my grand children
are gifted humble
born without
conceit unlike
some pressmen
camera is merely
a prop a part of zen
vision is bullshit
for a 18 month old
child who shot
her guru glenn
now she is
waiting for
him to come
to mumbai
again..
why did he
create a
division
of sane
insane
both guilty
of similar pain
being human
still bound
to chains
in the valley
of the mind
does it ever
rain or is it
a wasteland
barren dry
no sign
of grain
composite
convulsive
pain arraigned
victim jury judge
the featherbrained
enchained
to suburbia
proverbial
scars we
street beggar
poets shoot
burnt out hours
dying moments
in gutter like
bowers
unlike you in
the safety of
your ivory towers
but we are not
envious or jealous
of what you shoot
our dreams dont sour
holistically healing
street photography
is powder
coated power
durable dour .
an imaginary
feast for Balthazar
my world of garbage
porn bandra bazar
tusi great ho yar
He was a common sight at Bandra Bazar Road , a drunk, who lived with an amputated leg, he had a Jaipur leg that was stolen while he was in one of his drunken sleeps ..
I shot him a lot ,than he disappeared , and the garbage vans missed him every time as he lay on the garbage heap.. he was once a rich affluent person I am told and than came the perilous downfall ..
Bandra is full of sad tales
riches to rags
lying on the road
a path jagged
drunken stupor
as tongues wag
his fall was
imminent
to his grave
he was dragged
from all sides
by stray dogs
attacked
courage to
fight back
he lagged
now he is
merely a
missing tag
garbage porn
an image
flagged
vultures
waiting
around
them
for an
opportunity
to carry them
away child
trafficking
child prostitution
everywhere
but who really
cares ..
overpopulated
bursting at
the seams
no thought
to spare
life be
it uttarkhand
after the deluge
or any major
city the same
sorrow share
money lust greed
its evil fangs bares
in its way nothing
spares ..profits
blood money
a unique pair
from the
sexually
repressed
libidinous
indian male
oily full
of scales
reptilian
dangerous
poisonous to
women who are
vulnerable frail
the curse of
the gods on
the indian
female
attacked
brutalized
raped ..
the man
on her trail
her cries
her wail
a poetic
thought
on the
vast
ocean
of pain
set sails
every time
he shoots
a picture
a part
of him
dies
oh heavens
tell me
are there
muslim
beggars
in paradise
living happily
without begging
comfortably nice
because on earth
they were treated
like flies ..by their
own people they
paid a price
sorrow is
name of
humility
in disguise
the silent
screams
the sobs
the sighs
hidden faces
hidden eyes
Marziya Shakir my photo shooting grand daughter is known to most of the beggars in Bandra, she is very fond of Jaffar Bhai the old Muslim beggar of Bandra Bazar Road.
Marziya has been shooting beggars since she was 2 .
Here she poses with the disabled beggar on the wheel chair
My poem
crippled
motherhood
a pain of
a mother
hidden
in a hood
she takes her
pain in her
stride
she tells me
she has no
time to brood
she begs
for her
livelihood
too much
sufferings
she withstood
she tried
running from
pillar to post
but her fate
was no good
time unloving
just stood
muslim
motherhood
a crippled
motherhood
on the soul
of dying
humanity
no better
than
driftwood
does he think
that we are
non state
street actors
unchangeable
our cosmic fate
far too many
factors .
being born
muslim
penniless
homeless is
a great curse
nowadays
people carry
credit cards
have no
hard money
in their purse
unsmiling
uncharitable
faces angry
tense and terse
we are the living
words of a beggar
poets misery angst
going bad to worse
but you wont shoot me
you fucked blood suckers
you want real dead bodies
mangled bones paid media
cock suckers .. disaster
porn is what you want
you third class rotten
buggers ..dead body
huggers ...
rain rain go away
come again another day
uncle has no home to stay
his son his sons wife
have thrown him out
on the streets they say
rain rain go away
this is a bandra
frozen timeless
serene peaceful
a slow motion
effort of
liveliness
crosses
that breathe
bless ..
even if
your life
is in a mess
away from
cruel times
meanness
hope riding
on a crest
wishing you
all the best
30 month old
child's vision
encompasses
life as poetry
the camera
merely a prop
genetically
grasping
a fleeting
moment
setting it
soundlessly
free
for posterity
i am my grand daughter
my grand daughter is me
the camera bridges the gap
of our combined vision
summarily cosmically
when the winds change
when bad times come
the soul awaits death
the flesh feverish lies
numb..the surroundings
austere silent dumb
nothing works right
every effort fails
man shivers succumbs
god watches from afar
the final outcome
mans destiny even
god cant fathom
his karmic inheritance
held to ransom
what he was once
what he has become
in a drunken stupor
broken rhyme rhythm
lost hope lost kingdom
another one bites the dust
time awaiting another victim..
walking the walk
of street hoodlums
their territory
their kingdom
they are street
savvy not
your average
bums ,,,
takla 1
takla 2
hakla
threesome
all 3 khans
take life
as it comes
they love
their street
freedom
when things
go wrong
they work
together
dont throw
'tantrums
to a new
bloke in their
area with
open hearts
they welcome
they are
the solution
but not part
of the system
uski hatheli
pe jab hamare
paison ko chua
toh usne mujhko
mere bacchon ko
di dua ..phir woh
gaib ho gayi
na jane kya hua
dhoond aur dhuan
pani ko dhoond raha tha
ek pyasa kua ...
She was a beggar girl I shot several years back near Good Luck Restaurant Bandra near Mehboob Studios , she was with young kids begging alms but full of life .. I never saw her again.. so this is a memory of innocence I kept alive .. second time as a BW ..image ... tweaked tragedy .. adjustments light shade gray zone ...pictorial embellishments you see
feline fastidiousness
9 lives not enough
but the gift of a 10 th
life from the kind maker
she refused ..purring
pathos poetic postulations
were humanly excuse
as a cat watching man
dangling on several
strings like a puppet
one single life
that he abused
brutalizing
traumatizing
agonizing
his bitter
half ..suicidal
prone always
in the news
man at angle
randomly
obtuse ...
dedicated to a friend
mere bache ko
apnaoge ..ke
kya tum apne
bap ki tarah
hamare bache
ko bhi bhikmanga
banaoge .. nanga
kisi dusre bache
ke kandhe pe
sulaoge ..
batao sajan
kahin mere ma
banne ke bad
tum mujhe bhul
nahi jaoge kisi
dusri aurat ko
apna banaoge
mujh bhul toh
nahi jaoge
tumhare bap
ki tarah mujhe
dusre mardon
ke sath toh
nahi sulaoge
batao khamosh
kyon ho.. vada
toh nibhaoge
ke jail se ane
ke bad phir
jail jaoge
drunken
dilemma
unbelievable
sights
not trusting
what you saw
70 mm
cinemascope
the street is
a cinema
like celluloid
crispiness
humanity
in deaths jaw
the end is
inevitable
an interlude
that claws
despair
more despair
irreparable
remorse
life a kinetic
force
prostituted
by priestly
pimps
silhouette
street
whores
a god
angry
bewildered
with the
flaw in his
manufacturing
unit has shut
all doors
pestilence
doom and wars
life a ghastly farce
brutalized traumatized
life as a woman
with deathly scars
a hard bed
is better
than a bed
of roses
the thorns
an integral
part of my
cosmic
path
that
leads
me to
you
a short
cut albeit
they say
i know
on some
other planet
some other
time i will
meet you
one day
god of
the streets
the only
god to
whom
we pray
no church
no temple
no mosque
our god
is as
homeless
like us
penniless
hungry
destitute
he too
begs
like us
on the
highway
that you
begged
to keep
me alive
till this
day
begging
outside
gods
house
on Friday
a house
he visits
but does
not stay
touching
healing
others
besides
those
who
pray
mother
tell me
is god
everywhere
does he care
broken wings
of hope he
will repair
god thank
you for
this breath
this air
for some alms
some food to eat
i shot her on our feast
among well dressed
folks on ramzan eid
after they finished
the namaz she did
greet her own happiness
incomplete .. beg beg
compete ..her fate
she could not cheat
of cursing you
for my birth
being born
in my mothers
womb a motherly
dustbin..my
putrid hope
half out
half in
sickly pain
my second
skin through
thick and thin
a game i
could never
win ..out on
a cosmic wheel
unending spin
some smile
some grin
seeing me
as a rusty
corrugated
corroded tin
on a board
of humanity
i am simply
of no importance
they wonder
how i came in
She stays at Bandra Reclamation , her protection in life , was a single umbrella , from the vagaries of nature heavy showers and all, but once the shed belonging to a lady who sells tea became a pucca structure she got a shade cover over her head and did not need the eponymous umbrella anymore .
This is an earliest shot, now I never called her a beggar , because she does not beg,, I did not call her mad I was not sure .. but after documenting creative madness and poetic madness I think she fits the bill..she is as mad as I am or more.
She lives her life squatting , I have never seen her stand I have never heard her talk,, she is a landmark when you enter this lane where the head of Mumbai BJP Advocate Ashish Shelar stays .. so lot of bigwigs will pass this lane now , Mr Baba Siddiqui MLA also passes this lane once during elections , hands folded for another chance ..less said about the others .. but nobody has ever bothered to place a rose in her hand add a smile to her face ..
My grand daughters both give her money and are aware of her existence ..I showed them the real meaning of charity and the purpose of our street photography.. it should touch a chord with or without without words.
So for the time being I take a break from my poetic madness ,, come back to the living sane .. thank you for viewing this set as pictures poems blog ad metaphor..
I have stopped shooting him, I have stopped shooting life of late , there was a time I would never leave home without my camera it was the silhouette of my being.. but I too have become a bit like the madman of Bandra.
I ask myself why am I shooting pictures glorifying the living dead ..is there something wrong with my head ..what is the purpose of recording all this ..I have loads of negatives slides prints at home and the very thought makes my wife go crazy.. I thought I would put them to sleep.. my very earliest tryst with photography on film and slide.
I could give them to an archive , but who wants amateur shots of forgotten sleepless time.
I dont sell my pictures people dont buy the kind of pictures I shoot.. at the Kumbh I met a foreigner who said he would buy all my hijra pictures once he returned to Mumbai.. but I am still waiting for him.. if I did sell them I would put the money to good charitable cause...
So life is a fucked anomaly .. words are seeping pain prostitute like posing as blogs.
I have lost it ..too.
These are the earliest pictures I have shot of him, he was cleaner, and gradually he let it go...now he is completely a gone case.
I dont know if there is a NGO dealing with cases such as this, we are more concerned about stray dogs cats but human life has lost its priority.. imagine he has been living here on the street for over two years .. and not a single soul knows his story...
And I have shot him without any purpose or agenda .. merely as a street peripheral anomaly of life.
Now he is not a Christian or the Sisters of Mercy might have touched him.. though they touch other people too who are not Christians I must reiterate ..Mad people have no sense of propriety or religion, they cease to being human is how the sane folks see them.
And Madness is the final recall
once in grace than comes the fall
a huge edifice shrinks becomes small
you find more such cases populated
freely gasping for breath on facebook wall
as a poet it it is a madness mall a rolling ball
impending fate the vanishing writing on the wall
god save the madpeople of india .. after all
aren't they human says it all...poetic madness
the final assault...the mind locked up in a vault
I passed him today, he was looking dazed .. and disoriented ,I looked at him gave him a tenner , first he did not want to accept it, I told him have tea, he took the note from me kept looking at it , I did not wait for his reaction I moved away.
Where he hangs around , no one bothers him , none are interested or know anything about him , who he is , nothing and he has been here since three years or more ..
uptight angry
furiously
curiously
mad at
photographers
who shoot
them steal
their furtive
souls in
the market
square
at ajmer
pictures
are living
thoughts
they do not
want to share
with angry
glare they
tried very
hard to
scare
not realizing
the photographer
who shot them
is a dam madar
malang wont
be easily scared
into their eyes
he dared ..
had them
both ensnared
disoriented
disorganized
disillusioned
doomed
a mind dead
deleted entombed
like a garden it had
once bloomed
than came
the bad winds
he was totally
consumed
hopeless
homeless
vacuumed
waqt ne
behmdardi
se hame
chaurahe pe
latkaya
hamse
sharminda
ho gaya
hamara saya
woh bhi hame
chod jar bhag aya
hame logon ne
dhele mare hame
bachon ne khub
sataya ..hame
ek pal main
yeh bataya
ke paglon ki
duniya main
paglon ne
ek aurat
ko apne
jaisa pagal
banaya
bemusedly
watches
jesus carrying
his cross
passing his way
reliving an
old tragic
passion play
a cross made
of blood sweat tears
feet made of clay
the mumbai
christians heads
bowed in prayer
the roman soldiers
swishing their whips
a beggar poet
shooting away
memories triggered
by faith that is
above religiosity
in a humanly way
mad man of kalina
carries his cross too
at Kalina on Good Friday
A Follower of Lord Shiva
Bam Bam Bholenath
By The Way
Om Namo Narayan
Sab Ko Sukh Shanti De
the spirit is frail
the flesh is weak
offerings to the lord
who once offered
the other cheek
blessed are the mad
innocent and meek
no paradise
no hereafter
no resurrection
they try too seek
a single life
spent in madness
was sane enough
called a freak
soul made of clay
frame Burma teak
different strokes
different streaks
a running stream
choked on a
winding creek
the mouth was
willing the tongue
wont speak
words by benthehouse
words that embark
on a voyage of the soul
entwined like wind and rain
they try
but fail
to explain
the frustration
the gain
the loss
the pain
attempting to regain
those heady heights
of darkened rooms by candle light
exquisite flesh draped in shadow
no longer my guest
at my bequest
and yet
something remains
my friend words are free, they come and go as they please
they drift among the trees and whisper in the grass
they remind us of who we are, constant through time
we are just their vessels, some are full and overflowing
some are empty but never knowing, without regret
to decline I would suffer, as a rainbow without colour
ours is the chance to convey thoughts that come our way
like mist or ocean spray, and with luck, linger more than a day
etched upon the immortal rock, of this tiny planet earth.
www.flickr.com/photos/benthehouse/
two wishing wells
one to become sane
one to remain insane
one for profit one for gain
no discount no bargain
so drop a coin ..see
what you want to attain
a void less cerebrum
or a fecund brain
pleasure or madly pain
freedom or worldly chains
but before you drop a coin
from alcohol drugs food
refreshments you must abstain
to get good results ..and ayn
Ayn al-Qozat Hamadani (sometimes transliterated as Ayn-al-Qudat Hamadani) was born in Persia (Iran) in the region of Hamadan. Hamadani was a Sufi philosopher, mystic, and mathematician. He was executed in Baghdad at the age of 33 on the charge of heresy.
A famous quatrain is said to be his:
ما مرگ وشهادت از خدا خواسته ايم
وآن هم به سه چيزکم بهاخواسته ايم
گردوست چنين کندکه ماخواسته ايم
مـا آتـش و نفـت و بـوريا خــواسـته ايم
which is translated as:
I want death and Martyrdom from God
I want it in three low-priced things
If the friend (i.e. god) grant my wishes
I want fire and oil and Straw
This quatrain refers to his execution by Caliph's order.
dedicated to howling dervesh.. late john dixon
One person highly challenged , who troubled me the most is this guy, with the brain of a little child , he would pester me , get on my goat , follow me , and not stop blabbing.. instigate me while I shot pictures at the Dargahs at Mahim,
I met him at other places too and he continued his harangue against me otherwise totally harmless.
And I realized in many ways everybody is manic crazy to an extent , guys who took drugs suffered manic depressions when they did not get their drug intake.. alcoholics on the roads were almost crazy and insane..
And as you aged either you mellowed or went crazy..and there are guys who do crazy things jumping from running trains and getting back into the compartment bravado but not crazy...
There are many crazy episodes our crafts teacher was completly crazy they called him Batli ,, he was a character who looked like Mr Jeevan .. but not with the same histrionics.'he beat me the most .. fuck I still dont know why.
I have met a lot of crazy people , a lot I met when I did not have my camera , I met a lot of crazy people I shot during Hazri .. removing of the evil spirit by smoke at Hussain Tekri and other Shrines ..these were sad cases of demonic possession.. and this is one subject I shoot without hesitation.
This new set is of madness as creativity mono chromed ..it does not include the original color shots , this is poetic madness , that struck and a comment of encoragement praise from a Flickr member made it into a set.
Thank you Kathy.
I am liking the New Flickr finally , I shall be honest and fair I decided to remove the blinkers and move forward , what cannot be changed wont be changed ..
As I am not shooting pictures of rains .. I am using this alternative with Aviary editing tool adding a new dimension and thought to my old pictures.
I have used a lot of quotes on madness , insanity to muster added prop to my pictures shot without any method to my own madness.
I am mad I live with it ..
We all are mad ..we are brave enough to keep it to ourselves .
Of late I have been going to Kurla East the wholesale Aquarium market to buy fish , fish accessories for Marziyas fish tank, and I dont carry my camera.. I see scenes but wont use my mobile camera phone , it is not photography for me , street photography needs the right mind attitude and camera.
Just hitting the button shooting random people on the street , for Gods sake is not street photography,,street photography to me is the mother of all..art science healing combined..
And I am happy there are many superior street photographers as friends at Flickr..
And this post is dedicated to Akbar Simonese ..he gives me a reason to shoot the street and stalk the poetic soul of unseen humanity..
And last but not the least all my pictures are shot like a street photographer .. my vision , my cosmic aptitude for gauging a picture before I shoot it is of a street photographer and my grand children.. are veritably in the same mold..
I had a gift I embedded it on their camera consciousness too..
inspired by Bhavana
dead bodies
mangled heaps
of flesh
contorted
tortured
faces limbs
torn apart
caught in
a mesh
paid media
needs to
refresh
gloat bloat
blood sweat
tears images
words enmeshed
humanity sells
not horseflesh
"The most dangerous man, to any government, is the man who is able to think things out for himself without regard to the prevailing superstitions and taboos. Almost inevitably he comes to the conclusion that the government he lives under is dishonest, insane and intolerable, and so, if he is romantic, he tries to change it. And even if he is not romantic personally he is apt to spread discontent among those who are."
H.L. Mencken
a beggar poet
held in chains
of a chemical
romance
ensuing pain
she has gone
leaving a
void but
her musky
scent on
my poetic
soul remains
poetically
insane
a madness
that affects
the lumbar
region
before it
affects
the poets
brain
pathos
passion
captive
constrains
more painful
when it rains
"Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives.... I think we’re being run by maniacs for maniacal ends ... and I think I’m liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That’s what’s insane about it."
John Lennon, Interview BBC-TV (June 22, 1968)
once he
had bedded her
used her
abused her
he kicked
her out
she began
boozing
the only
way out
closed
windows
of the mind
total black out
thrown
out on
the streets
the final fall out
one last time
she did call out
than the electric
shocks that
shut her mouth
she did not
commit suicide
totally worn out
staying alive
a living death
the final rout
man beneath
the layer of
his manhood
is only a lout
without any
doubt ..
over and out
a tragic
time out
"A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free."
Nikos Kazantzakis
she thought
i was one
of her kind
madpeople
are not
part of
mankind
living on
the edge
among
people
with eyes
mad people
are blind ..
poetic divine
but at a mental
institution called
Facebook most
of them in strait
jackets totally
online Marc their
Prophet ..Savior
Messiah ..on
their Timeline
a new heaven
is possible
a thought
a message
in the pipeline
a living saint
of the hopeless
with his own
shrine ...
