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Showing posts from June 12, 2015

Jambul And Panji My Friend Wodehouse Road

There are two fruits I shoot nostalgically for their photogenic essence Tadgolas and Jambuls ,,
But Jambuls trigger a sad story of my childhood ,when I stayed at Khatau Bhuvan Wodehouse Road ,,most of my friends those days were Tamil boys who lived in the Servants quarters at Military Compound opposite our house,, ,My mother was not very happy with this group of my friends I must have been 10 year old that time ..

I had one friend I was very close to he had a few brothers his name was Panji and he loved getting into trouble , he climbed mango trees to rob mangos and I would collect the below ,, once we got caught he ran away leaving the mangos in my hands the Mali gardener dragged me home , my dad was in a wild mood he beat the shit and almost broke my hooked nose ,

So Panji made me his partner in such escapades , one day he asked me to come with him to climb the Jambul tree behind the Military Quarters old buildings near Port Trust and Sassoon Dock ..My mom had given me some work so I …

My Poetry Is Garbage ,,

i have lost my voice
my words ,,contemptuously
condemned by an inner rage
from my mothers womb i
stepped into an open gutter
galvanized garbage menstrual
pads second hand condoms
adult diapers fish chicken
leftovers to soothe your
senses ..at every stage
overspilling roads on rampage
as i watch all this from my
gilded cage ,, i disintegrate
as i rapidly age , in oxymoron
haste..from urban brown i
have turned beige ,,my life
my poetry my passion
my pathos total wastage

Dedicated to my Friend Tom
his teachers soul a baba
has torn ravaged ,,utter
commercialism of a sage
held in the nucleus of
a protective shell wont
take umbrage ,,page
cannot be found cannot
be displayed ..acche din
aye khuda ab toh bhej

Jab Ramzan Ayega Humko Chu Ke Jayega

The beggars are arriving , they have left their hovels in Malda Murshidabad W Bengal , beggars from Uttar Pradesh,, fraud Muslims with huge receipt books asking for Chanda to build the Madrsa and Mosque in Deoband or some far distant place .. guys who hire trucks blaring away on loudspeakers asking for charity in the name of Allah.

Kashmiri migrants with their wives faces sad and gloomy , and their chubby brood their daughters in tow , visiting houses asking for food clothes , ration alms ,,

This is Ramzan the Holiest of Holy Month for charity , piety ..
but than it is also during Ramzan you have wayward Miyas with short pajamas long kurtas protesting at Azad Maidan , molesting lady cops smashing public property and showing the personal ugliness that is not part of peaceful Islam..

During Ramzan you have a Maulana leading a protest pehaps his personal agenda and another Maulana bites the bullet ,,

Ramzan means abstinence for some , they will give up booze , but on the day of Eid after th…

The Beggars Are Coming .. Along With The Ramzan Moon

Every beggar I shot , was merely a picture , a single frame within a frame , I never talked to them I was very clinical in my approach to beggars .I shot them , gave them money moved on..

I do talk to a few beggars I know , and they are the senior beggars of Bandra Bazar Road like Jaffer Bhai and Khwajah Bhai.

But now since I began shooting beggars on video.. I have changed , I feel more compassion , and I am understanding the collective beggar psyche ,, If I was younger , more educated I would have done a thesis on Muslim beggars on India..Please dont read me wrong beggars in every community are downtrodden neglected and in bad shape and they are all made in India beggars.. but my thread of pictorial thought and assessment are Muslim beggars .

The reason is is sensitively impactful, if the Muslim community instead of waging sectarian wars , killing murdering their own , raping pillaging ,,as warlords like the ISIS Taliban took up the positive role of helping the poor , giving succor to…

I Am The Product of The Garbage I Poetize With My Camera s Cosmic Eye

every morning  as i walk by
paying my respects to this
eponymous temple of our
lord of the flies .. with folded
hands bowed head my backyard
the garbage dumps i poetize
with a thundering applause
the bandra municipality i
lionize a part of me lives
a part of me dies ,,we were
born to litter we are garbage
beneath our humanly disguise
we have so much garbage to
export that no friendly unfriendly
country wants to buy ,,on another
planet another time 72 virgins
dreading the idea when jihadists
will come make a garbage dump
of their one and only paradise
limping  with a bandage on his eye
the leader of the pack,, lets out a cry 
lusting for good days ,, sugar n spice

Sometimes I Wonder What Is Photography

to only shoot a selfie
or  shoot to satisfy
an inner urge that
moves mountains
complacently or
is it to post a moment
on instagram facebook
getting a few comments
a like ..most probably
or posting a nude in
slumber prolifically
shooting eveything
that your cosmic
eye sees visually
letting your tantric
kundalini free ,,
i shoot molten tears
frozen hope cavorting
with misery ,,blind
beggars , crippled
children limbless
hopeless humanity
begging for crumbs
devoid of human
dignity reduced to
ignominy ..be it a
mobile phone or a
DSLR ,, women on
the streets selling
their rotund fetid
flesh enslaved to
the madam the pimp
unable to flee , fucked
by the cop , even the
sweepers of mumbai
municipality.. drug addicts
who crawl all over her body
spitting on the soul of her
transgressed womanhood
to be or not to be ,,

sometime i feel like
smashing my camera
get the fuck out of
this chimerical world
of voyeuristic photography


why you shoot
what you shoot
with your eye
i certainly wont
disagree .. …