Sunday, August 2, 2009

Maybe He Knew I Was Missing Marziya

Marziya has been away from Mumbai , its over a week, and maybe as kids are more gifted than adults he read my sorrow , my pain, he was trying to replace himself with Maziya on my parched consciousness , after a very long time I shot so many pictures of a kid , other than Marziya.

It was like the snake charmer and the Cobra and the music of the flute,, he held my camera vision , not letting it go, giving me all that he had..

I have shot him earlier but not in this element of friendly spirit.

There were older kids playing across and could hear them calling out to him, but he was overwhelming the power of my camera vision in a tight grip..

The camera not only duplicates life it adds life where no life existed before.

The camera is a instrument of Peace and it shoots ...and capture moments that live long after we are dead and gone.

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Shaving the Indian Armpit

at bandra reclamation
a barber and a twit
shaving the Indian armpit
the source
of the finest fragrance
hitting your nostrils
bit by bit
no perfume in Arabia
can match the serenity
of crowded trains
the pungent power it emits
hitting your bowels
you asked for it
to emotionalize
your pedestrian pain
your wrist
you dont need to slit
you die as you live
to karma dharma
you submit
dont get angry
be happy
please dont throw a fit
laughter the best medicine
you need no permit
no menstrual machinations
no pregnancy no children
same sex is finally legit
a condom just buy it
AIDS dont transmit

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Bandra Boy Arslan

Arslan is a child who stays close to my shop, and his household includes a white mother goat and a black baby kid goat,he is a curious child with the inquisitive eyes of a camera lens..if I take him in my arms than he goes about snatching the beads around my neck.


I happened to see him in his cage so I took several pictures and he kept reacting to my camera like a professional fashion model.

Shooting kids is shooting godliness in Gods own backyard.

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God Is White

As a very young child , call it the deformity of my growth ,I always felt God was white, and I carried on with this belief , as the Primary school where I studied was called Private European School, at Colaba had European teachers early 50's ..Mrs E Lester, Miss June , Miss Marjorie.

My childhood friend Keith Kangas mother Gewndolyn was as white as albaster and so was his grand mother whom we called Granny.They were European setlers from Sri Lanka , and Keiths mom married Dossabhai Kanga of New Era Printing press a Parsi magnate.

My teachings on religion were marred by a Sunni Mullah who came to teach us Arabic but enjoyed pinching and caning me ..so it was Granny who fed me about God and Paradise through her Jehovah Witness eyes.

Rivers of honey and milk..I was taken to Cuffe Parade to be baptized as one of them and it began to rain heavily, my baptism was aborted ...or had the White God baptized me I wont know ..till I meet him face to face.

I worked later in life at Burlingtons at the Taj Mahal hotel,and I still felt God must be white..as my bosses were white Punjabis.. and my work surroundings was all white .. foreigners of all hues ..I did not mingle much with the colored race.. forgive me.

Later I fell into the arms of the cybernet , a whisker away from marrying an American woman and this aberration or indecisive moment had me confused for just a short moment I thought god might be an Inuit Indian instead of White.

Alaska is a White Mans paradise too..


And this poem is inspired by my visit to Laurents photostream..

god is white
heaven is white
with colored souls burning
the other side of midnight
bound by color in ethereal light
lucky the man without eyesight
lucky the demented
who does not have to know
wrong from right
yes in my world
god is white
black man born
to serve him
day and night
no chilled beers
after the fight
crawling brawling
white is might
gates of heaven
rights of admission
to the colored denied
hell is the other alternative
falling from a great height
poetic pause some respite

All my pictures are shot by my shop help, who knows nothing about cameras and would not know the difference between his butt and his elbow, last evening I handed him my camera with the heavy Nikon 80/200 AF ED 2.8 lens attached , I told him to shoot me, he normally shoots me with a wide..this was the outcome a picture that gave birth to a poem..after visiting Laurent's post on Chirstophe Heaven is White lyrics of a French song..

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Christ and the Muslim Ethos

at the cross roads of life
christ and the muslim ethos
spirituality searching for
heavenly profit
beyond loss
the church and the mosque
each calling the shots
Big Boss
god two sides of the same coin
whichever way you toss
hope searching for harmony
through a human cause

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The Hijab..

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hijab

Hijab or ḥijāb (حجاب, pronounced [ħiˈdʒæːb]) is the Arabic word for "curtain / cover" (noun), based on the root حجب meaning "to cover, to veil, to shelter". In popular use, hijab means "head cover and modest dress for women" among Muslims, which most Islamic legal systems define as covering everything except the face and hands in public.[1][2] According to Islamic scholarship, hijab is given the wider meaning of modesty, privacy, and morality;[3] the word for a headscarf or veil used in the Koran is khimār (خمار) and not hijab. Still another definition is metaphysical, where al-hijab "refers to the veil which separates man or the world from God."[2]

Since the 1970s, hijab has emerged as a symbol of Islamic consciousness. Muslims differ as to how "hijab dress" should be enforced, particularly over the role of religious police that are enforcing hijab in Iran and Saudi Arabia.


the hijab
a second skin of faith
covering a woman's body
a serene and spiritual garb
that hurts those
that see it as a barb
the hijab is also
a garment of modesty
in spite of being black and drab
if people who wear it are happy
why should one back stab

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Jesus Hung To Dry

bandra bazar road
humans living in a
a perverted pigsty
the filth
the stink
the ugliness
as you pass by
not just your
washed clothes
even jesus hung to dry
eunuch silence
of the residents
no hue and cry
municipal apathy
never in short supply

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