I photographed the mother with her child soon after I photographed the man in the doorway. In this episode, I start my explorations on the connections between photography and humanism, no matter how tenuous the connection.

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I am going to make this one a short article, which may surprise those who know me for meandering into all sorts of tangential tracts.

Whenever I am at the Silent Valley Homestay, I walk down to the riverside, cross the British-era bridge, and then climb the hill on the opposite side of the mountain river. These mountain rivers, or streams, are swift and have rocky beds. It is easy to slip on the riverbed and crack a few bones, so whenever I ventured midstream, I’d check with some of the locals first. I had no intention of cracking a bone and then driving the 300-kilometer distance to my home with my arm in a cast.

Those days, I drove a manual-shift car, which I subsequently exchanged for an automatic-shift car. Delhi’s traffic gets worse every year, and I remember driving my old car in half gear at times, or putting it into second gear and letting it move in neutral.

Walk down with care, especially when it’s wet.

If you wish to walk down to the river, it is imperative to explore the pathways and find a path with a manageable gradient. When it rains, even these tracks can become slippery, and although I grew up in the hills, nowadays I am not like a ‘human mountain goat’. Once, I was standing on the road, peering down a 60° incline, debating whether to climb down. I was wearing my fancy Timberland shoes and was about to make the first move downwards when a young lad carrying a sack yelled and warned me not to climb down. He climbed up in a pair of sandals, and his sack – filled with construction rubble – was heavy. His warning mortified me. My dreams of becoming a mountain goat vanished into the mist.

I used to meet a cheerful young girl.

I used to meet a pretty, good-humored young adolescent girl, carrying two crates of tomatoes on her head. My host told me each crate weighed 20 kilograms, but I think they weighed 10 kilograms each. If you assume my assessment is accurate, she still traipsed up and down the hilly paths – and they are steep in some parts – with 20 kilograms of tomatoes on her head, wearing only a pair of rubber slippers. I’ve met her in the rain and in sunshine, and each time she greeted me with a cheerful smile. I remember crossing paths with her in the rain and asking if she continued her walks with the tomatoes. Her reply, ‘Oh ya,’ was kind of singsong, as though carrying 20 kilograms of tomatoes in the rain was the most natural thing in the world.

She made that to-and-fro trip about four to five times a day. She’d walk down the hill with the tomatoes, cross the bridge, walk up the opposite hill to the road, where she’d deliver the tomatoes, walk back, and repeat the process about four or five times a day.

The way to walk in the hills is to walk slowly. There are two advantages to walking slowly. One, you conserve your breath and energy. Two, you pause to admire the scenery or to catch your breath. When you walk downhill, especially on steep slopes, you will lean backward and swing your legs slightly outwards to ensure you have a proper grip on the path. When climbing upwards, you must lean forwards. When you feel you need a short break, stop and stand. I’ve learned not to sit whenever I need a short break. Sitting will make you more tired. I’ve not studied how your muscles and tendons respond to constant sitting, but I can tell you this is the best way to do it, from personal experience.

Learn to walk in the hills. Sandakphu.

When I was twenty-two, a skinny friend and I decided to walk from Darjeeling (in East India) to a mountain called Sandaphfu. The distance was 70 kilometers: we had to walk down from Darjeeling and then walk upwards. Twenty kilometers down, and fifty kilometers up. My skinny friend tired easily, and despite my constant urging to keep standing, he kept sitting. In the end, his muscles gave out, and I almost had to carry him down to the valley, where we pitched a tent for the night. The next morning, we walked to the main road, about a kilometer from the riverside where we camped for the night, and hitched a lift back to Darjeeling. My poor companion was so tired that he barely made it to the main road, even though I carried his load, and mine!

I love sitting by the river, watching the light dance on the river, and the leaves of the forest. The wind sings, and I love the song. One path down to the river takes you past rows of stinging nettles. Luckily, I grew up with them, so I know how to minimize the stings. The nettles have beautiful red-green leaves and seem to invite unwary souls to caress them. Do so, or walk by carelessly in shorts, and be prepared to jump as the nettles sting you, leaving red spots!

I’ve always loved the mist in the hills. Bhimtal is in the low hills, only about 1,000 (about 3,000 feet) above sea level. I do not classify Bhimtal as a mountain!

Misty Mountain Hop!

I don’t know if the Led Zeppelin song Misty Mountain Hop is about mist in the hills. It is a great song. Oh wait! I Googled the song! It seems that the song is a protest song. The Misty Mountains were a place of peace and happiness for Bilbo Baggins, and he wished to escape to this happy place. The group based the song on a real incident. A group of young people gathered in Hyde Park to protest for the legalization of marijuana, and the police broke up the protest.

Marijuana is integral to Indian culture. The Brits did not outlaw it, but they wanted to make money from the product. Don’t forget, the Brits forced the Chinese to buy opium that the East India Company grew in Bihar, India. The British government was one of the biggest drug and narcotics dealers in the world in the 19^th century. Hoary companies like Jardine Mathiesen made their initial fortunes by trading opium.

We banned marijuana in 1985, under pressure from the Americans. Seriously, if the Americans don’t want to smoke marijuana, they should control Americans, not Indians!!

Anyway. That is Bhimtal!

We move on!

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Parking is a problem, so it is always best to visit first thing in the morning or park about 100 meters away and walk down, taking care to avoid the maniacal two-wheeler drivers who aim to mow you down.

The Mahabharata introduced us to the concept of the ‘Chakravyuha.’ As per the epic, Abhimanyu’s mother (she was one of Arjuna’s - the archer - wives) was pregnant with Abhimanyu and was listening to someone tell her about the Chakravyuha - how to get in and get out. Abhimanyu, in fetal form, was listening to the conversation. Alas, his mother fell asleep during the discourse on how to exit the Chakravyuha. During the last battle between the cousins (the Pandavas and the Kauravas) at Kurukshetra, Abhimanyu volunteered to enter the Chakravyuha. Of course, he could not get out, and that spelled his doom.

Vyapar Kendra is like a Chakravyuha. You can enter, but once you penetrate its bowels, you feel trapped and struggle to exit!

I often chat with Mr Chaurasia when I am at Vyapar Kendra. His chai is the best in the market. He is from Allahabad, now called Prayag. My father was posted in an army cantonment called Chheoki, across the Yamuna River, from Allahabad.

When I converse with him, I speak in Hindi and refer to the town as Allahabad. However, recently I became conscious of my pronunciation when referring to the town as Allahabad, and realized I pronounce the name as “Illahabad,” the name that Akbar the Great conferred on the city when he founded it.

Please read my post on the subject! The Brits converted it to Allahabad, unmindful of the fact that they would be offending Indian politicians two centuries after the fact! So, in a fit of righteous, priggish pride, they renamed the city as ‘Prayag.’ But Prayag does not roll off the tongue with the same felicity as ‘Illahabad.’

Still, it is great to converse with Mr. Chaurasia, learn about developments in the region, and listen to him when he talks about educating his children.

People of Mr. Chaurasia’s generation are very keen that their descendants get a superb education and that they are not trapped like he sometimes feels his generation was. I don’t think Indian politicians understand this simple fact, but I bet the prospect of an educated, thinking populace terrifies them.

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When I was at the Silent Valley Homestay, my good host, Amit, took me to a village near his place. We exited his gates, walked one hundred meters down the road, and then he turned right and started climbing. His shoes always amazed me. He wore normal shoes, and I wore my nice, fancy, beloved Timberland shoes. Hill folk are much more sure-footed than we are.

He threaded his way along a steep, narrow path, flanked by vegetation, and I promise you that I would not have found that path but for him, and I will not be able to discover that path again without his guidance.

Amit told me that his family had lived there 150 years ago, before moving to their present home. I guess it must be nice to move close by and still be in touch with your old friends. In contrast, I have moved house more than twenty times in my life, and when you move so often, people you meet become like ships you pass in the night. Many become Facebook friends, and others remain close friends, but the balance shifts in favor of the ‘Facebook friends’ that you have.

Pahari people and plains people sing different tunes.

People from the plains like to believe that hill people are polite but sneaky. Hill people often perceive people from the (North Indian) plains to be boorish and crude. They come from different backgrounds, and their lives are run by different rhythms, and these differing rhythms affect their perceptions of time, life, and relationships.

Which of the two is wealthier than the other? People from the plains have more money, live in expensive houses, drive fancy cars, eat in fancy restaurants, wear designer clothes and watches, but don’t have time for themselves and each other, and spend large sums of money on doctors, medical tests and medicines. The reverse often holds true for people from the hills, but in India’s current political environment, bigotry has entered the souls of both. Also, as people from the plains have started driving their cars into the hills, hill people have begun engaging in commerce and are often willing to cut trees to build guesthouses and hotels.

India is changing, and it may need a few generations before we reverse course and rediscover simple truths that may make the planet better and reverse the harm we are doing now.

In times of illness.

The yellow house you see in this image lies on the hill opposite the Silent Valley, and I often stared at it while having my breakfast. You get eggs at the Silent Valley Homestay, and I love eggs, so I was always a happy child at breakfast!

But after we returned from the village, I thought long and hard about the yellow house and the steep path going up to the village. The closest hospital is in Haldwani, at the foothills, about 20 kilometers from Bhimtal.

One morning, while sipping chai, I asked Amit what happens when someone falls ill. The distance from the yellow house to the main road is a good three or four kilometers, and the houses on the opposite hill are widely spaced apart.

So, I asked Amit what happens when someone falls ill. He stared back at me, face blank with confusion, and replied: ‘But people don’t fall ill.’

I persisted with my question, and he stared at me as though I was insane. His eyes clearly communicated one message: standing before me is a crazy person from the plains who does not understand hill folk.

I am stubborn, and he finally relented – maybe he figured that people do require assistance when they get injured - and said that the neighbors carry them down to the main road, from where they get a taxi, car, or ambulance to Haldwani. Damn, I thought, my eyes turning again to the yellow house/

‘Do they carry them from that house to the road?’ I asked, pointing to the yellow house.

‘Yep,’ he replied, and the confusion in his voice had one message for me. People support each other, and carrying them down in times of need is the most natural thing to do.

Homes are never truly abandoned.

Some of the houses that I passed through the village seemed abandoned. It turned out that the owners had moved to other parts of the country, seeking fame and fortune.

Again, I asked what seemed to be a stupid question.

In the plains, an empty house gets marked for illegal takeover. I know it to be true because I have experienced this, and I know many of my friends have struggled to protect their property.

Amit insisted that the empty homes remain untouched until the owners return, sell them, or give them away.

This conversation may give you the impression that hill people (paharis) are simple folk who live by eternal, dharmic codes of conduct. Nothing could be further from the truth. However, Pahari people live by simpler truths than plains people do, even though they share the same base urges that drive the rest of us.

Dry wood and grassy patches.

I cannot say that I fully remember the structure of their homes, but I seem to remember that the family often lives on the upper level, while they store wood and other essentials on the ground level.

Dry wood is essential, especially in the winter months. Their homes don’t have modern heating systems, so they rely on firewood to keep people warm in winter. Bhimtal never gets as cold as places in the upper reaches of the hills do. In the upper reaches of the hills, people often stock up for weeks ahead of the winter months because sometimes, they get snowed in, and if they have not stocked up well, they will starve.

We started at one end and walked around in a semi-circle back to the homestay, crossing a few grassy patches on the way. I experimented a bit with long(ish) exposure photography, handheld. Amit wanted to get back to his administrative duties, so I didn’t have enough time to experiment and have fun. Nor did I wish to experiment in the dark, and then find my way back to the homestay by crawling on my hands and knees in the darkness!

Spot me if you can in that photo!

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One of my favorite places to visit is the Silent Valley Homestay, about 10 kilometers past Bhimtal in Uttarakhand, India. I discovered the place quite by accident, but I am ashamed to admit I have not been back in several years. The place is calling me to return, so in this and the two subsequent posts, I will ask for your indulgence as I write about this wonderful place.

I discovered Uttarakhand’s Silent Valley quite by accident. Someone had told me about the Silent Valley in Kerala, and while googling that place, I stumbled upon the Silent Valley in Uttarakhand.

The meaning of the word ‘tal.’

The word ‘tal’ refers to a lake or a body of water. Uttarakhand, where I spent my adolescent years, has over fifty lakes, big and small. Bhimtal itself is a tiny, insignificant town, but it is popular amongst tourists because of the activities it offers, including gliding. Everyone wants ‘an activity,’ so certain towns offer all sorts of activities for tourists. Tourism is essential, but the town authorities allow people to litter the roads, honk, and create mayhem, completely spoiling the ambiance of the hills. Call me spoiled – or snooty – if you must, but I believe the hills were made for quiet contemplation, walking, and climbing, not for raucous behavior. Everyone wants to earn money, however.

Then, I discovered the Silent Valley Homestay in Adchauni village, ten kilometers from Bhimtal. The first time around, you need to call your host, and they will help you discover the slip road leading to their establishment.

Visit the place if you have strong knees.

I don’t know if they have made changes to the access points, but as of my last visit, I’d recommend this place only for those with strong knees and legs. After parking your car, their helpful person carries your suitcase to your room, and if you are a person from the plains, you will huff and puff your way down the tall stone steps to your room.

Again, if you love watching television, don’t visit. If you insist on eating meat, don’t visit. I became friendly with the young man running the place, and with his father as well. They had a dog, Blackie, who insisted on becoming my best friend and on walking part of the way to the river. They have a dairy farm – the one with blue and white paint on the roof - and the dairy farm keepers insisted on keeping a fierce guard dog, who insisted on trying to break its chains whenever I passed by. Silly dog. Most dogs buddy up to me, and I buddy up to them, but I suppose some dogs insist on behaving like Netanyahu, Ben-Gvir, or Smotrich.

Whenever I wasn't out walking, I’d spend my time sitting on my verandah, feeling the breeze or chatting with the elder Mr. Upreti. Once, the younger asked me if he should install televisions in the rooms, and I asked him if he was crazy.

Visit the Silent Valley Homestay if you wish to enjoy nature.

“The Silent Valley means that you encourage silence,” I said. I misquote myself, of course, but you get the idea. I went on to tell him that when I lay in bed listening to the rain patter on the tin roof, or sat outside listening to the wind whistle in the breeze, the sounds of nature always transported me back to my childhood or adolescence in Nainital. Our school dormitory had a tin roof, and we often lay in bed listening to the rain dance on the roof during the monsoons. When we’d stand on the ‘First Field ’–the field where the seniors played sports – we’d listen to the hollow wind as it blew through the valleys. This is a primal, or primeval, sound, carrying the souls of our ancestors. When I was growing up, the hollow sound of the wind always reminded me of a ghost's wail. Not that I have ever listened to a ghost wail, but if you ever hear the mountain wind (in India, at least), you will know what I mean.

Why then, I asked my good host, would you ever want to place a television in the rooms?

The food they serve is genuinely organic and bursting with flavor.

Then, he asked me if he should start serving meat. I am a hardcore meat eater, and whenever one of those hypocritical vegetarians tells me they are ‘pure vegetarian,’ I reply by telling them I am a pure non-vegetarian.

‘We are both pure,’ I say, and then enjoy the look on their purple, mottled faces.

I objected to the suggestion of serving meat at Silent Valley for a few solid reasons. First, they would have to procure the meat and dispose of the bones. Meat waste attracts stray dogs and cats, both of which are unwelcome. The practice would also increase their logistical problems. But the major reason I objected to serving meat was that they grow their vegetables on their over-one-hundred-acre plot of land. Their food is genuinely organic, and there are no non-organic farms in the vicinity. Flavor bursts from the food, and I have evidence to prove my claim. I took my son to the Silent Valley Homestay. Like me, he is a carnivore, but I could not stop gaping at him as he kept wolfing down the food.

Finally, when he leaned back and sighed, I asked, ‘Wot’s up, sonny? What’s with the greed?’ ‘Can’t help it, pops,’ he replied. ‘The food is just so damned flavorful.’ My son does not call me “pops,” but the food at the Silent Valley is fabulous.

Nature adds to the charm. Sometimes they’d set the table for me outside, and especially at night, I’d sit under the Milky Way and eat. Or I’d sit in their dining area, open the wooden windows, and gaze out at the mountains while chomping on my food.

Glory be.

A short paragraph about your hosts.

The Upreti family, who run The Silent Valley Homestay, have lived on that land for almost a century. They ‘migrated’ from the neighboring village almost 150 years ago. The family knows the land and has a real feel for the soil, the air, and the water. In all our conversations, they have never once boasted about the land or spoken of their knowledge or the deep love they feel for their little patch on planet earth, but I feel it in their conversation, and that is enough.

If you want to play board games, don’t visit.

I think it was on the first trip that I met a family from Gurgaon. They rolled in about an hour before me, and I watched them explore the fields where the family grows their vegetables. They were breathless when they returned. We had dinner together that night, sitting under the stars. I didn’t see them again for the entire duration of their trip. They went once to Bhimtal Lake to hang-glide and spent the rest of their time there holed up in their room, drinking wine and playing board games.

Why, I wondered, did they travel up to Bhimtal if they wanted to sit in a closed room, play board games, and get sozzled?

Humans are a strange species of animal. We truly are a strange species of animal. We are of nature, yet we run from nature, as that family demonstrated.

I made all these photos with my old Nikon Coolpix, which now acts as a paperweight. I also took several photos with my old phone, the OnePlus 10G Pro, which I replaced with a Google Pixel 10. Once the Pixel dies, I may revert to a Chinese brand. Maybe, Vivo.

This post is slightly disjointed because I wrote it in between bouts of fatigue. Damn!

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I’d like to introduce all of you to Mr. Mondal. I had gone down to get my car’s pollution certificate renewed, and I always return to the same man for this exercise. He sits in a van, body contorted, allowing the increasingly hot air to wash over him. Mr Mondal runs a chai shop ten steps from the pollution checking center, and I walked across for chai and a chat. My good man in the van refused my offer of chai. Maybe he drinks too much chai during the day, and it’s muggy.

Delhi’s summer has changed. For young folk, this is the new normal, and when I speak of Delhi’s summer being hot and dry just a few decades ago, they stare back at me blankly. For a few decades, we used air coolers until the end of June. Air coolers do not require as much power as air conditioners; they can cool large sections of an apartment and do not emit blasts of hot air from their vents.

Air conditioners cool the interior of a home but heat the external environment. We are murdering our planet.

Mr Mondal does not have the luxury of an artificially air-conditioned office. I once owned a car with a non-functioning air conditioner. The car’s AC blasted me with scorching air in summer and freezing air in winter. Luckily, it did not sprinkle me with water during the monsoons! There is no point in talking about all this with youngsters. The blank look on their faces communicates their thought: they think we are crazy!

Mr Mondal arrives at 6 am, sets up shop, and is in his office serving chai and cookies until 9 pm daily. I asked him if he was from Orissa (now called Odisha). He insisted he was from West Bengal, and another gent insisted Mr Mondal was from Bihar. We debated the issue but did not arrive at an accord!

Mr Mondal does not bring food from home. His humble office does not have a fridge, nor does he have a microwave oven on the premises. He orders his food from nearby restaurants.

In this ecosystem, small business owners support each other and develop an easy, undemanding friendship.

Mr Mondal, his friend, and I discussed the increasingly torrid and unpleasant summers that Delhi experiences. The friend had one thing to say: “If you keep cutting trees and replacing them with concrete, the summers are going to become hotter and more intolerable every year.

Politicians and big corporate folk must stop assuming that the people on the street are fools: they are more perceptive than we realize. The balance of power is just not in their favor.

I’ve been experimenting with Substack’s formatting options!

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Benares is the city of death. Benares is the city where you come to die or to be cremated if you wish to escape the endless cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. I am Indian, and while we speak of heaven (swarag) and hell (narak), I don’t have a visual or other image of what heaven or hell look like.

Many images depict gods and goddesses sitting together. Some depict Shiva in the mountains, and most modern images depict gods and goddesses in an antiseptic manner.

But if you ask me to describe heaven or hell, I won’t be able to answer. I don’t know if there is a link between the Buddhist belief that life on earth is hell and the idea that we need to act in a manner that eventually releases us from this cycle of life and rebirth.

We will not explore concepts like karma deeply.

I will not explore concepts like ‘dharma,’ ‘karma,’ ‘moksha,’ and ‘nirvana.’ I will state that, despite Western insistence that ‘dharma’ is a Buddhist philosophy, it is not. Dharma predates Buddhism and is very complex. ‘Karma,’ very loosely, refers to the fruit of your actions. People like to say that if you are a horrible person in this life, you may be born as a cockroach in the next life, but if you are a good person, you will be born as a better person in the next life. The cycle continues until you have paid accumulated debts (karma) from previous lives, and then your soul finds release from this endless cycle and is released into the cosmos. We call this ‘moksha’ or ‘nirvana.’ Contrary to Western thought, karma is not a bitch, and nirvana is not a rock band.

Death and cremation in Benares bring release.

Benares is the city of Shiva, and people believe that if you die or are cremated here, Lord Shiva whispers the ‘Taraka mantra‘ into the dead person’s ear, releasing their soul into the cosmos.

I had written about my trip to Khajuraho and the crazy guide I met. This worthy gentleman told me that the other name for Benares is ‘Moksha Bhoomi,’ or the land/earth where your soul finds release from this eternal cycle of life and rebirth.

Cremations take place at the Manikarnika Ghat, and many people call it the ‘Maha Shamshana’ or ‘The Great Cremation Ground.’ The fires never stop burning, and even our Prime Minister, while sending bulldozers to demolish the ghat (presumably to rebuild it in his image), would never dare demolish it entirely and stop the cremations.

I don’t know the status, but when I visited in February, I saw that he had demolished part of the ghat, and I assume they will demolish and reconstruct small sections, one at a time. Even so, people were incensed. Silence does not mean consent or acceptance. The few people I spoke to, considered the demolitions to be sacrilegious. I assume that the local populace would have been more at peace if the authorities had taken them into confidence rather than adopting a heavy-handed approach.

Do not photograph a cremation ceremony.

I took the photograph you see in this brief essay over a decade ago with my Nikon D200, and it is noisy. Notwithstanding my earlier arrogance (my soul still carried memories of the designation I had in my last job – CEO), I was a bit wary when I made the photos, and I have never photographed a burning pyre since then.

Why, you may ask?

Even though cremations take place in the open, in full public view, funerals are deeply personal events, and families object to the cremation being turned into a public spectacle. Many Western publications sensationalized the public and mass cremations that happened during COVID-19, acts many of us considered shameful, hypocritical, and disgusting.

Apart from this, people also believe that cremations mark the transition from life to the afterlife, and that the soul of the deceased travels to the cosmos to be released or to await rebirth. Hindus believe that the person actually dies during the cremation ceremony and that photography disturbs this journey. Yet you will see many tourists – Indian and international – sitting on boats or wandering along the Manikarnika Ghat, gawking like fools and whipping out their cameras.

The Dom Community.

By doing so, they make a spectacle of a private and spiritual event.

The Dom Raja – the ‘king’ of the Dom Community – controls cremations and always has deep political connections. Yet, because the Dom Community is from a lower caste, locals discriminate against them in temples, in markets, and in daily life. This discrimination is ironic and hypocritical because, without the Dom Community, there would be no cremation and no ‘moksha’ for the deceased.

I cannot explain this strange duality in India. You may call it hypocritical if you wish. If you like, I invite you to investigate this strange behavior, but I assure you that you will not understand the duality. Accept it for what it is, for better or for worse.

Death is personal in India, in ways that may seem strange to others.

No one likes to talk about death, and we Indians do not differ from other people in this respect. Yet, death is deeply personal in that we get involved with the dead.

The dead always come home (unless the person died of a highly infectious disease) before being taken to the cremation ground. The final journey begins at home. We do not embalm the dead, and many people – friends and family – come to bid farewell to the deceased before the final journey begins.

I have no intention of writing every detail of the cremation – death – process, and you will have to be satisfied with the abbreviated version. If the cremation is done in the traditional manner – wood fire, not electric – friends and family form a chain and pass the wood from one to the other until it reaches the pyre. The priest places the body on the pyre and covers it well.

Then, the chief mourner (usually the eldest son or male member) will place a burning flame in the dead person’s mouth (mukh agni). During the cremation, the priest then invites the chief mourner to crack the skull (kapal kriya or ‘skull ritual ‘), and this releases the dead person’s soul.

Some people are uncomfortable with this act, and I have witnessed priests offering the mourners the option of passing on this responsibility to the priest, and they do this via a small, symbolic ceremony – dropping a mud container onto the ground.

The next morning, the chief mourner, with close relatives, will visit the pyre and collect the ashes and remaining bones of the deceased and place them in an urn. It is our responsibility to collect the ashes or the ‘phool’ (flowers), as we refer to the ashes and remaining bones. Finally, we go to a river or another place to immerse the ashes and bid farewell to the dead as they begin their final journey to the afterlife.

I must point out that we carry the dead on a bamboo stretcher to the cremation ground, and one fear that haunts many people is this: who will carry me when I die? You may call this process the ‘antim sanskar’ or the ‘antyetsi.’ Walk along an Indian street, especially in small towns and villages, and you will see a funeral procession happening on the road. Not every day, though!

The last respects.

The term ‘Antim Sanskar’ means ‘last sacrifice’. You can read this as the ‘last respects’ we pay to the dead. These last rites return the body to the five elements.

The process is more complex than the simple statement ‘ashes to ashes.’ Yet we come from the elements and return to them.

Read the hymn from the Rig Veda.

The practice and rituals are ancient.

This post marks the end of my Benares writing. I don’t know when, or if, I will return to Benares. Oh, no, no, no, no, no!!

I will return, but as part of a longer - almost three-week-long - road trip. That will be a fascinating trip, combining two themes in one.

Apart from that journey, Benares is not on my horizon, except possibly to lead a group of young, hopeful photographers there.

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Between Dhool & Roshni

The Practice of Seeing

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When the Thar Desert encroaches.

Between Dhool & Roshni

The Dusty Lens Chronicles

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Benares has been around for a few thousand years and will be around for a very long time to come. I make no predictions. Those in the prediction game may hazard a guess. How long will Benares stick around for? Ten years? A hundred? A thousand? No one knows.

Even though the city has been around for a few thousand years and carries both the weight of age and eternity (in human terms, at least), it only requires a few insane people with a nuclear weapon to create mayhem. My advice: make no predictions and enjoy Benares for what it is.

Benares has changed. Of course, it has changed!

In my last post, I mentioned that Benares has changed, and it has. Even the washermen – the dhobis - at the Assi Ghat have disappeared. The authorities now forbid dhobis from washing clothes at the ghat. I may have been one of the last to have photographed them years ago, and I remember they were not happy with me pointing my camera at them.

If you wish to experience Benares, I’d suggest you wander around in the morning. When I talk of morning, I refer to the pre-dawn and dawn period. They have a pre-dawn puja, which is fantastic if you are religious, but may not be your favorite activity if you wish to enjoy nature’s calm before the world awakens.

Instead, take a rickshaw to Gadolia and walk to the Dashashwamedh Ghat. Someone mentioned that the authorities wish to start a morning prayer ceremony at this ghat also but, I hope they are not serious.

When you walk along the ghats just before and just after the sun comes up, time seems to stand still. Yes, I know the last phrase is a cliché, but it fits the case.

Walk along the ghats and sit quietly. I visited with our friend, and she was rushing about, photographing people, not wanting to miss a moment. I’ve always believed that photography exists in the silence between the noisy spaces. I did not articulate this thought, or philosophy, to myself when I started out in photography, but film slows you down.

As my hair has grayed, I have begun to believe in this philosophy, and I repeat: “photography begins in the silence between the noisy spaces.” That is my line!

Walk along the ghats in the morning.

Walk along the ghats in the morning, and listen to people gathering in groups to chant their morning hymns. I sat with a group, listening to them chant, and when I looked back, I noticed they were all just happy together. A Japanese or Korean man sat next to them in companionable silence, and the men did not mind his presence.

Continue walking, and you will see people bathing in the river, as they have always done. Prayer platforms line the ghats, and you can sit on them and let the breeze sweep over you, if you take your shoes off.

Further along, you will encounter the homeless, lying on the steps or the slope of the ghats, wrapped in the blanket someone probably donated to them.

Continue walking, and you will meet people doing yoga. The men and women – Japanese or Korean – twisted themselves into impossible knots, and I wondered if they would need help untying them. A man sat in the ‘vajrasana,’ oblivious to my presence or the possibly unwelcome gaze of my camera lenses. The yoga practitioners, similarly, ignored me and continued their journey towards becoming unrecognizable human balls of knots.

I met a local boat owner, and we talked as if we had known each other for several lifetimes. We exchanged phone numbers, in case I returned to Benares and asked for a boat. I insisted that I wanted a rowboat, not one of those newfangled things that rush along the river’s surface.

Share a chai and a conversation with people.

Morning is also a superb time to have chai with someone and chat. It’s good that I have been to Benares more than fifty times: the familiarity I have with the town’s culture helps break down a few barriers, and people are willing to talk. One morning, I had chai and listened to a local grumble about the cable car being built and forecast how it would take business away from the local rickshaw wallahs. As we spoke, I watched a man pray at a small corner temple before going home (I assume) to prepare for the day. Small, almost personal temples co-exist with the big ones.

Despite political interference, people love to live in peace.

While Hindus remain suspicious of Muslims, placing themselves above Muslims, the two communities live in harmony, each recognizing their mutual dependence. However, since 2014, the Hindus I spoke to insist on placing themselves on a pedestal, saying that the Hindu community never sparks off any violence, riot, or religious violence.

We love the fiction we create for ourselves and live in our fantasy world with ease.

The homeless, the pious, the trader, and the artisan live in harmony as before. Tensions simmer, stoked by right-wing groups of all communities. Benares has historically not witnessed large-scale religious riots, and I doubt the town will in the near future.

The slow rhythm persists.

I believe that the town’s slow rhythm still exists: the river flows, people do yoga, pray at the ghats, bathe in the water, greet the morning sun on a boat, drink chai, gossip, and do business.

Queen Ahilyabai and the Marathas built the modern ghats in the 19^th century, and a ghat is named in her honor, but I doubt anyone has heard of the great queen. Ahilyabai was a great queen, but in our patriarchal writing of history, we have written many great Indian women out of the dusty pages and swept them into oblivion. Few remember them.

Does the city retain something of its ancient character? No.

For one, the tawaifs have disappeared (read my post on the tawaifs), and with their disappearance, a fantastic tradition has also disappeared into the dusty pages of history. We do them a great injustice.

Does the city retain any of its old character? Maybe in its rhythms, but it is foolish to assume life in Benares is the same as it was five or ten centuries ago. People dress and speak differently. Since the British set foot in India and made cannabis illegal, you won’t see as many people smoking a chillum on the riverbanks as you used to. We can blame the British, but we must apportion some blame to ourselves: despite the growth of machine learning, human intelligence is also becoming artificial, and we are becoming moralistic and preachy. The recent ban on meat near the temple – but not on booze – shows how preachy and hypocritical we have become. The huge LED signs near the temples, promoting saris and other garments, speak of commerce, not piety.

Yet, the city retains some of its old rhythms, the rhythms I have become familiar with. The dhobis are a vanishing breed, and vultures have disappeared. You won’t encounter a dog nibbling a skull in the water, as I did many years ago.

And yet, the gentle rhythm continues, despite the helipads, the evening crowds, the CNG-driven boats, the luxury hotels, and political attempts to recast the city in their image.

The city existed before the current crop of politicians and will continue to thrive long after their names have been ground into history’s dust.

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Between Dhool & Roshni

Photography when taps run dry

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I was in Benares in February this year. Or was it March? The actual month is unimportant. What is important is that I visited the town after more than a decade. You will find, and can read, my old posts by clicking on the links at the bottom of this page.

I visited Benares in November 2014/15 during the Kartik Purnima festival. That was the first time I noticed the grand aarti, or evening prayer, that happens on the ghats. There must have been between 20,000 and 50,000 people at the Dashashwamedh Ghats that evening, and I felt as though half of India had arrived to watch the ceremony. When I wandered the ghats the next evening, I noticed the aarti happening again, and I guessed that this was now a daily affair.

VIP treatment.

VIPs, politicians, and other people watched the aarti from the comfort of a boat, not deigning to mingle with the hoi polloi.

I walked into the winding lane leading to the Kashi Vishwanath temple one morning and photographed the line of faithful pilgrims waiting for their 10-second darshan with the lingam enshrined in the temple.

Unless you are the Prime Minister, temple authorities always forbid you from photographing idols, claiming we are not allowed to photograph God.

I shall pause my reflections for now and reserve them for the next post.

Narendra Modi became Prime Minister in 2014, and my last visit happened in February 2015. I remember this well because in November 2014, we traveled by train to Benares and got chatting with a few security personnel who were travelling with a firebrand, Uma Bharti, who was then a part of Modi’s government. Modi had launched his ‘Clean Ganga’ project with much fanfare, and she was visiting Benares for that purpose. Like many of his grand schemes, this one also went up in smoke.

When I visited in February 2015, I traveled alone by train. My companions noticed me collecting my garbage in a paper (or plastic) bag and then putting it into the dustbin. They copied my behavior and laughed about politicians who posed for photo-ops to prove to Modi that they had aligned themselves with his “Clean India” mission. Like many of his schemes, this one also went up in smoke, and India has become filthier in the last decade.

I mention Modi because his constituency is Benares, and he claimed the river goddess had called him to the city. Since then, he has focused on a few grand schemes to change the city as per his vision.

Changes at the Kashi Vishwanath Temple.

Let’s first talk about the Kali Vishwanath Temple. He (Modi) created a wide corridor leading to the temple, claiming he was making it easier for Shiva to reach it. I’ve never understood how people swallow such garbage because, if Shiva needs a human to make a path for him, does it mean that the human (a priest or a Prime Minister) has more power than a god? In doing so, he destroyed many old temples that had existed in the gullies for centuries. Some priests claim that Modi has destroyed more temples than Aurangzeb, but I don’t know if these accusations are valid.

A large, ugly concrete structure has been built, and opposite it is a new office belonging to the Kashi Vishwanath Trust. I admit that it has become easier to visit the temple now. Rather than waiting hours in a line, you walk into the office, pay Rs 400/- (about 4 US Dollars), and traipse in and out. The process takes thirty minutes. Also, if you wish to attend a special aarti at an unearthly hour, you can book your slot online. I discovered that you must book your slot two months in advance: my wife tried to book a slot a month before our visit, and they were sold out!

You can argue that religion has been commercialized and commoditized, and you would be correct. On the other hand, our population has been increasing (as per the latest data, our birth rate has fallen below the replacement rate, which is a relief), and we have become more overtly religious. More people make a show of visiting temples than before 2014, so both online and offline bookings are convenient.

My wife and our Singaporean friend went into the temple, while I stood outside. I have visited the temple twice with my boss, when I was a lowly Area Sales Manager: once for the evening aarti in the temple’s inner sanctum, and once for a morning visit.

The Evening Prayer. And now, a morning prayer.

The evening aarti was magnificent and mesmerizing, but a priest broke the spell as soon as it ended by grabbing my collar and demanding money. The next morning, my boss took me back to the temple – my raise depended on my compliance – and insisted I bow to the priest. The priest whacked my back in benediction – I think – and I snapped up, glaring at him. I am proud of my self-control, and I restrained myself from giving him a black eye.

Those two temple visits may have been instrumental in converting me to atheism/animism.

People love selfies.

On this trip in February, I stood outside, watching people enter and exit the temple. Behind me, stores selling temple offerings made good business. Police barriers and barricades have now become a prominent part of the landscape, as have police officers. Many hang around, wondering what to do with their feet.

The wide corridor to the temple and the paved (I assume) pathway to the temple precincts have made it convenient for wheelchair users to visit the temple. A large screen on the ugly concrete structure designed by Modi’s favorite architect shows the priests conducting their prayers, and another shows our Prime Minister. The scenes on the screen loop with different visuals, ensuring viewers don’t get bored.

We live in a selfie universe, and I photographed people taking group pictures and selfies. Everyone wears garlands and religious markings on their foreheads. Most carry a steel plate (a thali) with offerings. The focus is on the photo-op.

At one point, I sidled up to a two-meter-tall constable. Looking up at him, I asked if the new social mores now make selfies and photo-ops mandatory. He looked down at me from his lofty Himalayan heights and laughed.

“I sometimes wonder if people visit to pray, or to take selfies,” he replied, smirking.

There is a change in the air.

Gadolia has changed. Conversations over chai.

Now, let’s move on to Gadolia, the market leading to the main Dashashwamedh Ghat. Please read the following paragraph to understand the mythological significance of this ghat. Once, the road at Gadolia was paved but rough. There was a chai shop in the center that became the meeting point for our small group traveling to Benares. The chai shop has disappeared, swallowed by the rough march of big commerce. Also swallowed are the conversations we’d have with local people over a cup of chai.

Now, there is a properly paved road, encouraging two-wheeler drivers to dash around with gay abandon. The shops now have a standard front-facing design that they copied from Amritsar. The crossing at one end of Gadolia still exists, but the shops at the far end are large, with huge displays showing shopkeepers showcasing saris to Neeta Ambani, the wife of Mukesh Ambani, the Chairperson of Reliance Industries. She now postures as the uncrowned queen of India. A cable car is coming up to transport people from the train station to Gadolia and back.

A badly maintained kiddie play area has come up next to the Dashashwamedh Ghat. The steps to the Varanasi Jantar Mantar still exist, as does the Jantar Mantar, but now you must buy a ticket to enter.
If you are facing the Ganges, the ghats stretch out to the right, ending at Assi Ghat. Now, they have a pre-dawn aarti at the Assi Ghat, and people mentioned that the authorities plan an evening aarti as well.

The Manikarnika Ghat will be remodeled.

Standing at the Dashashwamedh Ghat, walk left. The first ghat you encounter is the Manikarnika Ghat, which is being dismantled. No doubt another ugly structure will come up in the next few months. Continue down the path towards the bridge at the far end, and you will reach the NaMo Ghat, a ghat Narendra Modi named after himself. Since the crowds have increased, this is the one ghat you can drive up to and then take a CNG-powered boat to travel along the river, or to attend the evening aarti without getting into the crowd.

Private Ghats. Disappearing rowboats and vultures.

Modi has built a helipad at the NaMo ghat for his exclusive use: no one else, not even the state’s chief minister, is allowed to use it.

The rowboats have almost all disappeared, a massive tragedy. You cannot compare the experience of sitting in a rowboat and waiting for the sunrise, or watching the ghats light up as the sun rises. Sitting there, listening to the water, feeling the breeze, chatting with the boatman, and watching a dog pick at a skull in the river is an unbeatable experience. The vultures on the far shore have disappeared. Many years ago, they used to perch along the shoreline.

The city away from the ghats has not changed much, but luxury hotels have sprouted up, and rooms there cost between $800 and $1,000 a night. Big business has moved into the town, and you will see billboards announcing the presence of the Adani companies dotting the skyline. Where Modi goes, Adani is sure to follow.

The people are changing.

The people have changed. My wife and her friend wanted to visit the Kashi Vishwanath temple, and the hotel driver promised a quick trip to the hotel, at the princely sum of R.3,000/- (over $300). Luckily, the trip did not materialize, and they discovered they could buy a 400-rupee ticket and enter.

I met a local from Varanasi when I was driving in the Kumaon hills, and he told me that people in the town are not as warm as they used to be. They are out to make a quick buck, and the old practice of a leisurely conversation over paan or chai is disappearing. A decade ago, the hotel driver would not try to cheat us.

Anger lurks under the surface. When I was having chai, I praised the upcoming cable car. A local pounced on me, stating that the cable car would rob rickshaw drivers of their income. I conversed with a boat owner who claimed that most of the new business opportunities are going to Gujaratis, Modi’s home state.

They are deeply upset about the temples that have been broken down, and the ruthless way the Manikarnika Ghat is being bulldozed, but no one wishes to speak up. They fear reprisals, and no one wants the state to put them in prison, take away their business, beat them up, or bulldoze their homes.

Change is in the air.

The boat owner also told me that now, with the corridor to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple open, almost 100,000 people visit the ghats daily. I am tempted to believe him because, while I have always considered the area to be crowded, nothing prepared me for the absolute crush of humanity on the streets or the Dashashwamedh Ghat in the evening. It felt as though people were materializing from the roads, the steps, the walls, and the air.

Change is in the air.

Change is in the air.

The show of religiosity has become commonplace, and now it is risky to tell people you don’t believe in God. The reactions can be almost violent.

Change is in the air.

The city’s warmth and amiability have diminished, and a close friend of mine, one from an old Benares family, wishes to cut his ties with the city.

Change is in the air.

Small businesses are under threat, and big businesses are elbowing their way in.

Change is in the air, and the old ways coexist with the new, for the moment.

But the city has existed for several thousand years and has changed many times. Yet, I believe, the city’s essential character and pluralism have remained intact. The city will be around even after the current PM disappears into history’s dust.

I will not live for the next few thousand years and have no wish to be around for that long. Will Benares change and become a city of ruthless, grubby people, or will they laugh again?

Let’s reconnect a few thousand years from now, and compare notes!

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashvamedha

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dashashwamedh_Ghat

1. Street photography, where I adopt a humanistic perspective most of the time. However, I also search for street objects for some creative work.

2. Travel and landscape photography.

3. Distorted reality: Instax movies, fisheye work, digital pinhole, and other stuff.

I am also looking to adopt a few other approaches:

1. short-and long-term projects, and I will start creating zines.

2. abstract work and some conceptual work.

Staying within the realms of straight photography is fun, but it can be boring. It is possible that I will present this work only to paying subscribers, but I may make it available to everyone part of the time.

I was returning home after meeting my engineering batchmates and stood on the road, making a few videos with my Instax Mini Evo Cinema Premium, set to the 1930s-era dial at full strength.

I like surreal images and videos, and may make a few more. Creating them constantly can make them seem gimmicky, so I will make them sparingly.

It is good to distort reality, to allow a little bit of insanity into your work, and to experiment.

Background music: Epidemic Sound.

I hope you enjoy this video.

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Epidemic Sound

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Photography and surveillance blog post.

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Sonix: Awesome transcriptions

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi was probably amongst the first of India’s new-age godmen to burst on the international scene in the 1960s. Born in 1911 CE as Mahesh Prasad Varma, he studied physics and later rebranded himself as Maharishi and Yogi. He created the practice known as Transcendental Meditation and became famous for his association with the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Donovan, and Woodstock in 1969.

Was he a fraud? I won’t hazard a guess, but many (including him, I suppose) became wealthy as godmen and yogis – Osho Rajneesh, for instance. Rajneesh, or his Ashram, owned almost 100 Rolls-Royce cars by the time he died.

Some of these godmen – Sadhduru, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar – are excellent businessmen. Others, like Ram Rahim and Asaram, are rapists, and others, like Yogi Adityanath, are hate-filled politicians. Then, to round up the categories, you have those who wear saffron robes spouting hatred and who somehow manage to fool many people.

The list above is depressing, and if anyone studies the lives and fortunes of these people, I won’t blame them for believing that the institution of godmen constitutes one of the most sanctimonious groups of neoliberals. Yet, and while I have not met them, many genuine rishis, munis, and yogis live in India. You won’t meet them because they shun publicity. Some may live in the mountains or forests, others not.

I started with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi because of his association with the Beatles and Rishikesh, but, like Bertie Wooster of PG Wodehouse fame, I may have run away with myself and left my minuscule audience gasping for breath, wondering what I am writing about.

Shall we get into the subject? I can only touch on this subject briefly here in this tiny post, but I promise I will dive into it over the course of the year. India is, as Diana Eck wrote, a ‘sacred geography.’

Who were rishis?

Shall we start by asking the question: who or what were rishis? A rishi, or rsi (sorry, I don’t seem to be able to insert diacritic marks). In the earliest Vedic concept, a rishi was someone who perceived the sacred truth, the cosmic order, and who could express that truth in a mantra or poetry.

Technically, a rishi was not just your run-of-the-mill holy person. In the early traditions, the rishis did not write down their ‘truths.’ They passed it on by word-of-mouth. Oral methods of transmission were widespread in many cultures worldwide, and in the early days, the rishis did not pass on the knowledge of the Vedas in writing. The earliest transmissions were oral, with great emphasis placed on proper memorization of the verses and correct pronunciation. The Vedas were the revealed sound, as perceived by the Rishis, and the succeeding generations of Rishis guarded this knowledge closely, for fear that ‘democratization’ of this knowledge would somehow dilute the knowledge.

My theory: while the original intention may have been pure, the practice of hoarding knowledge became a source of power, especially when the caste system started to ossify.

Were all the rishis really detached? I wonder. There are many versions of the Jaya-Vijaya myths, but I will give you a condensed account of one.

In another version of the myth, seven rishis went to visit Vishnu, and the rebuff infuriated them. In the version I related above, the Kumaras believed that the pair did not recognize who they were and deemed them imperfect. Yet, if we flip the coin, we may realize that, maybe, the Kumaras did not understand Jaya and Vijaya’s true nature, and so were imperfect themselves.

Who were the munis?

Now, let us turn to the munis. A muni was not the same as a rishi. A rishi perceived the sacred truth and the cosmic order. In contrast, a muni was an ascetic who focused on silent meditation, contemplation, reflection, and – possibly – withdrawal from the world.

A rishi also meditated and gained insight from ‘tapas,’ or ‘inner heat,’ a concept almost impossible to understand and explain. I have not experienced tapas so, I guess you must experience it to know it.

As the years and centuries progressed, the rishis – unlike a muni – became associated with yoga, ayurveda, philosophy, ethics, and statecraft. The last is critical: while some became associated with statecraft, they did not allow statecraft to corrupt or tempt them. That is the theory, anyway: no one knows which way an individual Rishi danced.

However, in the original concept of the word, ‘rishi,’ the rishis did not seek wealth or power, quite unlike the modern rishis like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and his successors.

Remember: this post is just a short introduction, and I will research this topic deeply in the next few months.

Now, we can talk about the yogis.

Now, let’s discuss the word ‘yogi,’ and you will understand that Yogi Adityanath does not possess any of the qualities of a yogi. Wearing an orange bathrobe does not make you a yogi.

The word, ‘yogi,’ is a practitioner of ‘yoga,’ and the word, ‘yoga’ comes from the toot, ‘yuj,’ which means ‘to yoke’ the body and mind together. A yogi, therefore, was a person who practiced yoga as a path of transformation.

Raja Yoga, unlike the more popular forms practiced today (hatha yoga and ashtanga yoga) is closest to the original purpose of yoga, as a means of disciplined consciousness, mental training, meditative absorption, and spiritual transformation. An Indian-origin yoga teacher in Singapore told me that one way of looking at the physical aspect of yoga, is to prepare the body so that it can sit quietly and comfortably in meditation.

Everyone loves the calisthenic aspect of yoga, so the poor man did not last long in the yoga studio. We now have lots of people across the world dancing with yoga mats, and saying, ‘namaste’! ‘Namaste is not a universal Indian greeting!

A yogi, therefore, was a person who attempted radical mastery over mind and self. In the old days, yogis stood outside the pale of society. I don’t know if they developed twists and turns in their spare time but, since mobile phones were not around to distract these old practitioners, my theory may be tenable.

The degradation.

There is a sect of yogis called ‘Nath’ yogis and Adityanath (or, Ajay Bisht) claims to be a Nath yogi. These people were religious ascetics, politically active, and upheld military traditions, especially when high on psychedelic stuff!

Yogi Adityanath has a warped sense of religion, is politically active, and violent. In my assessment, he has debased the Nath tradition, but that is for me to state, and others to dispute.

Have the words, ‘rishi,’ ‘muni,’ and ‘yogi,’ been debased? Yes. I don’t hear many people using the word, ‘muni’ anymore but, ‘rishi,’ ‘maharishi,’ ‘yogi,’ and ‘guru,’ yes.

I will return to this topic later.

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A few links

Jaya Vijaya

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

Transcendental Meditation

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Sonix

When I make that video, I will also give a longer explanation of the tradition.

You walk. Goats rub themselves against you. Human-animal and goat-animal live alongside each other for ten days.

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Men come to sell goats. Men -and sometimes women - come to buy goats. The most expensive goat I saw being sold cost over 1,200 US Dollars. The most expensive I was told about cost over 2,500 US Dollars.

Then, there is Eid. After the prayers are done, families sacrifice the goats and share the meat in a communal meal. Note: they sacrifice the goats and do not merely kill them.

The celebrations will end next year.

For the finicky Hindus amongst us, goat sacrifice does take place at the Kamakhya Temple in Guwahati, and at the Kali Temple in Calcutta.

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What can we learn from lizards?

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Sonix. Best audio transcription

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I was with a bunch of students in Ballimaran, Delhi, for a photowalk. We started at the haveli of Mirza Ghalib and ended at Lal Kuan, which houses the haveli of Begum Zenat Mahal, the favorite wife of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor.

Bahadur Shah’s trial after the Great Uprising of 1857-58 CE and his transportation to Rangoon, where he died, marked the end of the Mughal Empire, which Babur founded in 1526 CE.

Bahadur Shah Zafar’s writ did not extend even to the boundary walls of the Red Fort, yet he presided over the last burst of extraordinary culture and poetry, the likes of which have not been seen in Delhi since those days.

The British Crown wound up the English East India Company soon after the uprising, and India became a British colony.

They also banned Muslims from entering Shahjahanabad for three years after the Uprising.

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Mirza Ghalib was the last poet of that generation, and the only one who lived beyond the Uprising. Bahadur Shah Zafar was an excellent poet himself, and Ghalib lived and composed poetry alongside poets such as Dard, Mir Taqi Mir, Zauq, etc.

Only Ghalib’s haveli survives in the lanes of Ballimaran. We met an extraordinary guard at the haveli, one who could recite Ghalib’s poetry with a rare finesse. Listening to that humble guard bring a spot of magic to Ghalib’s beautiful poetry left us mesmerized. A sign outside Ghalib’s haveli always angers me. The sign states that if Ghalib had written in English, people would have considered him the world’s greatest poet.

Balderdash!! That is snobbery!!

Westerners and Hindus like to believe that Muslim women are uneducated. Yet, throughout the walk, I spotted four girls’ schools!

We ended the walk at Lal Kuan, where you will find the dilapidated ruins of Begun Zenat Mahal’s haveli, now a girls’ school.

I used my Instax Mini Evo Cinema Premium and set it to the 1930 Era dial setting. Music from Epidemic Sound.

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Epidemic Sound

Instax Mini Evo Cinema