Sunday, September 18, 2016
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Nikon
When I was in high school, a friend from
another school asked me with a carefully-camouflaged smugness, “Guess how many
pictures I took at the school farewell?”
“Well, depends on how many reels you used”, was my lame attempt at levelling the smartness. “You don’t need reels. It’s a digital camera – take as many pictures as you want”, was the sentence that opened up a world of possibilities in photography for me that went beyond Kodak reels and the sole Nikon point-n-shoot Baba possessed.
It does not matter what happened after that. What does, rather, is to know how my ideas of photographs, photographic devices and photography evolved over the so many years up to that point.
The camera was treated as a sacred instrument at home. It was pretty much a given that only Baba could use it, and that too, to capture special people emoting special expressions on special days. If he was in the mood, however, it would come out on Sundays and ordinariness would be captured. On rare occasions when I was allowed to wield the machine, it would be under the strict vigil of Baba, who ensured shots were not wasted! For reels were expensive. And moreover, there weren’t always ready stocks at home. What if you suddenly ran out of them? Each capture was thus calculated, thought-out and meditated.
Once it struck 36 (shots), the camera let out a cranky groan. This was indication that it was time to wound the camera back, remove the reel to be returned to the little black plastic cylinder with a grey lid. This is how it would have to be delivered to the studio guy. If ever - in spurts of rare generosity in its dying moments - it allowed two or three free shots, they never translated into positives!
On our part, we the enlightened children of the 90’s, of course knew ALL about how negatives turned into positives at the studio! Why, after downing shutters, the studio guy took the reel to the ‘dark (actually red-tinted) room’, cut the reel into strips following the easy-to-decipher negatives, immerse them in basins of water, stirred them with tongs till the negatives gave way to identifiable images. Moments of hangings-in later, he waved them in mid-air with (or without) the flourish of the photographers shown in Hindi films and, Voila! Your pictures were ready!!! Easy-peasy! It is, of course another matter altogether, that I have never seen a ‘dark room’ in real life and have absolutely no idea how things actually work!!!
Baba would bring back the photographs - developed matte-finished - from his office para in neat white envelopes. I would jump to check - with the enthusiasm of counting new teeth – if in fact all 36 had been developed! More often than not, we would be short by 3 or 4! Matching the black-brown strip of negatives to the fresh positives would be another fun activity – one that gave me the feel of a super-sleuth investigating precious clues of a murder!
When I was about 14 or 15, girls started bringing cameras to school – to chronicle goings on during
such important days as Teachers’ day, Children’s’ day, Farewells or fests. WHAT a task it was to convince Baba to allow me too, to take our Nikon to school! Permission granted, it was a walk on tenterhooks all the way till I came and safely handed it back to him. The reel and its processing continued to be Baba’s responsibility. This is why, when a little later, I was trusted to use the camera a wee more ‘freely’ - ONLY within Baba’s screaming distance - my sense of caution however, never wavered. Why? What I photographed, whom I photographed, who I was photographed with, how the last-mentioned photograph turned out, would be monitored, censored and censured first by Baba! I stared in wide-eyed amazement thus, when I would hear friends going to collect their own photographs from the studios. I kid you not, back then, it was a huge big deal – a mammoth indication of freedom and independence. For us less-privileged kids, it WAS a bandemataram moment, you just won’t get it!
Yes you, kid with smart phone in hand, clicking selfies, groupfies and god knows what other fies, that even MS word expresses bewilderment at, at this very moment as I type them out. Fie, you, fie! For all the restrictions imposed on me, I feel sad at how rampant and misused the medium of photography is today. How easy, how dispensable, how not-so-precious anymore. How, the assurance of infinity produces reckless callousness. How, in the desperation to capture every fraction of every second, moments are captured hardly ever. How i-phone folders are replacing moth-eaten albums, separated by cellophane strips. And how Facebook captions have robbed stories – real and imagined…
“Well, depends on how many reels you used”, was my lame attempt at levelling the smartness. “You don’t need reels. It’s a digital camera – take as many pictures as you want”, was the sentence that opened up a world of possibilities in photography for me that went beyond Kodak reels and the sole Nikon point-n-shoot Baba possessed.
It does not matter what happened after that. What does, rather, is to know how my ideas of photographs, photographic devices and photography evolved over the so many years up to that point.
The camera was treated as a sacred instrument at home. It was pretty much a given that only Baba could use it, and that too, to capture special people emoting special expressions on special days. If he was in the mood, however, it would come out on Sundays and ordinariness would be captured. On rare occasions when I was allowed to wield the machine, it would be under the strict vigil of Baba, who ensured shots were not wasted! For reels were expensive. And moreover, there weren’t always ready stocks at home. What if you suddenly ran out of them? Each capture was thus calculated, thought-out and meditated.
Once it struck 36 (shots), the camera let out a cranky groan. This was indication that it was time to wound the camera back, remove the reel to be returned to the little black plastic cylinder with a grey lid. This is how it would have to be delivered to the studio guy. If ever - in spurts of rare generosity in its dying moments - it allowed two or three free shots, they never translated into positives!
On our part, we the enlightened children of the 90’s, of course knew ALL about how negatives turned into positives at the studio! Why, after downing shutters, the studio guy took the reel to the ‘dark (actually red-tinted) room’, cut the reel into strips following the easy-to-decipher negatives, immerse them in basins of water, stirred them with tongs till the negatives gave way to identifiable images. Moments of hangings-in later, he waved them in mid-air with (or without) the flourish of the photographers shown in Hindi films and, Voila! Your pictures were ready!!! Easy-peasy! It is, of course another matter altogether, that I have never seen a ‘dark room’ in real life and have absolutely no idea how things actually work!!!
Baba would bring back the photographs - developed matte-finished - from his office para in neat white envelopes. I would jump to check - with the enthusiasm of counting new teeth – if in fact all 36 had been developed! More often than not, we would be short by 3 or 4! Matching the black-brown strip of negatives to the fresh positives would be another fun activity – one that gave me the feel of a super-sleuth investigating precious clues of a murder!
When I was about 14 or 15, girls started bringing cameras to school – to chronicle goings on during
such important days as Teachers’ day, Children’s’ day, Farewells or fests. WHAT a task it was to convince Baba to allow me too, to take our Nikon to school! Permission granted, it was a walk on tenterhooks all the way till I came and safely handed it back to him. The reel and its processing continued to be Baba’s responsibility. This is why, when a little later, I was trusted to use the camera a wee more ‘freely’ - ONLY within Baba’s screaming distance - my sense of caution however, never wavered. Why? What I photographed, whom I photographed, who I was photographed with, how the last-mentioned photograph turned out, would be monitored, censored and censured first by Baba! I stared in wide-eyed amazement thus, when I would hear friends going to collect their own photographs from the studios. I kid you not, back then, it was a huge big deal – a mammoth indication of freedom and independence. For us less-privileged kids, it WAS a bandemataram moment, you just won’t get it!
Yes you, kid with smart phone in hand, clicking selfies, groupfies and god knows what other fies, that even MS word expresses bewilderment at, at this very moment as I type them out. Fie, you, fie! For all the restrictions imposed on me, I feel sad at how rampant and misused the medium of photography is today. How easy, how dispensable, how not-so-precious anymore. How, the assurance of infinity produces reckless callousness. How, in the desperation to capture every fraction of every second, moments are captured hardly ever. How i-phone folders are replacing moth-eaten albums, separated by cellophane strips. And how Facebook captions have robbed stories – real and imagined…
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Baap er bari
Baap-er bari bole ekta mawjar jayga achhe. Tor achhe, amar achhe, or achhe, taar-o achhe. Boro hoye othhar shomosto shakkhor jotne tuley rakha thake ei barir bishesh kono ghor-ey. ‘Nijer’ ghor-ey.
Eclairs er khorkhore wrapper, kona-chhnera ponchaash takar note, hariye-phela golap phool-er shukno dhushor dnaati, taar gnuro hoye jaowa pata.
Purano calendar er chnnire rakha chhobi-pata, kichhu taarikh-ey aanka gol, Xerox kora boi er dhibi, album-chyuto sepia photo, Melody theke kine aana Ingriji gaaner cassette.
Kono ek konay thake lukono chumur ushno dhulor raashi, aarek konay thaake dukre knadar shnyatshnyate ardrota. Chole jaowa priyojoner rnowa othha sweater thaake khaater neeche.
Purano calendar er chnnire rakha chhobi-pata, kichhu taarikh-ey aanka gol, Xerox kora boi er dhibi, album-chyuto sepia photo, Melody theke kine aana Ingriji gaaner cassette.
Kono ek konay thake lukono chumur ushno dhulor raashi, aarek konay thaake dukre knadar shnyatshnyate ardrota. Chole jaowa priyojoner rnowa othha sweater thaake khaater neeche.
Thaake roj-i. Dekha dey na. Sheet-er thhik duppur bela, jakhan bhoot-kaal dey thhyala, takhan era guti paaye beriye aashe. Eshe chupishaare kaane kaane bole jaaye – Aamio chhilam.
Shotyii, baap-er bhaari mawja, ekhon-aagami naai…
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Backu o Baba
Lyaj naarar speed dekhe amar onumaan Backul khubi anutapto.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
"Bhagye khoka chhilo ma er shathe..."
Oi je doore kheen, asposhto, lyajbishishto oboyob ti dekha jay,
kalponar obhaabe or naam, or gayer rong er shathe miliye Blacky
rekhechhi. Adorer daaknaam Backy. Anyodin ei shamaye backy or dui
bondhur sathe para beray, beral taaray, hullor kore.
Kintu aj Backyr baba, orofe Sourya Deb kaje atke gechhen. Raat hobe, nao firte paren. Tai backy aj beral taarate jay ni; amake aagle rakhte beerangana roop dharon korechhe. Kato bipad na achhe ~ doshyur bhoy, tar cheye bhoy, kakhan tiktiki orey!
Kintu aj Backyr baba, orofe Sourya Deb kaje atke gechhen. Raat hobe, nao firte paren. Tai backy aj beral taarate jay ni; amake aagle rakhte beerangana roop dharon korechhe. Kato bipad na achhe ~ doshyur bhoy, tar cheye bhoy, kakhan tiktiki orey!
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Seems just like yesterday. Or, does it?
I can distinctly recollect what the real yesterday felt like, and it was nothing like that day which suddenly feels so near me, that I call it yesterday.
So close, it seems like I could turn around and see it unfold in all its vividly minute details. Like I could reach out and clasp it like moonbeams in my palm: such is its pulsating tactility.
Perhaps, its just that, all the years, months, minutes and moments that stood between that day and today, seemed to have closed in~almost collapsed~like the flaps of a piano accordion.
I can distinctly recollect what the real yesterday felt like, and it was nothing like that day which suddenly feels so near me, that I call it yesterday.
So close, it seems like I could turn around and see it unfold in all its vividly minute details. Like I could reach out and clasp it like moonbeams in my palm: such is its pulsating tactility.
Perhaps, its just that, all the years, months, minutes and moments that stood between that day and today, seemed to have closed in~almost collapsed~like the flaps of a piano accordion.
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