Nothing Much Has Changed In Ajmer Since I Last Shot This Picture

I shot this in 2011.. but it could be 2012 2013 and even 2014 .

Nothing changes we as Indians hate change , it disturbs the quaint poetry of our distorted souls .

As a street photographer I shoot the underbelly of unforgotten unforgiving pain..it is cosmically laid out for me to shoot and God also knows I dont just shoot with my eye but with my camera too.

And I am drawn to Ajmer I have been broke but I made it to Ajmer once I sold my 80-200 2.8 lens to make this trip sounds ludicrously stupid ..so life works in strange when you are doomed to call yourself a beggar poet.

Street photography is the mother of picture making , the shot the timing the opportune alignment of a moment with the disembodied spirit.

And you should not what to shoot and what not to shoot I use my inner reflexes I dont even know why I shoot what I did not need to shoot but like this picture it comes back from the past craving to be seen and be read poetically . provided you read prose as poetry with your eyes closed.

My patron Peersaab Fakhru Miya always told me buy a small place live close to me and the truth of your silhouette , but I am a seaside urban insect I would die wither away without Mumbai so wherever I go I carry a bit of Mumbai with me and that is my camera cosmic eye , we give flow fluidity to a common street scene we uplift it from the street to your esteemed consciousness we shoot a picture  you make it a street photography moment in your head .does it make sense .. senselessness is street photography..

Now I shoot the streets every time I step out of my house my humble mobile phone records the moment for me easily without inconvenience .

I could never blog without a picture it would be lifeless you have to read me through my picture it is the bookmark of my rapidly changing thoughts.

My grandchildren all three are not well virus fever , rains and I miss Nerjis s banter more than  anything..she came just now with Marziya and said Grandpa I cant drink cold water I am not well I said Yes ,, but I can drink the water from the frig..I said no that is cold too...

So I gain wisdom from kids ,,sometimes crass stupidity becomes a wiser thought than the wise mans fumbling for truth..

My laptop is not well too , my son spent time to get it working and I am using my typing finger as though it is walking over embers of hot charcoal.

It will die without warning it did last night .

Our Stray Dogs Are Much Happier Than The Stray Kids Of Ajmer

for the stray dogs everyone cares
 urchins beggar kids abuse and swear
kick them beat them caught in a snare
dirty faces snotty noses disheveled hair
education does not calm the fire in the belly
tattered clothes they wear..

welcome to the city of Garib Nawaz .. heartless Ajmer
the apathetic politicians have no time to spare ..to
make this city of peace hope love ,,beautiful
heal and repair .drug addicts move about openly
of pickpocketeers robbers thieves beware ,,

What Do You Get By Shooting Beggars He Said ?

there are so many beautiful things
to be shot  why do you shoot beggars
he was very upset use your camera to
capture the beauty of the sunset
chirping birds feeding their babies
in the nest .shoot that little chubby
boy dancing in the rain all wet
shoot happy things shoot joy bliss
roses magnolias shot cats dogs
other pets but stop shooting
disfigured leprous faces ..posting
their pictures on the net you give
a bad name to our beautiful country
a thought i detest he said
sanctimonious his face all red.
.i duly apologized to him forcing
 him to eat his words like burnt
 chappatis while he was fasting did
 not enter my head .. it was my
camera my optical illusions ..i used
as imagery instead of text..
the situation was very complex
than he said why did i not shoot
the prettier sex ..from fashion
magazines editorials i could get
a fat cheque ...i hurriedly moved
away from him a pain in the ass
a pain in the neck..,a beggar poet
chaos confusion total wreck..
in my camera eye he saw a
branch but in his own eye
he failed to see the dirty speck

we all see things differently
what the heck.. the cataract
in my eye i must recheck

Dedicated to a friend in Montreal
Quebec,,

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