We spot a lens peering at us from the corner of our eye. Immediately we straighten up, fix our hair, smooth the rough in our clothes, consciously make – or avoid – eye contact. Only the well trained is able to visibly avoid responding to the camera?s presence. The professional photographer prides in her ability to take ?natural? photographs, where her intervention is invisible. Yet, peering through family albums, wedding folders or a Facebook status we find ourselves actively inviting the portrayal of how we want to be seen. Whether we consider a photograph of ourselves to be ?good? largely depends on how well the photographer has represented us, as we would want it. As such the photographer?s success depends not so much on her aesthetic sense or insight, but on her ability to please the sitter. While this applies to the casual portraitist, it is much more true of the professional photographer. Her bread and butter depend on a satisfied client and as such, are driven by an external agenda. Whether it be a corporation, or an NGO or a newly wed couple, a good photographer is one who delivers what is required. Continue reading “Embracing the Amateur”
There?s an electricity in the moon. A pulse, a magic, an energy. A bewitching entrancement unlike that of the sun.
The moon is for things unseen, things done in the shadows and beneath the fog. Under bridges and beneath bed sheets ? it?s for wild hearts and unconcerned minds. It?s where plans are made in dark alleyways and secrets revealed under the soft haze of light coming through the cracks of closed shutters.
Earlier books have been by Shahidul Alam, Kazi Ghiyasuddin, Safiuddin?Ahmed and Zainul Abedin.
the first ten years of my life
were spent in black and white
and predominantly in our living room
yet my memories of those years
are full of colour.
Hamid Ziarati, Iranian writer
Iranian Living Room?is the first of a series of editorial projects self-published by Fabrica. Continue reading “The Iranian Living Room”
A housing society can now decide the dress code for Bangladeshi citizens! (ed)
A lungi clad rickshaw-puller stopped at the entry of Baridhara in the capital yesterday. Security workers do not let rickshaw-pullers in lungi into the posh neighbourhood following instructions from the association of Baridhara home owners. Photo: Star
Rickshaw-pullers in traditional Bangalee outfit, lungi, are barred from entering the capital?s Baridhara, one of the country?s most posh neighbourhoods where diplomats and affluent people live. Continue reading “Ban slapped on lungi clad rickshaw-pullers”
by Pablo Bartholomew
More photos at Le Journal De La Photographie
So what makes me come back to Chobi Mela, this pioneering festival for photography in Asia? It is the question that I ask myself, now that I am here in Dhaka setting up both my father?s and my exhibitions. Obviously it is the opportunity to show the works and be part of discussions that may provide and lead up to good dialogues and debates. But the fact that the last time I was here was such an important reference point is something that I would like to share. Continue reading “Chobi Mela VII: Dhaka revisited”
It has been six years and Kabul has changed. My luggage was through booked from Bonn, via Munich and Dubai. Three flights in three different airlines with the tickets bought separately. Miraculously it arrived safely.
The banks at the airport were closed on Friday morning when I arrived. Maybe they?ll open tomorrow or the day after, they said. But things worked out. A SIM card was easy to get. It provided roaming Internet, but with a minimum charge for one month, I decided I?d stick to the Aina office where I was staying, for browsing. The SIM card man was going to change money for me as well. I suspected the rates weren?t the best, but at that stage, I wasn?t going to argue. More negotiations led to the bus to the parking lot and then the taxi.
The photographers at Aina had done well. The last time I?d seen Farzana Wahidy was at the All Roads Award Ceremony at National Geographic. I?d met Massoud Hossaini more recently at the World Press Award Ceremony in Amsterdam. He had just won the Pulitzer and it felt good to see how they?d progressed from the days I?d shared stories with the young and bright eyed youngsters in the grounds of Aina. But the office had moved. Luckily Farzana was able to direct the driver to the new location.
The new office was getting a fresh coat of paint and I made my way through stepladders to the TV room where the billiard table was stacked up with things temporarily relocated for the painters. But there were still people around and Aina looked like a busy place.
Farzana and Massoud soon came and we chatted about old times. I was to meet the other photographers on Sunday (today). That left me the rest of the day and Saturday to do other things. I had only seen the imported form of Buzkashi in Balochistan. But it was too hot for the sport in June and the other games were played early in the morning on Fridays, so I?d already missed them. But I did have other plans.
My main task was to identify work for a show I was curating for the Mus?e du quai Branly in Paris for 2013. Afghanistan was one of the eight countries I was covering. The trips to Nepal and Myanmar had gone well and I was looking forward to seeing fresh work from Afghanistan. I was also piggy backing for a story I was doing for Saudi Aramco World. Salma Hasan Ali, who was working with me on the story, had set up an appointment at what sounded like a wonderful school set up by Sadiqa Basiri Saleem.
I thought I?d also take pot luck in tracing an old friend. I?d met Aga Ghul in my last visit in 2006. Only then, I?d thought his name was Abdul Karim (my nonexistent Pashto and broken Urdu had obviously not served me well enough). The only clue I had was a photograph of Aga Ghul and his family, in their home and a vague landmark atop a hill. I didn?t know at that time, that I had the wrong name. We might well run this story on Saudi Aramco World, so I won?t give too much away at this stage. Anyway, there is plenty more to tell.
Continue reading “The spy who came in from Dhaka”
Choto Khalu (little uncle) was the likeable sort of uncle you could tease, and tease him we would. About being the fashionable one in the family. About using a knife and fork, when the rest of us would use our hands. About insisting on the interior d?cor in his house being just right. About his fancy stereo set. About being a dandy.
We were scared of Choto Khala (little aunt) when we were kids, and were surprised when we saw pictures of her, all trendy and hip, with her braided hair in front, sometimes on a bicycle. The outgoing young woman in the photographs didn?t seem as scary as we had imagined. My uncle enjoyed music, fine food, photography, reading, and their life seemed much less mundane than ours. We would giggle at how ?modern? this couple was. A word that had risqu? overtones in those days.
He was my Abba?s (dad?s) best friend. Marrying my mother?s younger sister, was perhaps a way to strengthen their friendship, but this fashion conscious young man also had an eye for good looks, and had chosen well. They were the perfect couple. They lived in Azimpur 66A, we were on the floor above, Flat 66C. Besides using their garden to raise my chicken, ducks and turtles, wandering through their flat on the way to the garden, was a treat for a young boy. Even in those low income days, Choto Khala and Khalu, found ways to make their modest home stand out from others. My special treat was to listen to ?The Laughing Policeman? on his fancy stereo set.
As one of the few Muslims who had made it to Calcutta Medical College, their friendship went back a long way. Choto Khalu had sought out my dad, known for his academic brilliance. They had crossed over in 1946 to Mymensingh, gauging the scene well to leave the day before the riots, and had taken up teaching together. Partition followed and they never went back. As young professors, my dad, the studious academic, and my uncle the debonair doctor, must have made quite a pair. Both couples went to Britain for further training. My dad stayed back to teach upon return. My uncle made a return visit to Newcastle to complete his PhD.
Choto Khalu was easily the more outgoing of the two. Abba concentrated on his research, developing Monsur?s Media (named after him), and setting up the School of Tropical Medicine. Choto Khalu meanwhile became president of the Pakistan Medical Association and the Commonwealth Medical Association. He had been awarded the Gonoshasthaya Kendra (GK) Medal for the ?Favourite Teacher? in 2007.
On hearing of this death, the founder of GK, Dr. Zafrullah Chowdhury commented, ?Professor SIMG Mannan holds many laurels for teaching a most difficult subject – anatomy with great ease and humour. He is the first Asian whose name is recorded in the medical bible Grey’s Anatomy for his discovery of pascinian corpuscles. Yet he would always advise us to read Last’s Illustrated Anatomy as it would be easier for us to grasp. His refrain with us was ?serving humanity is much more important than the nitty-gritty of anatomy.?
It is ironic that the Bangladesh Medical Association in 1991 cancelled the membership of Professor Mannan, an erstwhile President of the Pakistan Medical Association and the Commonwealth Medical Association because of his participation in the formulation of the National Health Policy of 1990. His call for universal coverage of health care and the prohibition of private practice by government employed doctors to be compensated by 200% increase in salaries and extension of retirement age to 60-65 years was the cause of this wrath.
He knew all his students by name and attended to each student’s needs and difficulties. Great loss for me personally.”
My interactions with Choto Khalu involved kibitzing their bridge games, occasionally discussing poetry, and at a later stage, photography. His backlit black and whites were no accidental family snap shots. While others in the family valued fame and success, it was he, who was curious about my work and appreciated the craftsmanship. When the Royal Photographic Society made me an honorary fellow, it was Choto Khalu who reminded everyone of what an honour it was. An artist trapped in a scientist?s body, he continued to indulge in non-material pursuits that his peers found frivolous. He insisted there was more to life than mere living.
Apart from when Abba died, it was over a photograph that I saw him grieve. Taking down an old framed image from the wall, he shook as he said, ?She was alive then. But couldn?t be in the photograph. She was there, standing behind the curtain. Had I been more aware, I would have dragged her out, to be photographed with the rest of us. She had never been photographed.? His mother died when he was eight. Still never photographed.
It was the day before Eid that Rahnuma and I went to visit them. Rahnuma had carefully chosen the books for them. Choto Khalu kept talking about the books, about how much he would enjoy them. Taking us by turn, he took us to their little verandah. ?See when the late afternoon light hits the rooftops. When that slanting light hits the edges. Just before the sun sets. That?s when I stand here watching the light. The road in front with all those trees. It must be so wonderful to walk through. They are so lucky, the ones who live in the house with the slanting tiled roof. I wonder who live there. Have never seen them on that lovely roof.? Even at 93, the joy of life had never ebbed.
Ignoring Rahnuma?s pleas that I was getting too fat, he insisted on me eating the sweets that we had brought. Then he spoke about the light again and how much he?d enjoy the books.
Unusually for them, they came out to the lift, both waving as the gates began to close. Rahnuma and I looked at each other and said nothing. It was the following night, on Eid, that my sister Najma, rang to say he?d been taken to the hospital. They were already there when I arrived in the morning. It was a different Choto Khalu. One with pipes and catheters and strapped to monitors. A body stuck to machines had replaced my uncle. I would go to see him late at night. It was after visiting hours, but the hospital staff didn?t mind. I would just be with him on my own. Stroking his forehead, waiting for a sign. He was too far gone to respond, but I felt he knew. The doctor on duty asked who the decision maker was. I knew what that meant. I spoke to my sister, and we agreed to have a ?meeting? in the morning. She later rang back to say, perhaps we wouldn?t need to. In the morning she rang to confirm that we didn?t.
It was still morning, but many people had already dropped in as he lay in the coffin in their flat in Banani. Old doctor friends, students, family. I remembered feeling proud when people like the former Bangladeshi president Badruddoza Chowdhury and other prominent doctors mentioned they had been mentored by Abba and Choto Khalu. Today when the ex president came to pay his last respects, all he did was to call us together to lead us in prayer.
Tonight, as I look out of my window to see the orange moon, and call Rahnuma over to see it, I wonder if Choto Khalu is watching the moonlight dancing on the rooftops. I have a feeling he is.
They meander and glide. They unfurl with the rage of monsoon fury. Quietly they flow in the misty winter morn. Rivers thread the fabric of our land. Embroider patches of fertile delta. They are the nakshi kantha of our rural folklore. Life giver, destroyer, enchanter, they have inspired the greatest myths, formed the tapestry for the most endearing love songs. Our Bhatiali has been shaped by the lilt of the boatman?s lyrics drifting across the waves.
It is this fluid, amorphous, ephemeral and elusive visual that Kabir tries to hold in his rectangular frame. It is a frame heavy with the burden of its task. The rivers that float like a gossamer across the green delta hold untold stories. Tales of strife and endurance. Of the fullness of life. Of abundance ebbed, and anger unleashed.
Kabir finds the rapidly disappearing sailboat drifting in the late afternoon light. The extinction of this species owes not to the depletion of its habitat, or to the oft-blamed climate change, but the advent of technology. Oil guzzling, deep tube well engines have unseated the wind from its traditional role.? A lone sail, bright red and taut against a blue sky defiantly throws a gauntlet to the mechanized usurper.
Swirling swathes of jute cleanse themselves in the very water that nurtured them in their youth. Wispy traces of boatmen recede into the darkness of dusk. The cool blue light of the evening sky wraps itself round a homebound farmer. Barefoot women, walk home after a day?s work, like a string of pearls along the sandy shores of a receding river. Parched river beds, like a desert amidst the oasis, make horizon-less paths for weary travelers to tread.
Fishermen, silhouetted against a brooding sky, cast their nets more in hope than in expectation. Overfishing of uncared for rivers, bloated with toxic waste, yield little to those who have made the river their home. Indeed it is their ancestral home. A liquid home that knew no government deeds, and obeyed no official maps. But the rules have changed. City folk whose feet walk only on the cool marble of urban dwellings own fishing rights to rivers they may never have seen. The fishermen who were raised in these waters are now outlawed in their own turf.
Still the river gives. Joy and thrill to the racing crews that steer swiftly through the monsoon breeze. Respite to the sun baked skin of naked boys, sari clad maidens and heavy hoofed buffalos. Turgidity to the parched leaves of the newly planted grains of rice. Looming clouds in azure skies to the poet who longs for whispering words. Winding arcs of sinewy lines to the painter?s canvas in search of form.
The great rivers, once bountiful and brimming, have formed the supple spine of our deltaic plains. Choking in silt, poisoned by waste, waterways throttled by land grabbing encroachers, the lifeblood of our deltaic plains weep dry tears as their once glistening bodies writhe in pain. It is a pain city dwellers are deaf to. A pain that short sighted politicians and profit seeking urban planners have no time for. Kabir rejoices in the vigour of the river. Is saddened by its pain. His portrait of the river shows both its wrinkles and its smile.
Photographs: Kabir Hossain
Text: Shahidul Alam
The exhibition “River and Life” by Kabir Hossain will remain open until the 17th July at the Drik Gallery II from 3:00 pm till 8:00 pm