I Cried For I Had No Gloves Till I Found A Boy Who Had No Hands

The Boy Without Hands

Among all the beggars in Ajmer Sharif , that I shoot prolifically , this boy without hands eludes me , I search for him , but this year I did not find him..and strangely I think he searches for me too , its a cosmic bond based on the austerity of silence.

I have never talked to him ,and I when I did shoot him it is rapidly as I am barefeet and my feet burn , and once I shot him when I was leaving Ajmer .

Who is he .? What is his name I dont know ? Will somebody the very rich influential that come to Ajmer spend lacs of rupees buy him prosthetic arms I dont know.

Man is a hardened animal..his only interest is himself.. in Mumbai the other person who appeals to my inner angst is Appu , he is a stump of a torso without hands without legs.

Shooting beggars is not the easiest of enterprise every shot kills a part of you inside , it kills me ..I much change I try not to talk to beggars it would break the rhythmic rhapsody of a divine moment , call it my callousness but I am trying to now talk to the beggars I shoot a few words of comfort , money everyone gives who gives comfort solace.

The upper echelons of fine art photographers look down upon us for shooting beggars , giving a bad name to the country , and who really gives a bad name to the country i dont need to answer , silence should suffice.

And I must remind you cops local hoodlums all make money off the beggar and it is pure business ..thee is no human sentiment at all.

All the beggars give a share to the local hood he collects keeps his bit rest is handed over to the agents of evil in power .its a game played without asking questions.

To give dignity to my passion for shooting beggars I call myself a beggar poet I too am a beggar and a word juggler who passes himself off as a poet.

People like me could never be part of a press , or a group, or an anjuman.. being stupidly self  willed and fiercely independent .

And photography is a catharsis for the pain that is part of the  soliloquy of my soul and its silhouette too.

The Boy Without Hands .

kate hue hathon se mangte hain hum
kate hue hathon se mangta hai tu
beech sadak par baithkar doosron
ko rasta dikhata hai tu zindagi ki
guftugu..zalim yeh kaisi bagawat
ki bu. ruhbaru..


i shot him
a part of
me died
it was not him
but
god sitting
begging
on the roadside
just humility
no grandeur
no pride
a road narrow
a bit wide
i was
tongue tied
to shoot him
or not to shoot him
i could not decide
i feel pain
i was tear eyed
if this is life
it will be my
one time ride
my mouth gagged
my own hands tied
something
was burning
my entrails
inside
 cacophonous
chaos
outside
i looked up
at heavens
said
Allah
provides
fate
the master
my life divides
silence
was an
 echo
muted
melancholy
 replied
you were
born to reveal
what this
 world hides

Garib Nagar Khuda Hafiz Goodbye

her hopes
her dreams
beneath
the rubble lie
time and again
she asks god why
she gets no reply
she is hurt but she
trusts god her loved
ones did not die
memories all
washed away
in a gutter nearby
no roof over head
no belongings
only the clothes
on her body
the silhouette of
the hijab
her armor
her protection
her standby
her children
see the debris
bad luck  bhai
once self
 dependent
now beggars
broken wings
that lie
 soiled
sullied
as they dry
garib nagar
khuda hafiz
goodbye
trears
on the soul
of a beloved city
mumbai

god forbid
if this happened
in a rich mans tower
there would be
immediate help
immediate response
a greater outcry
such is the scales
of justice lopsided
for the poor the rich guy