The Naked Truth of Survival

The Naked Truth of Survival, originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1.

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This was a blank post the picture tells you the stark reality of living in urban jungle , they live in a tiny cluster outside on the streets where this housing project is coming up..at Bandra Reclamation close to Lal Mitti.

The only connection I have at this cluster is a young girl and her old grand mother I have been shooting them for many years , the grandmother usually slept under a parked truck..she is blind..
The grand daughter is a charming child , of late they beg at the JJ Colony Bandra housing complex.

And I take this path to pay my MTNL Broadband bill's or mostly to complain when my net plays truant with me.


And I shoot my subjects aesthetically pay respect to their pain , this child was unaware I was shooting him or her I dont know.. but a human child nevertheless.

These are fodder for the evils of tomorrow , Mumbai can be as heartless and unforgiving..evil did not come by itself , it was created by man and his selfishness.

What makes me wonder sadly sometimes how come I see such things or situations and it escapes the eyes of authority including law and order.

Is it because my camera eye is sharper than my human eye..I walk my way but somehow I am drawn to such situations involuntarily..

Imagine this child could be standing outside the red light Mumbai Cages would it matter...the mother busy selling the only thing she has on her body her flesh..and there is no shortage of buyers at all .

I have not gone there since two years or more since I was robbed of my Cannon G9..it was a camera that served the purpose of shooting candid s. on the murky streets of hell.

And I hope not to go to shoot Garib Nagar slums the thought kills me their future as bleak as their today.

Money does not buy everything...


moments come
moments go
today will
silently
disappointingly
disappear
become
a tomorrow
we dont know
the topography
of pain
seismology
of erupting
emotions
will open another
new window
broken houses
broken doors
pain is nothing
but the living dead
corpses lying
on the streets
in a row
some do not
want to see
this aberration
of unforgiving
time and space
they feel
humiliated
insulted
they raise
their eyebrows
but like weeds
on the soil of
depleted
humanity
undeleted
pain
grows
this is
the genus
called the
vote bank
it feeds
nurtures
deathly
democracy
with all its
woes
the survival
of netajis
mystical chair
is more
important
all the more
turning
a damsel
in distress
into a whore
yes forgive me
what i shoot
is a fucked
eyesore