Artwork: "Mistress of the House" By Shelby McQuilkin
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"... I waited for some time inside the car feeling nervous because this was the first time after years that I went to someone’s house. I had gladly devoted most of my time to work and once in a while when the urge for a break became irresistible, I travelled all around the world. Anyway, I somehow mustered up the courage and rang the doorbell....."
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There was nothing unusual that night when I took the route via which I usually returned from office: The same old apartments, with its exhausted walls breaking off in places, giving in to the daily erosion; the trees, always a peaceful escape for its inhabitants who safely rested on its branches. The constricted ‘galli’s’, complaining about their unpopularity, evident from their inescapable darkness as opposed to the facilitated avenues bustling with life. The insects making their invisible presence felt and the solitude of the night creeping in. You could ask me, was I afraid. No, the answer is a simple no. A person like me, a photographer by profession seldom fears anything. For me, every image is a story and we keep on creating new beautiful stories out of inessential objects which are discarded every day. Objects that are derelict often have a story to tell, a story of their own. Escorts or the women of the streets in their vibrant outfit maybe an aversion to your taste but to me they are proud souls with no inhibitions and I treasured this photograph of them at their ‘theka’. These women when photographed created the effect of the perfect symmetry of light and darkness, their indefinite sorrows and their hopes to live through them for a better day. A picture for them is a kind of acceptance, a memory they are part of and they oblige smilingly when approached with the request for a picture being taken. The grimy walls which acted as the background for the picture and the paints falling off them indicated the fact that they were worn-out. But still when they posed proudly in front of these lifeless walls, they shone brighter than the stars, submerging the terrible truths of this society just in the similar manner in which they outdid those worn out walls behind them. Men like me middle-aged, with a lot of grey hair and self proclaimed grey matter definitely try to hide our heinous atrocities behind our intellectual demeanour. But these streets bleed with reality harsh yet pure. Another image appears in my mind, the poor unfed partially clothed children with runny noses, hair entangled in dust and a ‘katora’ in hand are usually a pain to the eyes of the normal crowd every day, running late for offices, schools or colleges. The unkind truth sometimes makes you feel that stab of pain but human beings are surprisingly adaptable and sooner than you know get used to facing such pleas effortlessly. Believe it or not i have been acknowledged with a lot of awards and honoured for my talent globally. The last one I got was for an image so close to my heart. A slum girl with bright red ribbons tied to her braids holding a duck so very delicately and her innocent eyes giving an innate essence to the picture that was accurately captured. Even the red sky acting as the perfect background in contrast to her smooth dark skin escalates the aesthetic aspect of the scenario. A photographer’s mind is always in the search of the perfect picture. I can’t really remember when and how I decided to take up photography as my profession.
I lost my mother when I was too young. All i have left of her is an old picture where she held me in her arms, her beautiful eyes sparkling with a little moisture or maybe I was just deluded because it is really hard to make out the expressions of a person in a picture so old. I was hardly a few months old when the photo was taken. My mother was the second wife of my father as he had married her after the death of her elder sister who was his first wife. I was brought up by my father along with my brothers from his previous marriage and he had always been very fond of me. He, a nature lover, presented me with my first camera a Yashica Pro Electro 35 and was always very enthusiastic about my latest clicks. He always used to utter these lines to me, “Do not capture something solely for its beauty, and always search for the story that lies underneath. Because every image is a story in itself, you just need to find it and frame it in our own way.” My elder brothers got married and now live with their respective families abroad. I lived with my father till he passed away last year. Often while coming back from office to our residence in Beliaghata I used to recall our time together.
That day i was exhausted after I had finished my assignment and I was just looking forward to going back home to a nice cup of coffee and maybe a nice black and white classic from my movie collection. I was speeding my car through the deserted gallis when my car crashed with a brand new Toyota Innova. It was a small accident and thankfully nobody got hurt. I went out of my car to apologise and I saw an elderly man with a stick struggling his way out of his car door. His driver was probably checking the car for damages and I was ready to make the payments then and there if necessary. The old man had that profound charm that is often visible on the faces of good natured people and was dressed in a clean checked full sleeve shirt. He wore heavy glasses and surprisingly gave me a polite smile. This was far more than what I had expected. I mumbled my apology and he replied in a bold yet sophisticated tone, “It is okay, I understand. But this is not the way one should drive. Be careful next time.” He turned towards his car but something made him turn back to face me. He asked politely, “I forgot to ask your name?” I replied, “Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I am Atanu Ghosh and I live nearby. Just two blocks away from here.” For some unknown reason his expression changed, his eyes glowed as if my name seemed familiar and his eyebrows curled up leaving a series of lines on his forehead. After a moment he replied, “You can call me Mr. Banerjee. I have recently moved into this locality.” I smiled back at him, feeling grateful that I nearly escaped a catastrophe. Mr. Banerjee gave me his address and invited me to his house on the weekend, and I politely demanded that I could only accept the invitation if he would let me pay for the damage that I had caused. After a short debate over the issue he agreed to my offer and I returned home feeling relieved. On the next Sunday I got ready to meet Mr. Banerjee, I took out the best shirt I had out of my closet and something fell on the ground scattering glass pieces all over the floor. It was the photo frame which contained my mother’s picture. I took the picture out carefully so that I wouldn’t cut myself and kept it inside my shirt’s pocket in an attempt to avoid losing it. In a hurry, I swept my floor clean and took a bath. I dressed up as quickly as possible and hurried to my car as I didn’t want to be late.
I parked my car outside the address that was given to me. Mr. Banerjee has a nice two-storied house and a garden in front of it. I waited for some time inside the car feeling nervous because this was the first time after years that I went to someone’s house. I had gladly devoted most of my time to work and once in a while when the urge for a break became irresistible, I travelled all around the world. Anyways I somehow mustered up the courage and rang the doorbell. A woman nearly in her thirties opened the door and enquired about my identity. I could hear Mr. Banerjee’s steady voice, he clarified that he was expecting me. Arrangements for tea were made as soon as we were seated in the lavishly furnished visitor’s room. Mr. Banerjee asked, “Did you rush your car again this time?” I smiled and lied somewhat hesitantly, “No I did not drive at a high speed today. After all its Sunday. And there’s not much traffic.” He then introduced me to his wife, two sons and their respective families. One by one his two grandsons and one granddaughter all lined up to take my blessings. It was awkward for me but I tried to act as normal as possible. After everybody had dispersed, Mr. Banerjee asked about my profession and family. When he heard that I am a photographer, he asked me about my pictures with the same enthusiasm that I had noticed in someone else earlier, my father. He told me that he was an engineer by profession but he always had a knack towards paintings and later photography but unfortunately could not pursue it because it was not a respectable career option back then. Then, he took me to this large store room where he had his paintings and photographs sacredly kept. I looked through his vibrant collection of paintings and photographs. I had no doubt that the man was immensely talented and given a chance would have been famous for his work. Among all the photographs which were appropriately framed there was one that stood out. This black and white picture had turned yellow under the effect of age. He stood elegantly beside a wall clock but it seemed as if the photographer had lost his focus and captured the wall clock in the middle while the suave stature of Mr. Banerjee found its place at the extreme left of it. He was definitely a handsome young man. Something in that picture looked insanely familiar. Is it possible that I had known Mr. Banerjee previously, seen him in my childhood probably? I asked him, “When was this particular photograph taken?” For a moment his jaws tightened as if he was at the verge of revealing something important. But he immediately relaxed and answered very nonchalantly, “It was taken in the summer of 1970.” I carefully noted the inscription behind the photograph that read ‘March’. His tone alarmed me, he sounded like he had lost the interest in our conversation. I tried hard to recall but couldn’t understand why that image made me so anxious. We were interrupted as lunch was served and as I engrossed myself with the delicious home-made food, I forgot about his picture. Before leaving I made sure to pay back his dues. I drove back to home feeling budding nausea after having that heavy meal. I locked my car and put my keys in my pocket. Something struck me and with trembling hands I searched my pocket again. And there it was, the picture of my mother. It is then that I realised that the picture was not complete; a part of it was tactfully severed from it. In the picture my mother is sitting on a beautifully carved wooden chair with her arms around me but I knew it was not complete. Still I turned it, hoping against hope that no date is inscribed. It read clearly, even after all these years....
.......... 1970
Only one line, rang through my head, “Every image is a story.”
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Deblina
Das, a first year student of Indian Institute of Management, Ranchi, is quite a
lady. She enjoys living in the moment, loves to laugh and to vocalise the things that she is passionate about. And then there are
times when she prefers immerse herself in the quietness of her being and pens
down the most beautiful musings. A product of one such beautiful day is what
she wishes to share with us!
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