gallery dedicated to photography ~ takes a wide-angle look at future prospects.

Launched in October 2006, Tasveer links Mumbai, New Delhi, Kolkata and Bangalore through a network of gallerists committed to showcasing the work of contemporary Indian photographers. Its mission statement is clear: “To encourage the buying and selling of photographs, of tasveers, as collector’s items, as art, as fragments of ‘captive’ time, of memory. To be cherished. Shared with others. Revisited ~ both privately and publicly, again and again.”

This ambitious venture opens against the backdrop of an Indian contemporary art market that often sweeps media headlines. Such as when the Swarup Group bought 125 of M.F. Husain’s work for Rs. 100 crore in 2004. Or when Tyeb Mehta’s ‘Gesture’ sold for Rs. 31 million at a December 2005 Osian’s auction in Mumbai.

In the international market, photography has long been part of the art mainstream. For instance, French master Henri Cartier-Bresson’s 11 x 14 in. prints sell for over $12,500. Prices for LIFE magazine stalwart Alfred Eisenstaedt’s signed prints are sky-high, while Andreas Feininger’s ‘Route 66’ prints have shot up from $10,000 to 35,000 within two years. A Margaret Bourke-White print could touch $21,000. A rare Ansel Adams ‘Moonrise’ print sold for $609,600 in October 2006.

Where does Tasveer fit into this overview? Its opening season from October 2006 to July 2007 has six photographers in focus: Raghu Rai, Shahid Datawala, Ryan Paul Lobo, Fawzan Husain, Saibal Das and Annu Mathew. While some of their work has been celebrated as photojournalism, is the market ready for prints in limited editions of between seven and 15, priced from Rs. 15,000 to 1 lakh, within a form where replication is the norm?

Bangalore-based Abhishek Poddar, art collector and co-initiator of the 1999-launched Cinnamon lifestyle store, is one of the brains behind Tasveer. The store, challenging traditional galleries, exhibited photography by Ketaki Sheth,  Navroze Contractor, Dayanita Singh and Naveen Kishore, though these expositions did not pan out commercially.  

Cues to Poddar’s passion for photography crop up throughout his stunning office space. His walls share images by Dayanita, Ketaki, T.S. Nagarajan, and Pamela Singh. En route to his personal workspace, you come across celebrated Canadian Yousuf Karsh’s unforgettable portraits of Winston Churchill, Nehru, Ernest Hemingway, even cellist Pablo Casals.  

What do each of the gallerists bring to Tasveer? Poddar took to collecting photography seriously about four years ago when, entranced by Dayanita’s work, he sponsored a project she was keen on. Later, when Poddar bought one of her prints, she exclaimed, “You’re the first Indian who’s ever bought my work.”  He adds, “I actually became unpopular in art circles at that time because I began taking down paintings in my house, putting up photographs instead.”

While co-gallerists Vivek and Shalini Gupta of New Delhi are dedicated collectors, Kolkata-based Kishore of the Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre has been a brilliant photographer for over 35 years. In Mumbai, Matthieu Foss and Ader Gandi will expand Tasveer’s reach through displays at the National Centre for the Performing Arts.

Signals from abroad show that Indian photography may be on a roll. Dayanita’s images have been exhibited in New York, Prabuddha Das Gupta’s in Italy, Bharat Sikka’s in Paris.

Poddar muses, “There’s some amazing work happening in India. So, I felt it’s time somebody started showing photography seriously.”

Kishore seconds that over email, “We started Tasveer with the instinct, even the hope, that this is the time to begin showing these images. The market will gradually respond. People will need to see much more over a sustained period of time before deciding that this too is ‘buyable.’ It will be a slow process, but one we are committed to. I’d say: give it ten years.”

Can Tasveer be a viable commercial proposition? Perhaps. Considering that the opening shows of  Rai’s ‘Rocks, Clouds and Nudes’ at Bangalore and New Delhi sold over 22 prints, while Datawala’s dramatic black-and-white photographs of old cinema halls seething with cultural resonances have already found 20-plus buyers in Mumbai.

More drama waits in the wings: US-based Annu Mathew’s explorations of the Indian ‘other,’ Saibal Das’s ‘Circus Life,’ Fawzan Husain’s tongue-in-cheek Bollywood, and Ryan Paul Lobo’s individualistic wedding images.

What’s Tasveer’s USP? Impeccable gallery presentations. Large-format catalogues, each with an in-depth artist interview. Dialogues with the photographer. Intelligence on how to care for vintage prints, investment potential, the import of an edition. Perhaps future engagements with images from the Lala Deen Dayal era or the Lafayette studio, even extending to video works or photographs with challenging  interventions.

Poddar explains, “Traditional art has become crazily unaffordable today. Perhaps people might shift their gaze to photography, another form of art. The best of Indian photography is still very affordable, compared to overseas prices. What we’re showing differs from the usual street urchins or village India or the Banaras ghats.”

He adds, “According to Forbes and Fortune, the photography market has recently gained more ground than the traditional arts.”

What criteria should guide a collector of this long-undervalued art? “You should buy it because you can’t live without it. Aesthetic appreciation is the only criterion I’d advocate,” Poddar says. “We’re looking at people coming for every show, buying an odd picture every now and then. As a community, this needs to grow, instead of having just five big buyers for photography.”

Within a larger framework, Tasveer promises in-depth documention and a digital archive through its galleries and future website. It also aims to help individuals, museums and corporate bodies to invest in photography and build up collections.

Will Tasveer’s act of faith redefine Indian photography by making it commercially viable for practitioners? Will it lead to a collective opening of the Indian eye? Will this gentle zoom lead to a market boom? No instamatic answers can possibly suffice.

(Tasveer can be reached at: Mumbai - 93249-16509)/ New Delhi - 26830629/ Kolkata 24556942/ Bangalore – 22128190)

(The Week, 2006)

Theatre: Letters from Tentland

(Originally written in 2007)

WHO are you?

WHERE have you come from?

WHERE is your home?

ARE  you going back?

A grey mother tent, on the bare Ranga Shankara stage at Bangalore, gives birth to six others, amidst swirling questions about individual identity.Each tent with a view pulses to life. They spin, twirl, collide, crawl, to choreograph our worst fears about our globalized world. About dislocation. About territorial strife. About nationhood, exile, longing and belonging. In an hour, each of us are in the thick of an identity crisis, provoked by ‘Return to Sender — Letters from Tentland,’ a dance theatre production by brilliant German director-choreographer Helena Waldmann, staged on September 7, 2007.

Six young Berlin-based actresses of Iranian origin are the cloaked faces of this extraordinary journey between continents and cultures. The tent as a metaphor for our times provokes images from our collective memory. Of itinerant labourers in Bangalore. Of Palestine. Of strife-torn Aghanistan. Or even Sri Lanka. And we acknowledge that this production, under auspices of the Goethe-Institut/Max Mueller Bhavan, redefines political, avant-garde theatre as a revitalizing force, as it is staged en route from Kabul and New Delhi to Colombo.

Theatrically, the narrative takes precedence over experimentation, however unfashionable within the contemporary artistic context. Postcards from nowhere yoke Berlin with Teheran, then pit skyscrapers against interior landscapes, the exiled against imaginary homelands, governments against the individual. Projections on a foregrounded screen send affirmative correspondence to six Iranian actresses in Teheran, from Waldmann and her cast, signed off with “love from H.”

Who are these shadowy women, whose absence permeates the performance? They are the lifeblood of this show’s precursor, titled “Letters from Tentland,” a poignant commentary about womanhood in Iran, the offspring of a 2004 Waldmann workshop with Iranian actresses/ dancers in Teheran. The tensile creation premiered at  Teheran’s International Fadjr Theatre Festival, touring 17 countries over 16 months, before Iran banned it in 2005.  The show exploited loopholes to edge past the censors, for a solo woman could sing for a mere 20 seconds, and even a phantom was forbidden to dance. But monologues, slides, and projected letters proved perfect ploys.

Interviewed in Bangalore on September 6, Waldmann recalls her inspiring encounters with the feisty Iranian actresses, who couched their angst about their lives, both personal and political, as letters to her.  For instance, ‘Director, what are you doing to us? You change the rules every other day!’

She backtracks to their first workshop: “I asked them to look out of a window, then write a letter to Teheran. One wrote: ‘Please God, come back from holiday.’ They are totally lost. No one cares about their plight. They need help.”

The 2005 ban upset Waldmann. She stresses, “As an artist, I felt that I couldn’t just do another piece as if nothing happened. I asked the actresses from Berlin to watch ‘Letters from Tentland’ and somehow overwrite it.” The title of the original, slashed in the poster of the Bangalore show, traces that parallel trajectory.

The Berlin actresses drew on their own experiences, their dual identities, their constant search for a home. Within light tents once used by their Teheran predecessors, their metaphorical mobility suggests both home and the world. Their fears, their dreams, their plea for tolerance, imbue the moving tents, in wordless communication as in passionate encounters. Each layered resonance instigates another heart-rending quest, as their missives to Teheran bounce back, marked ‘Return to Sender.’

Waldmann’s sharing is profoundly moving: “In Palestine and Afghanistan, they saw ‘Return to Sender’ not as art, but as part of their lives. They wonder: how can a country like Germany create a piece that seems to be a warfield? The tents tell them it’s not about rich people or the lucky ones. In Kabul or Ramallah, it was important for them to see that others also have a hard life, even in Germany. You cannot imagine what it means to have men sitting in the audience, crying.”

How do the participants, equally fluent in Farsi and German, feel about the transformative experience, which has already toured 10 countries, including Kenya and Serbia-Montenegro? “We are Iranian in our language, food, music and customs. But German is our mother tongue, Berlin our home city,” responds Sanam Afrashteh, cosy on a sofa at their Bangalore hotel. “Where do I locate myself? Does this have to be geographically defined?”  

 Niloufar Shahisavandi adds, “I pick up what I like from both cultures, to create my own somehow. That’s the only way I can handle this situation.”

Signalling the lack of a red carpet for refugees in the first world, a tearful Javeh Asefdjah sighs, “For me, Berlin is nice. It wasn’t so for my parents. My mother now lives in Teheran. It was tough for her to be in a new country with no language, no job, no friends. Yet people ask me: ‘How can she live with the hijab? Doesn’t she want to be free?’ Each of us have stories like this.”

How tough is it to identify an identity? Pujeh Taghdisi, who came to Germany at eight, revisited Teheran, only to discover, “I went back to the streets of my childhood, to a bakery to buy bread. The man there asked, ‘You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?’ It’s hard to accept. But yes, I am.”

How relative is freedom? How real is fear? Beyond news bulletins, they investigate blood, sweat and real courage. Pujeh says, “In Kabul, during the post-show interaction, when we invite either the men or the women backstage, we were all crying. We met strong, fiery girls of 15 or 16, who had set up their own theatre groups, fighting for open spaces for the next generation. One girl had come to Kabul from Herat. She knew that, when she returned, her family wouldn’t accept her any more. But she took the risk.”

Salome Dastmalchi, the only trouper unafraid of the Kabul visit, took courage from a 1995 family holiday in strife-torn Israel. She recalls, “In Afghanistan, the women hug you, give you so much love. You learn how to care about people.”

“We’re also discovering that if you have a place inside you that you call home, then you don’t need to have a country that you belong to, or a nationality that binds you. You can be strong and say: wherever I am, is home,” concludes Sanam, whose father returned to Iran for two weeks to stay on for 16 years. Perhaps that is the vital clue to global citizenry or, in the words of an onstage monologue, to these ‘passport photographs from nowhere.’ 

 (The Week, 2007)

Pranic Healing: Grand Master Choa Kok Sui

What is prana? Why does this universal life force or bio-energy attract thousands who believe in its power to heal? 

Its potent call was evident in the 2,250-strong, pan-Indian attendance during Philippines-born Grand Master Choa Kok Sui's 54th birthday celebration at Bangalore's Christ College auditorium on August 15, 2006. The founder of Modern Pranic Healing and Arthatic Yoga spent Independence Day interfacing with practitioners during an unusual third Indian visit this year.

The gathering included practitioners from among 90,000-plus Indian pranic healers, including 12,000 based in Karnataka alone. The attendees were drawn from 16 healing foundations across Karnataka, Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, West Bengal, Uttar Pradesh, Gujarat and Delhi. That's besides international participants from Australia, Canada, Dubai, France, Italy, the Philippines and Sri Lanka. Master Choa's discourses drew a significant IT and BPO presence.

On August 16, over 520 pan-Indian pranic healers met him at Bangalore. At Kolkata, close to 1,000 people attended Master Choa's meeting on August 21.

The spiritual guru, whose 19 books, translated into 72 languages, have been published in 72 countries, is a big draw. He has been an annual visitor to India since 1991, when he taught an initial course at Kottayam. 

This year, he also led the 7th World Pranic Healers' Convention at Mumbai from May 12 to 14. Today, Bangalore's M.S. Ramaiah Hospital has a Department of Pranic Healing, while the Apollo Speciality Hospitals in Chennai and Kolkata have pranic healing clinics.

No-touch system

To the uninitiated, what is pranic healing? It is an ancient no-touch system that uses the activated energy chakras in the human palm, known as chi in acupuncture, ruah  or breath of life in the Old Testament, to self-repair the body. How? By revitalising the life force in the affected being or body part through its aura or electromagnetic field. An effective practitioner is re-energised while healing others.

Some facts seem significant. That pranic healing is intended to complement, not replace, allopathy. That healers are not medical doctors, but doctors can practice healing. That healers should not interfere with prescribed medications or treatments. Among participants at Bangalore, Kombli Rajagopal, 67, is managing director of the Planetary Peace Movement, which she co-founded with the guru in 1999. She teaches one of his popular works on meditation at Bangalore schools like Bishop Cotton's for Girls, Innisfree, New Horizons, and others. "To me, pranic healing is about a whole way of life. About positive attitudes which regard each problem as a challenge," she says in a telecon.

Way back in 1994, hers was a different perspective. Diagnosed with a major heart condition, allopathic practitioners had given her six months to live.

But Kombli learnt pranic healing from her 18-year-old son. "Once I healed myself, it gave me great self-confidence in my ability to be self-sufficient," she adds.

Challa Srishant, 23, a Hyderabad-based coffee exporter, was another attendee. His story is as dramatic: "Between the ages of 11 and 13, my parents used to take me to a pranic healer in case of any health problem. I called him a `magic doctor' because, with a mere wave of his hands, I'd feel better. When I turned 13, my mother asked me if I wanted to learn to heal others. I agreed, in anticipation of learning magic tricks! That was my introduction to spirituality. There's been no turning back since then."

How does Master Choa regard the overview? Some answers emerge from an e-mail interview with him.

Spiritual mission

When did he first feel the call of the spiritual? "At about 12 years, I had a natural attraction to paranormal and spiritual subjects. I graduated as a chemical engineer, then partially followed my family's tradition of business. Later, I shifted focus towards my spiritual mission," he responds.

Why did the ancient practice need a new lease of life? Master Choa says, "It could only be practised by an elite few. My job was to develop a very effective healing system, which ordinary people could learn in just a short period. Anybody can practise pranic healing now. The knowledge of being able to deal with simple ailments is quite empowering."

His spiritual gurus included Lord Mahaguruji Mei Ling, and his disciple Chohan Jig Mei Ling. By degrees, Master Choa has gone on to expand consciousness in multiple ways including the current disciplines of Arthatic Yoga, Crystal Healing, Pranic Self-Defence and Superbrain Yoga.

What makes pranic healing stand apart from other alternative medical practices? "It is faster and more effective. It is non-invasive and does not require physical contact with the patient. The use of colour  pranas at the advanced levels is unique; its techniques are more scientific," he stresses.

Why do some pranic healers often experience symptoms like vomiting, tummy upsets, heavy sweating, and so on? Master Choa clarifies, "Some healers do not follow the prescribed pranic healing procedure and end up absorbing some of the negative or dirty energies from their patients, thus causing their bodies to get sick. But such healers probably constitute less than five per cent of the practitioners."

Is modern pranic healing a distillation of other existing systems such as Chinese Chi Kung, Reiki, Christian `laying on of hands,' or the Tibetan healing arts? He says, "Yes, you could say it is a synthesis of the important points from each system. Healing was an art then, not a science. Our spiritual thesis was to develop the healing art into a fully developed healing science. The preparatory work began when I was a teenager. It took more than 18 years to develop Modern Pranic Healing."

In our age of scepticism, has it been tough to find global acceptance? "The closed-mindedness of people has been a major obstacle. Where people are willing to learn new things, pranic healing was easier to teach and propagate," Master Choa states.

Does he feel our world is ready for a major shift in consciousness? Master Choa says, "Evolution is inexorable and continuous. There will be not just one but most likely several more major shifts in consciousness, over the years. Greater awareness of energy healing systems is one such sign."

Can that be the last word? Perhaps not until each of us is in touch with the healing touch of prana within.

(The Hindu Business Line, 2006)

Writing: RK Narayan ~ 'Books must be worth it'

It was in September 1988 that I had my only face-to-face encounter with Narayan. He was staying at his granddaughter’s residence in Chennai’s Thyagaraja Nagar area, where a room had been made comfortable enough for him to write in whenever he felt the urge.

On a memorable occasion, he was persuaded to take time off to autograph copies of his latest book, ‘A Writer’s Nightmare,’ at the Landmark bookstore in Nungambakkam. Through a long evening, he peered through his thick lenses, answering even the most obvious questions with good humour, occasionally sharing an impish smile as he tackled the long and winding queue of people seeking autographs at the store.

The next morning, I found Narayan relaxing in a crisp white shirt and veshti, the dhoti-like unstitched garment common in Tamil Nadu. Adjusting his hearing aid, he propped up his feet on a stool for comfort. He was in a good mood, though firmly resisting auto-analysis of his work, ever ready with off-the-cuff humour, constantly referring me to ‘My Days.’

“Do you know,” Narayan chuckled at the end of our hour-long encounter, “there’s a reviewer at the Indian Express newspaper who hates my work? He’s a brilliant man, but thinks I’m a puritan. He thinks I live in a make-believe world. He’s amazed that there’s no sex in my books. It happens to everyone, so why should I write about it? I might as well write about how we eat, about how food progresses from the mouth to the gullet…”

Narayan’s very ironic humour surfaced often during our conversation, of which I present excerpts off my tape-recorder to evoke a flavour of the man as he was in real life:

Did you find the going uphill when you decided to take up writing?

Terribly. Absolutely. It was all frustration and struggle for more than 15 years. But how could I know it was going to be difficult until I experienced it? (Pausing) Have I wanted to change professions midway? No, no, no.

In today’s competitive world, is writing a viable profession?

Not for everybody. Somehow, I have survived. In our days, there was more scope for reading, creative work, expression. Not in these days.

What do you see as the basic tools of a writer?

Well, keen observation and competence to phrase what you see. There must be pleasure in mere observation of people and things. I don’t mean deliberate observation, not taking notes. It is an instinct, not a conscious process. That’s important. And, if you have the language, you can write about it.

Do you work very hard at polishing your writing skills?

Always. I always do three or four rewrites, during which I throw out a great deal. There’s no such thing as inspiration gushing forth to become a book.

Have editors shaped your work much?

Not much. Only they have queries or doubts cleared. There may be slips which occur. I may not be very consistent with certain details, you know. They’ll point these out.

What, to you, is a writer’s social function?

Well, to provide books for reading (prolonged laughter). So that everybody’ll want to read, instead of gazing into space or watching television. But the books must be worth it. Not everything that is bound and written is a book. The reader must be captured. It depends on one’s style and material. You really can’t analyse it too much.

Have any writers captured you thus?

Well, I can’t think of many. Technically, I used to like Kipling. More recently, Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene. They have a sureness that attracts me.

Does your writing have much to do with memories?

Probably, I don’t know. But the whole business of writing is unconscious, even subconscious. Intuitive, not intellectual. Cerebral writing may be necessary, but not in a story. You get an almost organic substance in a story that is all subconscious. If one intellectualizes it, it turns into a formula. It is impossible to teach someone to write a play or a novel.

Have you read much Indian writing in English?

(Pausing to consider) No…

Do you feel that standards of English usage in India are falling?

Yes, the standard of English has gone down. As you probably notice, it is impossible to get around with English in places like Delhi. All over the country, there seems to have been a deliberate lowering of standards. The tussle over national languages has destroyed our zest for English. I sometimes receive letters which are ridiculous, you know. God knows what language they are written in!

Have you ever written in an Indian language?

No, though I do read Tamil. Is that a handicap? I’ve never felt it. I’ve never thought of it.

Are your characters, including Swami, autobiographical?

Yes, somewhat. In fact, all my books are autobiographical to some extent. I don’t take notes or keep a journal, but my writing goes on. Everything is stored in a retrieval system (tapping his forehead with a smile). I’m not a methodical man. Once I’ve written something, I forget what I’ve written.

Would you consider Swami an Indian parallel to Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn?

It might be so because all children are the same. In childhood, there is universality, no distinction between an African child and an Indian child. Children have the same instincts, the same intuition, the same charm. Variations enter as childhood lapses and one gets into an advanced age.

We love the characters in your books for their foibles their whimsicality. Are these typical of Indian life?

Almost all. I don’t know any other life. I can only write of a society which I know intimately, that is south Indian life. It probably appeals to readers anywhere in the world, even in Finland or Bulgaria, where my books are popular. A universal quality is most important.

Do your books sell well? In India or abroad?

You know, I am a publisher of my own books in India (Indian Thought Publications in Mysore). All of them keep moving all through the year. Each edition of 3,000 or 5,000 copies has to be reprinted every three or four months. I don’t know who reads them, but they keep moving (peals of laughter). See, hardcover editions and first editions sell better abroad, but paperback sales are good here… (Thoughtfully) I would myself prefer a paperback.

Do you enjoy meeting your readers?

No… because they say the same things. I don’t like to be made conscious of what I’ve written.

Does it require great discipline to be a writer?

There must be some regularity. I can’t think of any rigid formula for a writer. I don’t know of one. I carry on because I never think of it. But, when a novel is in progress, you try to write a certain quantity each day. I used to be able to write 2,000 words in a couple of hours. Now, I write more slowly.

As a writer progresses, does his writing get cleverer, but not necessarily better?

Well, it depends. There can be no generalization in this profession at all. Each writer makes his own discoveries and has his own way of communicating these.

You’ve retold ‘The Ramayana’ and ‘The Mahabharata’ in your own words. What impelled you to?

Because that was the great climate in which our culture developed. They are symbolic and philosophical. Even as mere stories, they are so good. Marvellous. I couldn’t help writing them. It was part of a writer’s
discipline.

Were you dissatisfied with the existing translations? Did the versions on TV have an impact on you?

I wasn’t much impressed by them. I don’t know Sanskrit myself, so I had a pundit read them out to me day by day. There is a literal, word for word, translation of The Ramayana, The Mahabharata, Bhagavatam, and everything by one Sen, a Bengali. Clumsy, but useful. I went through that.

There is so much in these epics, but not the stupid Ramayana you see on TV. This has trick shots, arrows flying and Hanuman leaping. I find it nauseating. It destroys all our own impressions of the language, and the characters have these heavy, portly figures (chuckling) that we can’t accept. They’ve used all Gujarati or Sindhi actors, who’ve been brought up on vanaspati.

Very relevantly, somebody asked recently, “For 14 years Rama and Lakshman were in exile in the forest, so how come they’re shown clean-shaven every day?” (Laughing) They grow their hair long alright, but at least they could have shown some shadows here (taps cheek). They look like Wiltech blade ads, no?

Were you content with the translation of your work on TV, especially the Swami series?

They’ve done a fairly good job. I’d give them 80 per cent on that. First class.

  
You’ve been to the US several times. Were you teaching there?

Well, the first time I was there on a Rockefeller travel grant. Afterwards, some universities called me to visit for three, four, six months ~ Berkeley, Michigan, Kansas… No teaching. I was just a writer in residence.

What did that involve?

Well, you just grace the campus with your presence. You must be available to faculty members and students who want to meet you (smiling), and you can attend any lecture, any assembly. Leaves you pretty free, you know.

Have these visits, in any way, affected your writing?

No, why should they? I’m myself wherever I am. I’m not so very sensitive to surroundings. I keep to myself. I’m very strong.

I thought interaction with other writers might influence you…

Not necessarily. Writers are very insular when they meet. They talk of agents and contracts and so on and so forth…

Don’t they ever talk of writing?

Rarely.

How would you judge your success as a writer ~ in terms of literary acclaim, popular adulation or monetary success?

Brilliant ~ in all three ways you have mentioned. (Eyes twinkling) But it was not always so. It took years to build up.

If you hadn’t been a writer, what would you have wanted to be?

I wanted to be an engine driver originally and, then, I thought I might join medical college when I passed out of high school…

Books: The perfect pichvai painting guru

MATERIALS, METHODS AND SYMBOLISM IN THE PICHVAI PAINTING TRADITION OF RAJASTHAN.

by Desmond Peter Lazaro. 

Mapin Publishing. 

P204. 

2005.

Hardcover.

375 colour illustrations.

Price unstated.

MOST coffee table volumes on art share a common perspective. That of a scholar, a researcher, generally an informed outsider. What sets Desmond Peter Lazaro’s book apart is the fact that this British artist and academic shares his experiences of the Rajasthan pichhvai tradition as an insider, who spent 11 years as an apprentice to his Jaipur-based guru, Bannu Ved Pal Sharma.

What does Lazaro bring to the book as a result of his experience? Wonder-tinted insights into the guru-sishya parampara, as perceived today. Unusually detailed interfaces into the creation of a pichhvai, pigment by pigment, stroke by stroke, bringing alive the feathers of each bird amidst mango foliage, the rendering of pied cows, the jeweled skirt borders, the intricate panels that often surround the main painting.

Through his eyes, we learn of the craft with a depth seldom encountered before.  We find answers to a maze of queries. How did pichhvai paintings first come into existence? What do their colours signify? What alchemical changes do the pigments undergo during their almost ritualistic preparation?

This visually-splendid book from Mapin gives the reader a new lens with which to view pichhvais. Through Lazaro, we learn that Vallabhacharya discovered an image of Srinathji atop Mount Govardhan, near Mathura. As folklore and history has it, this image, disguised as a bullock cart, moved through the desert wilderness of Agra, Kota, Kishangarh and Jodhpur in 1670, in the face of religious persecution. En route, the cart came to a halt near the river Bans, north of Udaipur. Devotees took this as an omen that it had reached the chosen site for a new temple. And thus, in 1672, Nathdwara was born.

Pichhvais or cloth paintings provide the backdrop against which the deity’s days are played out. Like stage sets, they enhance transitions though festivities, seasons and more everyday rituals. Imbued with affection inflected with reverence and understanding, Lazaro’s text takes us into the making of three contemporary pichvais ~ the Maharasa Lila, the Mount Govardhan, and a Varsha pichhvai. Through the practitioner’s route steeped in philosophy, we come face to face with the craft’s spiritual, cultural, social and livelihood levels.

Why did Lazaro choose to surrender to a guru? Joining his creative practice, he came to revere ‘Bannuji’ as the “epitome of all that is good and true within the venerated tradition.” Not just as the inheritor of a seven generations-old family practice, but also as a restorer par excellence, considered a guru of gurus by craftsmen, scholars and connoisseurs alike.

Perhaps Lazaro’s ultimate summing up of his guru is best delineated thus: “Through a style that liberated rather than stifled his artistic sensibility, he played with convention, borrowing from, amongst others, the Basohli, Kishangarh and Jaipur schools, creating a personal vision, but always remaining true to the art of the line… In his last works, the Baramasa series, the twelve seasons of Krishna, we see a culmination of a life’s work, a master who had traveled through each school, distilling the very essence of the tradition. In doing so, he set the contemporary standard.”

Through him, Lazaro realizes that “synthetic colours separate the method from the material, whereas with mineral colours the method is born of the material.” That explains pages brimming over with details of how gold leaf is utilized or the extraction of ultramarine pigment from lapis lazuli. Or why the blue of Krishna represents his celestial being, while his yellow raiment denotes the earth. Or the subtle shades of difference that demarcate the use of nine white pigments.

His extensive delineation of visage and dress details is fascinating, leading the reader inwards as flowers blossom on trees, while ornate replicas take root on draped garments. We learn how the direction of each brush stroke, like the very composition of a brush, could make or mar a pichhvai. So could the burnishing of each area to transform dense pigment into luminous hues.

Lazaro does justice to this brilliantly-etched ethereal world, and much more. We owe him our gratitude for ensuring the continuity of the pichhvai tradition with both sensitivity and intelligence, by blurring the artificial divide between the scholar and the practitioner. His is a giant leap inwards that transforms the reader into a confidante with a grace that stems from knowledge. An insider’s edge that makes this volume infinitely precious. 

  

(The Hindu Literary Review, 2005)

Travel: Mawlynnong ~ the cleanest village in Asia

Walkway to the sitout at the guesthouse

MAWLYNNONG is just another name on our three-state Northeast India tour itinerary when we arrive in there in March 2010. Krittika, Markus and Christopher are from Berlin, while I’m Bangalorean. GypsyFeet Travels has sent us a brilliant guide ~ the witty, knowledgeable young scholar, Mirza Zulfiqur Rehman.

The stars are out in a dazzling, welcome sky when we arrive at Mawlynnong in the East Khasi Hills, about 90 km from Shillong. That’s after a three hour drive in a Toyota Innova through the scenic, winding hill roads of Meghalaya (‘abode of the clouds’). Our road-weariness vanishes as we looked up in disbelief. In our smogged-over, polluted cities, we have almost forgotten how seductive, how sensual, the night can be.

Mirza: a view through the bamboo

We trail Mirza down a long, narrow path. It leads to the community guesthouse on stilts, made of local material ~ a thatched roof, cosy rooms with mosquito-netted beds toppd with checked blankets. Beyond a bamboo walkway, we reach sit-out overlooking rocks below. We hear gushing water.

Where is the river? Or is it a mountain stream? The stars cannot quite spotlight the source. Mysteriously, this makes the play of water and wind seem even more musical to our ears. On a second soundtrack, unidentifiable creatures whistle, tweet and sing in the night air.

It is mid-March. But we city-dwellers wrap ourselves in extra fleece jackets, socks and even gloves, much to the mirth of Mirza and our local Khasi guide, the ever-smiling Henry, both in flimsy cotton T-shirts. We are soon warm enough to tuck into a feast cooked by Monthila ~ Henry’s sister ~ in the cottage next door: hot pulao, dal, chicken, and more. 

We sleep easy until dawn breaks at 5.15 a.m. over Mawlynnong, which is hailing distance from the plains of Bangladesh.

We wake up to a different village. Or so it seems at daybreak. Toothbrush in hand, we look out at neat, zigzag tarred pathways, with cane garbage baskets every few metres. Not a sweet wrapper mars the impeccable flower beds; not a cow wanders the streets. No men or women hawk phlegm by the roadside or squat for a loo break by the hedges. Every house in Mawlynnong has its own toilet.

Dressed for dinner!

A clean, green village pathway

    Its roads are swept clean at least seven times daily, partly by paid cleaners, but often by village volunteers. The local council or darbar fines anyone who litters the village or dares to cut trees. Even children at primary school are taught to keep their surroundings clean and green.

Though the fine could be just Rs. 50 (US$ 1), those fined are too embarrassed to repeat the offence. They behave better to ‘save face’ among their Mawlynnong peers.

What else does the darbar do? It inspects the sanitation facilities in each home. It even organizes workshops about global warming.

The local Khasi tribals are known to be nature-worshippers. They feel no one should be allowed to take from nature without ensuring that the forest cover remains intact. Naturally enough, the villagers take care of the sacred community forests in the vicinity.   Naturally-hollowed local rock formations encourage rain-water harvesting.   

Are we still in India, we wonder. Apparently so. For this Meghalaya hamlet was declared the cleanest village in India in 2003, and the cleanest in Asia in 2005, by Discover India magazine.

What makes this possible, an unimaginable feat in waste-cluttered India? Some facts spring into relief as we listen in to local stories. All the 82 families (or 500-odd people) in scenic Mawlynnong are literate. These church-goers are determined to be in charge of their own lives, no matter the shape of India beyond their space.

Graceful Monthila: a superb cook, and lovely hostess

Or could it be because Meghalaya is a matrilineal society, where property is handed down by a female line of succession, through the youngest daughter? Does woman power dictate common sense and better cleanliness levels?

And so, whether a villager is the elected head of the local darbar or a toddler en route to school, they are groomed to pick up all litter and dispose of it sensibly. All plastics are banned from Mawlynnong. So is smoking. Biodegradable waste is tossed into a pit, where it turns into compost or manure. Villagers are not allowed to use detergents in the village streams ~ and are fined if they do so.

*         *       *

WE climb up the Sky View, the highest point in Mawlynnong, constructed entirely by local villagers. Once local schoolteacher Rishot Khongthohrem’s concept was realized, visitors and residents alike are offered an unforgettable experience. Bamboo steps and mini-ladders crisscross through five trees, gently gaining height until we are about 18.28 metres high. In the tallest tree in the forest is a machan-like viewing platform. All conversation stops. We have no words for the emotion that we feel.

Comfortably perched, we look at the clouds floating by. We peer down at treetops. We tune in to the whistling wind in our ears. Through the dense foliage of Meghalaya’s forests, we look out over the plains of Bangladesh on a clear morning.

Krittika climbs up the steps to Sky View

Once on terra-firma again, we wander around the village. Shiny-eyed, rosy-cheeked children wave at us. Some tug at our sleeves, signal that we must wait a minute. They run home ~ to return with a bunch of red tamol or betel nut, their precious local gift to us. We have nothing at hand to give them. Do they need books to write in? Or pencils to write with? Yes, yes, they nod, their pigtails flying. 

Our new friends at Mawlynnong

 

We find some at a tiny store made of kerosene drums hammered flat. Its stocks include boiled sweets, matchboxes, erasers, onions. Our return gifts? Unforgettable smiles.

All around, our eyes rested on Birds of Paradise, pitcher palms, and other greenery. For, to the inhabitants of Mawlynnong, greenery is life.

*        *        *

HENRY and Mirza alike insist that we should check out the wonders around Mawlynnong. As we hover around the Innova, a soft-spoken, mild man stops to chat with us. He is Reverend Lumlang Khongthohrem, the local pastor. He invites us to attend the evening Khasi service at their century-old church. Should we?    

Off we drive. We first stop by a huge rock that balances perfectly at an absurd angle on a smaller rock. We try to push it, shoulders to its base. Heave- ho! It does not move a millimeter. No clue why, though.

Next stop? Near a thick clump of trees. Follow me, says Henry. We do, in single file. We pass through settlements, where children slide down stacks of hay, giggling and chasing each other. We smile at village elders, who offer us wild berries. 

A living root bridge

The others are way ahead of me. I run to catch up. Down fern-edged narrow forest paths we plod. We push our way through brambles and tangled branches. We steady ourselves, clutching at slippery rocks.

We remember that Meghalaya is probably the rainiest place on earth. The state’s average annual rainfall is 1200 cm. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Mawsynram in the state is the wettest place ever now, wetter even than the famed Cherrapunjee of our school geography books. The local monsoon is mainly between May and October.

Are we in danger of being rained in? Not that March. We trudge on. Krittika or Markus lend me a hand, whenever I need one. Water gurgles far away. A waterfall? A stream? A pond?

In about 45 minutes, my eyes rest on one of Meghalaya’s famed living root bridges across a gurgling stream in the Riwai area. Khasi women from neighbouring villages chat as they splash water on their faces or do a little laundry, then settle their carrying baskets on their heads and walk on, and on, and on. For these forests are far too dense for vehicles.

Henry by the forest waterfall

 These living root bridges, often centuries old, are never complete in a single lifetime, says Henry. A grandfather may instruct his son, or grandson, how to nurture the living roots of a banyan fig tree (Ficus Benghalensis). Knitted across sticks, logs, and stones, these roots gradually and naturally weave their way across the river to the other side. These bridges have been carbon-dated 1100 years.

These bridges are the pride of the Khasi community. Everyone pitches in to maintain them through the seasons. Once the roots have grown over basic bamboo supports, stones are inserted for strength. Steps and handrails are added later.

It could take upto 15 years to complete a living root bridge, Henry adds. Some bridges in Meghalaya span over 100 feet. The completed bridges renew and self-strengthen as their roots thicken. They have been known to last between 500 to 600 years. We mull over all this as we dip our toes into the forest stream under the bridge, watch fish appear and disappear down the river, feel the sunshine on our faces.

*       *       *

BY evening, we decide to walk to Rev. Khongthohrem’s church. We can hear the lilting Khasi hymns even in our guesthouse, close by. Service has begun. We slip into our seats as inconspicuously as we can, but not silently enough, we find. For after the hymn, the good father dedicates the service to us in English (our faces turn red).

The choir harmonizes powerfully, enhancing parts of each hymn seamlessly. A strong tenor soars above all the other voices. He looks familiar. Who is he?

The young tenor turns out to be the padre’s nephew, Remdom. Where have we seen him before? Giggling now, we join the dots. But, of course. He is the teacher in the single-room Mawlynnong school we popped into that morning, with students upto Class 8. Remdom has completed school ~ and is now in charge of ensuring that the village remains completely literate.  

The century-old church at Mawlynnong

Charmed, we invite Remdom and his uncle to join us at the guesthouse. More village lore unfolds over dinner. The gentle, witty Khasi people charm us with their spontaneity and warmth.

On our last morning, I’m busy cramming my backpack at the guesthouse once more. When I reach the Innova 15 minutes later, I find Rev. Khongthohrem came by to wave us off and wish us well. He left behind elegant, short brooms of local rushes. One is for Krittika, one for me.

Mine hangs in my kitchen in Bangalore today. That corner is forever warm with memories of magical Mawlynnong.  

Photography: Kanu Gandhi ~ the Mahatma as his muse

Gandhiji at a newly-installed phone kiosk at Sewagram Ashram in 1939

(This article was written in 2005)


HISTORY, whether political or artistic, often hinges upon coincidences. Perhaps the December 1992 meeting in Rajkot between Hyderabad-born, London-based artist Saleem Arif Quadri and Abha Gandhi, one of the Mahatma's "living walking sticks", was one such.

Without it, the world would have remained in the dark about the work of her husband Kanu Gandhi. The Mahatma's grandnephew and disciple, Kanu Gandhi, photographically documented the latter's life from 1938 to 1946.



What came out of the encounter? "Abha ben showed me a few photographic albums, enough to convince me that she held a private archive of treasures which deserved a wider audience," recalls Quadri in a recent fax conversation about his first glimpse of about 450 original negatives and 700 prints, including some on which time had already taken its toll. "She expressed delight at my idea of promoting an exhibition of Kanu bhai's works. From that moment, we became inspired by a common cause."

A photographer himself, Quadri stresses, "I happened to be the only Indian-born person involved in the project. As I was born in India soon after Independence, the subject moved me. I was stunned by the artistic and technical quality of the work. My eye, mind and heart interconnected with this sense of history, our history. I felt Kanu Gandhi was a sensitive, poetic, perceptive and natural person. His photographs were simply one man's vision of the main characters who dominated the Free India Movement and ultimately changed the course of history."

With Rabindranath Tagore at Santiniketan, 1940

For, in these frames, first mounted as an exhibition titled "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" at the Leicester County Council Museums from July 29 to October 1, 1995, the intimate is rendered infinite. Of the seven UK-based venues the show has touched to date, the most recent was in October-December 2002, when the public-funded Apna Arts organisation displayed it at Nottingham's Galleries of Justice. "This exhibition is still available free of charge on loan. That's apart from administrative costs like transport and insurance," states Quadri.

Funded by grants to the tune of £30,000 by the British taxpayer, including the Arts Council of England, initiated and curated by Quadri, what moments do we share through the 100 selected visuals, restored laboriously from fragile negatives, then printed over 18 months by London-based master printer Danny Chow?


Among other scenes, we watch Mahatma Gandhi and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru in deep conversation at Bhangi Niwas, New Delhi, in 1946. Or Gandhi studying leprosy germs through a microscope at Sevagram Ashram in 1939. Or the father of the nation at a newly-installed Sevagram telephone kiosk that year. Or the Mahatma with Rabindranath Tagore during a visit to Shantiniketan in 1940. Or the iconic freedom fighter raising funds with outstretched hands during a train journey. Or a rare scene of Kasturba Gandhi tenderly washing her husband's feet. Or the initiator of non-violence at Sevagram, tending to Archarya Parchure Shastri, a Sanskrit scholar who was afflicted with leprosy.

How did Kanu Gandhi (1917-1986) have access to these insider scenes? The grandson of the Mahatma's brother, this son of Narandas and Jamuna Gandhi, was just two when they settled at the Sabarmati Ashram. At 15, he was jailed for participating in the non-cooperation movement. Though he dreamt of life as a doctor, it was not to be. Instead Kanubhai joined Gandhiji's personal staff at Vardha, supervising typing, accounts and even correspondence till 1948.

It was Shivaji Bhave, the brother of Bhoodan leader Acharya Vinoba Bhave, who inspired the self-taught Kanubhai to take his initial photographs of the Mahatma, with a Rolleiflex camera and film rolls sponsored by Ghanshyam Birla. Occasional images were provided to newspapers for a fee. Kanubhai's images shot into the limelight when Amritlal Gandhi (of "Vandemataram" fame) paid him Rs. 100 for a photograph of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. From then on, Amritlal sent Kanubhai Rs. 100 monthly for his photography, whether or not he sent him images in return.

With Kanu and Abha Gandhi/ Photographer unknown

"Mahatma Gandhi granted him permission and access to be photographed on condition that he did not have to pose, the photographs would be taken by natural light, and further they would not be financed by him or the Indian independence movement," writes Quadri in his introduction to the Apna Arts show.

A further string of coincidences ensured that "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" saw the light of print. In 1993, when Quadri met Deirdre Figueiredo, Cultural Development Officer at Leicestershire Museums, she was as enthused of the idea as he was. They both travelled back to Rajkot in December 1994 for a week of intense consultations with Abha Gandhi, selecting images, interviewing her, sharing details of Kanu bhai's life.

Gopal Gandhi, the Mahatma's grandson, who happened to be posted in London then as director of the Nehru Centre, was in constant touch with Abha ben over this privately facilitated exhibition. He even visited the Leicester show.

As a follow-up, Abha ben granted Quadri written permission in January 1995 to duplicate Kanu bhai's originals in order to give the images a wider global reach. For it was their dream that the exhibition should tour India, free of cost, sharing the everyday life of an extraordinary person.


L. M. Singhvi, Indian High Commissioner in London, wrote in the Leicester exhibition catalogue in April 1996, "Through a fugitive light and in one elusive second, Kanu captured many of Gandhiji's personal and public moments. Had he lived in a different time or on another continent, he would have been regarded as an action photographer par excellence, but then he would not have had Gandhi for his subject!"

"It can truly be said that what Mahadev Desai and Pyarelal did to immortalise Gandhi through their memoirs and biographical writings, Kanu Gandhi did through his camera. He can appropriately be described as not just a photographer, but a photo-biographer of Gandhi," stresses Singhvi.

Kanu bhai once even made a three-hour movie of Gandhiji. Unfortunately, this was damaged in Bombay, according to a note that Abha ben sent Quadri.

Looking through a microscope at Sewagram Ashram, 1939

Away at Noakhali when the Mahatma was assassinated in Delhi on January 30, 1948, Kanu bhai seldom took photographs from that day onwards, feeling deeply lost without his original inspiration. Instead, he and Abha ben travelled across India, spreading the Gandhian doctrine. In 1986, Kanu bhai died of a heart attack on February 20, while on a pilgrimage in Madhya Pradesh.


Abha ben, who had seldom shared Kanubhai's photographic treasures with those beyond the family before the fortuitous meeting with Quadri, unfortunately did not live to see "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" open at Leicester. She died earlier in July 1995.

In an interview with Quadri in December 1994, she described the bond between the Mahatma, Kanu bhai and herself thus: "We were like three bodies but one soul."

Perhaps these historic memories, so brilliantly communicated through Kanu bhai's camera, are a legacy for all Indians. But when will we get to share these visuals on home soil? When we do, it would be Abha ben's dream come true.

(The Hindu Sunday Magazine, 2005)