remorseful in the cab seated yes it was for a minutes pleasure that he cheated seminal saturated depleted a tryst with a transvestite from lahore now a chapter on facebook forgotten ignored deleted pretentiously poetic pedestrian john keated badly ill treated erotic neurotic over heated a pause implausible introspective much needed over and over again re tweeted
ps my poetry shop has no shutters ...a thought conceded
beneath the feet of woman another man cries one doomed another one dies at the mercy of her charity at her doorstep he lies wingless poems learn to fly from a moving cab i see what you would never see a picture i poetize pictures pickled as truth a drug that gives a high somethings in life you sell somethings you 'cannot buy your mothers blessings the tear in her eye
some become taxi drivers some become sharukh khan 'masters 'of their fate some endlessly wait at the doors of destiny with an empty plate they come to mumbai city of corrugated dreams from every town and state the bangladeshi tantric with a counterfeit ration card pan card passport little innocent girls bait everybody on times roller skate kismet aur khali pet mumbai the city they love and hate vegetable sellers become leaders power a political gate corruption scams to mate the non actors from pakistan bombs that detonate builder political nexus escalating real estate policemen become criminals a system unholy trait
now the only guy that could play santa fat funny jovial was a harmless chap tyres round his waist lot of flap many years back the local whore had given him the clap he was still caught in time wrap now he was hitting back at the system from scrap libidinous leaking tap he was jobless cash strapped he played santa as stop gap high blood pressure over excited he gasped shaking wobbling red cap swollen feet kneecap double chin ear flap not just santarchy he was caught in a karmic death trap because once he had cheated the local whore she had cut of his pecker its remains huddled cuddled in his jockstrap this santa was an australian racist poet gay pedophile also known as hubcap a poet hunter racist poet he hated Indians from the land of the rising sun on the map
Their beat revolves as beggars between the two Bandra signals , Turner Road and the Pamposh Linking Road Signal.
Most of them know me as I meet the on the cross roads of life..they think I am crazy shooting them , for no rhyme or reason , some think I am tantrik trying to rob them of the last vestige of their remaining manhood or womanhood whatever you wish to call.
Because I carry a camera because I meet them I shoot them and besides I have a hijra website that needs to be updated too from time to time.. and to bring their cause to the forefront.
I shoot them as human beings without lasciviousness .I show you a hijra as a hijra and as a hijra only.
And I am sure if they were given a chance to run the country they would do a more efficient and clean job, and here I will give my fecund poetic imagination rest .. yes I would not mind by being ruled…
And these are my personal views as a street photographer of the women I shoot , for the Muslim girl her life of hardships begins when her parents try to palm her of to the first bidder as the Muslim girl is risk prone and a constant liability.
Marriage is a game of chance and a loaded dice a good man may bring relief to her cycle of pain , but the few I have shot have et with marital mishaps and end up begging on the streets , rehabilitation is a though far away from the Muslim collective ethos..
The Muslim woman I speak locally is machine produce kids keep the miya happy , his family happy , and this is the situation in the slums and the makeshift houses on the streets where they dwell.
So every year when I shoot the Eid Namaz I show you the angst of the poor Muslim beggar woman face concealed and begging hands that will forever be begging till their t…
Zindagi Ke Safar Main Guzar Jate Hain Woh Makam Phir Nahi Ate, originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1. This was a very quick shot and most of my street pictures I shoot from the back a perspective of life on the move, I carry the camera most of the time and dont hesitate to shoot what my mind triggers , impulsively..my pictures are bouts of street craziness as captured by my chaotic mind..I use full frame and it includes eternity as it exists .. as a poetry of the drama of life.
I dont mix I stay to myself far away from congregational ethos of man , i dont socialize I just work and my pictures are my moments before and after work shot as street cameos.
I sit at home and my lap top is my best friend keeps me occupied at home Marziya adds to the extra zest in life with her tattle and her non stop chat.
My daughter Samiya and my elder daughter in law did the first matam,in the absence of my wife who is in Damascus , she has gone for Ziyarat or spiritual tour , and I can imagine that though close to the Roza of Bibi Zainab her heart might wander homeward for a fraction of a moment .
The house Imambada has been decorated by my elder sons wife and the Alams are part of our family heirlooms in old silver polished a few days back..it is a small Imambada that houses our Shia spirituality.
I shot two frames and the first ladies matam goes like this at my house ..
ahle emon main gul hai buka ka chand nikla hai mahe aza ka kyon na matam ho shahe huda ka , chand nikla hai mahe aza ka
dushmanone watan se nikala hai yasranb main rehne na paya hai safar main wali ab khuda ka chand nikla hai mahe aza ka
I dont know why I shoot barbers but yes I shoot barbers at grass root level the people I shoot cant afford hair stylists for sure , and so I shoot this roadside hair cutting saloon on my way to work.. he is used to my Alfred Hitchcock cameo , forcing myself to the frame I shoot .. a silhouette of a blogger in the street mirror of life.
For those of you who have recently added me as friend I dont celebrate my birthday at all, firstly because my childhood friend who studied for a short while with me at Holy Name High School Fort died on the day I was supposed to have been born,I have not got over his death till date my dear departed friend Ramesh Anna or Ramesh Alva.
The other reason i wont be celebrating my birthday or any happy Indian feast day is because I am in the midst of Moharam ,which for us Shias , I am a Shia too , is the greatest period of tragedy , we mourn…