A Conversation with a MAN!

By Sadho Ram

So you are a writer, Sir. Hun…

Image Courtesy Google

And you keep travelling?

From city to city, just to write the stories?

Must be an exciting life, Sir! Hun…

Me?

From last 5 years, Sir.

Yes, it’s been five years since I came here to Bombay.

No, Sir, I don’t call it Mumbai.

I like the name Bombay, that’s why, no particular reason why I call Bombay as Bombay.

No, no. I came here with a hope to get a job in some company, Sir.

My cousin brother, yes, he brought me here.

I’m a 12^th pass, Sir.

No, no one took me in.

I searched and searched. But nothing happened.

A few of them didn’t even consider talking to me after finding out that I’m 12^th pass and I’m from Bihar and happen to be a Muslim.

Yes, Sir, a Muslim I’m.

No, I didn’t feel bad, Sir.

Not actually.

It’s not their fault, Sir.

This is how the people are brought up in society. They judge you and your character by your religion, Sir.

And this didn’t happen with only me, there are many who are judged based on the community that they belong to… so it didn’t affect me, because I was not the only one.

No, Sir. They did what they had to; I’m doing what I have to.

Yes, yes, I’m very happy with my life, Sir.

With this auto, sir, I married off my two little sisters.

Yes.

Actually one is married; the other’s marriage is fixed. I’ve made all the arrangements for it.

Since about 5 years, Sir.

Yes, just about the time I came here, I’ve been driving this auto.

Actually, no, not this auto. This is a brand new one, Sir.

Yes, yes, I just brought it a week ago.

Before this one, I was driving the one my cousin brother had given me.

It was his auto, Sir, but he gave it to me to drive at night.

Yes, very kind man, Sir. Like a father to me.

My father, Sir?

My father is dead, Sir.

No, no, Sir, please don’t be sorry.

He died doing what he did.

Work.

He was a truck driver, Sir. Met with an accident, and died on the spot.

His head was crushed under the wheel.

Yes, I cry sometime.

His name is Rizwan, Sir.

Yes, my cousin brother, who brought me here.

Has been really kind to me, otherwise who does what he did and still is doing for me?

No one has time for anyone, Sir.

My own relatives deserted me. After my father’s death, they did support me for about 3-4 months, but then eventually started distancing themselves.

I did not know what to do. There was nowhere to go, Sir. That’s when Rizwan came.

Almost like a blessing.

He not only gave me his auto to drive, Sir, but also kept me with him, and is still sheltering me.

And I did not even have a license to drive at that time, Sir.

So what would he do, you know?

He would go to the area constable and give him some money and fix me so that when they catch me, they wouldn’t, you know, fine me, because their man is already paid and I’m immune for 2 weeks.

Yes, every 2 week, Rizwan Bhai jaan fixed me and helped me.

This went on for about few months. Yes, and then I got my license.

Yes, I was very happy. I thought about my father.

No, I don’t regret being an auto-rickshaw driver, Sir.

I believe no job is bad or small.

It’s the people, Sir.

They, we malign it, the work, Sir.

And you only tell me, Sir, how can a job, regardless of what kind it is, if  it is helping me live my life on my own terms and giving me the freedom to do the thing I want and enabling me to look after my family, can be ever wrong or bad?

Can it be? No, right?

Yes, so you see, I feel proud of myself as an Auto-rickshaw driver.

I take pride in what I do, Sir.

This is me.

My identity.

How can I not like my identity which provides for my life and my family?

Can you, Sir?

No, Sir, I’m just a simple man, doing what I have to do, living my life as freely as possible for me.

Oh, I love this city, Sir.

I love Bombay. Yes, very much.

Why, no such specific reason, just that I find the people of this city to be quite nice and honest, Sir.

They do hard work here and live their life to the fullest.

Of course, there are bad people, as always there are bound to be, everywhere.

But that doesn’t make it a bad city. Does it?

The people here have not wronged me, Sir, and I’ve always tried to not do any wrong to anyone here.

Believe me, Sir, a lot of time, my passengers forget their stuff in my auto, and never return back.

I find them out and return it to them.

If I can’t find them, I deposit the stuff at Police station, Sir.

No, I never took anything home. Never.

Yes, sometimes the urge is there, but it is something I’ve resisted, Sir.

Money is what, Sir? Just a mere necessity to survive in today’s world.

Anyone can acquire it anytime they want, if they work hard for it.

But, Sir, my Imaan, my Zameer, Sir, if I lose it once, I can never get it back.

Money… I can always get it by working hard.

But no matter how hard I work, after losing my Imaan, my Zameer, I can never get it back.

No matter what I do. Once it’s lost, it’s lost forever.

And I can’t live without my Imaan, my Zameer, Sir. Never.

130 rupees, Sir. Yes, that’s it.

Yes, the place you are looking for is just behind the Mehboob Studios. Yes.

My name?

Anis… Mohammad Anis.

Khuda-Hafez, Sir!

#With special thanks to Richa Jain for grammatical corrections.

DIRTY 2 DREAMY: the WALL PROJECT

By Sadho Ram

[With Photographers Swapnil Shahane, Shruti Chheda and Deven Saxena]

Of everything that is expressive, I’ve always found written poetry to be the most expressive form of art. It could be for the sole and selfish reason that I like to play with words myself, but then looking away from blank pages and the pen kept beside me, and looking at the above Black & White picture I try to wonder over this enigma as to what makes this picture a poem? There are no words in it, no play of any kind or role of words in it. It is just as it is; a portrait where a poem is alive. Open almost like a faded sky. Inviting as if to share the world and experience what you wish in her simple Joy! Call it what you wish, address her as you desire, but if anything describes who she is, is that even in DIRT she smiles unperturbedly with hope in her eyes, for a better tomorrow, for a DREAMY tomorrow.

Welcome to the DIRTY TO DREAMY: the WALL PROJECT, an attempt by the inspired people to add some colors of varied moods to an otherwise grey and grim area of SAKI VIHAR PIPELINE.

It is not much, you know, this place SAKI VIHAR PIPELINE, spread over about 2 and half kilometers in straight line, a toy-like rail track (now closed) in the name of road in middle, which divides the place in two parts, both filled with crumpled houses made up of concrete, some plastic, and some other materials. In between there’s a school, newly opened, two well maintained gardens, transformed from dump yards and garbage disposal places by the inspiring efforts of a MAN from foreign KANE RYAN and a MAN from the ruin ASHLEY PARRIERA of JANVI CHARITABLE TRUST, who had organized the DIRTY TO DREAMY: the WALL PROJECT to give a new shape to one more dump yard where about a month ago kids gambled, fought & hurt each other, the male adults of the Slum area lay in corners, under the influence of drugs & alcohol.

This is what IT WAS about a month ago, and on 6^th February 2010 the very dump yard had became a JOINT of Artists and Art Lovers, Photographers and Dancers. All present there, just to fill in the space, with their presence and in their own sense. With efforts from KANE RYAN and ASHLEY PARRIERA, the dump yard has been converted to a community place for the people living in that Slum to make good use of it and garden cum playground for the kids to have some quality time.

So I was talking about poetry. Well, though I’m a poet but I feel that poetry, in general, should not be limited to written words, as poetry is nothing but a vibrant impression of a mere expression of variedness of the feelings and or desire that we, humans, have, possess or build in our day-to-day life and in fight for our life. And though it is being expressed in several forms, but somehow we have not taken notice of it. Of all those forms which besides everything else, carry a poem inside, living, breathing, staring blankly or simply blinking at us, at our arrogant ignorance and at our self-imposed hurriedness.

But everything else takes a back seat when poetry just doesn't stick to where it was supposed to remain/be but gets down and dirty to force people to take proper and appreciative note of it, in a place least expected but most celebrated in manners not imagined but moments well captured.

Pictures have the power to tell stories in most vocal manner, yet there are times when people have taken refuge of written words to tell the tale instead, people like me. You can well label me as a hypocritical narcissist, someone who sometimes will make use of double standards just for the sake of it or even for the pure selfish reason to satisfy the inner greed of self to tell the story my way.

When I reached there at around 12 PM, after little direction searching, along with my friends, a dark man greeted us, standing just steps away from the dingy stairs that fell and lead to the SAKI VIHAR PIPELINE.

SHITHOLE was the first word that came to my mind after getting down and taking a first view of the place. It was an unlikely village NOT inside but UNDER the city, which I along with several few still call  Bombay and others, now Mumbai. At first sight, it’s the perfect example of what the glossy media describes as – “A breathing shithole; an amalgamation of people, piss and potty!”

But hold it; it is here that I found poetry alive and kicking with joy and spirit to infatuate anyone who came even remotely close to it.

You can curse me for being honest here, but at least I’m not hiding behind any lie. I could have written that, ‘oh, it was just awesome, people living and shitting almost at one place and yet not complaining, kids roaming around naked with smile and amusement on their faces. It was just fucking awesome.’ Well, it was exactly like that, though I doubt if it could be called awesome. Anyways, the dark man, who I latter came to know was the very ASHLEY PARRIERA, who had greeted us just above the dingy stairs, took us to the place, the dump-yard converted into a community cum garden, which as soon as fell into the full view of my sight, hit me with the colorful freshness that at least I had never imagined I would experience at such a dingy place.

It was a riot there. Only that this time there wasn’t any blood being spilled or people being butchered. It was a riot of people and paint and music and dance. Cultural riot is what I thought it was. There were people from all strata of society and each community. The number was astonishing for me, I had thought only few would show up, but I was pleasantly surprised to see the huge number of people present there to paint that 100 meter long and about 20 feet high WALL to paint, to give it a new face, a new identity of its own, unique yet familiar with its surroundings in a very keen way.

The WALL had ironically become the reason for the people to be present there and do what they wished to do with it, but their action, their emotion and above all their compassion had what people living in that Slum needed the most; UNIFORMITY. A sense of coming together of people with a desire to help by doing their bit, of culture to bring harmony, of dreams of the lesser ones and of efforts of the capable ones, of love of the uninhibited kind and of care for fellow human beings. It was a celebration of its own kind, not witnessed daily, never experienced twice.

There were as many poetries in each soul present there but I can only share a few of them here. These might not be the best poetries that were present there but are certainly the ones that deserve the most to be shared here. While the event was completely successful and was true to the purpose of it, but I know that this post of mine has not done any justice to it. I've been trying to come up with this post since that day itself but one thing or the other has been stopping me from doing it. Please bear with the abrupt end and incomplete story presented in this post of mine.

The pictures used in the post are all copyrighted to their original owners and have been used by their permission.


#Special thanks to Richa Jain for her inputs on grammatical aspect of this post.

For those who wish to know more about the Project and the Men behind can visit:

http://dirtywallproject.com/blog/

Paint Conspiracy: the Wall Project

By Sadho Ram (with Swapnil Shahane [Photographer])

Hmm.., so how do you begin writing about something which starts with unpolished, unkempt and equally ugly looking walls and ends after 3 ½ of unseasoned but planned out festival of Holi in which people, who actually happen to be fervent artists from all around the globe, transform those same walls, the unpolished, unkempt and equally ugly looking, into an artistic magnificence? And then exactly how do you describe the spirit of awesomeness which seems to have entered into each one of the breathing soul present there, in this case – from one end to another of Chapel Road, Bandra West?

I have no damn clue. You see, my ability to describe events literally fail here, and I’m not at all amazed.

So, I’ll begin (if it can be called a beginning at all) with a very, very small story.

Once upon a time there was a wall, devoid of colours and thus void of any feelings. And in that same time, there was a group of young individuals with spirit as vibrant as rainbow itself, the only difference was that they did not needed rain to show their vibrancy.

The wall, to be very precise was in an Old East Indian Village – Bazaar Road in Bandra. And there’s a legend around that it is overflowing with artists of numerous talents but all hidden inside their tiny, little abodes and the legend is as true as the existence of Bazaar Road in Bandra.

So that vibrant group of young individual used to daily pass by that plain, boring wall, and each time they passed, their heart burned with a volcanic intensity which erupted at its decibel highest, proclaiming among them that – “Something has to be done to it.”

So one fine day, they sought out the owner of that wall, Mr. Glenford D’Mello, who turned out be an extremely kind hearted men and allowed them to ‘paint’ it. But what Mr. D’Mello didn’t know that it was not that normal, same old – paint the wall thing.

The Gonsalves wall, as it was known, became the foundation of what that vibrant group of young individuals today call – the Wall Project. In their own words – “It was an initiative to add visual elements of colour, form and texture to a space, to make the area more alive and generate a feeling among people who pass by it daily.”

So, that was the story of how the Wall Project got formed. And since then, since doing “something to the Gonsalves wall” they have been consistently conspiring “paint the wall” all around the city (Bombay). This week (Sunday 24^th) it was the walls of Chapel Road, Bandra. The day was Sunday and the time “a really cool, colourful evening.”

The atmosphere was calm (even though cars honked horns as if it’s tyres can feel the road, and as if the road was made up of thorns), and people calmer (though few were confused as to why on earth are these firangi accent Indians and pani-puri eating Firangis painting the walls?)

But one thing that surprised me was the number of photographers present there. If my guess is right (which I know it is) then there were 2 photographers on every painter. This means more than the brushes there were clicks (and chicks [Beautiful, Warm, and Friendly Chicks]) which rolled on to the unpolished and unkempt looking walls of Chapel Road, Bandra.

Ok, enough of my rant. I’ll leave you with few of the true-colour pictures of the event clicked by my Photographer friend, Swapnil Shahane.

A few words on Swapnil: He is an awesome landscape photographer, probably one of the finest I’ve personally known/seen till date.

Due to some technical glitch, I'm not being able to upload more pictures of the event, So please refer to his Facebook page for more pictures of the Wall Project - Here


Sorry for the inconvenience. I hope you enjoy the visual treat.

Thank you.

A Journey, A Longing: From Bombay to Barddhamaan!

By Sadho Ram

It has been about 2 months or so since I stirred out of the concrete jungle, the city of dreams – Bombay, leaving my friends, my foes, the gatherings at Rock-Beach, the much awaited 4^th Tuesdays of every month for one of the best things in Bombay – 2 hours of poetry reading Session at Prithvi and virtually a bit of everything.

The day I left Bombay I also Left a part of me there… a part which was as liberated as wind and as gregarious as the streets are.

And at this moment I am confined in the aloofness of a rather small and an awfully conservative town in West Bengal, known as Barddhamaan.

The reason of my arrival in Barddhamaan was though an exceptionally ecstatic one but the sensation is rapidly vanishing… and as each day passes by, I feel more and more drowned.

Like an enslaved lion I am, searching for that ‘door’ to set myself free and flowing again.

Although I’m almost living the ‘dream’ but it’s only scarcely industrious.

And as a result, I’m always sceptic… sceptic about my abilities to fulfil the numerous commitments I’ve taken up, sceptic about the outcomes of the works I engulf myself in, sceptic of the people associated with it and sceptic about practically every small things.

Life, it seems, has unexpectedly become a conundrum of little nothings, which in a way doesn’t count imperative most of the times but then, they do matter the most sometimes.

But I am determined to bring this ‘detachment’ of mine to its end and I’m going to do it pretty soon. Though I’ve no idea how but I guess my hope will show me the door.

I still very well remember, what my science teacher Mr. Anil Murmu has once told me –

“Sadho, you are a man of free will, a will of a very rare kind, possess it, son, but never let it possess you”

At that time, I just smiled to him, as I didn’t know what to say. But as the time went by, and I started travelling I found out what exactly he meant by it.

And, today, though, I may be “a nothing” but one thing I know and I’m pretty much sure is that, my this ‘free-will’ will make me what I want to become, so there’s nothing for which I’ll ever trade this ‘will’ of mine, as I know I’ll be “a something”… something of a very rare kind.

And one very important thing –

I would have never made it this far… if YOU all would have not been here at ARTH with me all this while. So a GRAND thank you to each of my reader who has now become my friend of solace.

Thank You. Thank You. Thank You… from the bottom of my heart.

Moving on ...

By Sadho Ram

The life of mine… the way I live… it has always been through doldrums of unexpected happenings.

And so, sometimes it makes me wonder that –

“Why is all my life has been through so much of sadness?”

But sadly, I have never even come close to any answer. And, while I, on one side, kept wondering… my life, on other end, kept tumbling.

I tried to rise, I often did. Sometimes I even went beyond. Did ‘stuffs’ to please... but my life never found ‘that’ much needed and desolately desired ease!

The last two weeks, too, though did not do any bad, but it made sure that nothing good happens. All thanks to the Sardar.

I am currently under debt. My relatives from far land have now started criticizing me, saying things like –

‘1) First you ruined the money and now you are ruining the life. 2) We told you to study CA but you studied something which god only knows what? 3) Look at yourself, at your age I fathered two sons and you… you are not even married.’

Left with no choice but to leave the ‘city of dreams’ for a while and go away from all those friends who stood by me.

Not a day goes by when I don’t regret the day I met the Sardar.

And, on top of that I am the one who is being made to think that it’s all my bloody fault.

Some people sometimes can be real hypocrites.

But, whatever, I stood by what I believed in and there are people who supported me, stood by me, giving courage to go beyond. And, while I made sure that the article reaches to as many people as possible there was this wish to move away from all these mess. But I just couldn't go away silently. As that would have meant that I gave up... and gave up to something which was not only wrong but also unethical.

But now the Sardar, I guess, have learned his lessons (though he is bad-mouthing about me and my work as my article made him delete his FACEBOOK account and his Photography Page).

Well, anyways, life, as I have been hearing this way too much these days, is all about moving on, so I guess, I, too, should move on…

Bye, bye, Bombay… for a while!

And yet another Bard Succumbs.

By Sadho Ram

|| मुझे भी गम होता बेहद, 'गर होता कोई मेरे साथ नहीं

मुझे पता है मैं क्या हूँ के मैं मर गया तो होगी कोई बात नहीं

पर उस सुखनवर का क्या करूँ जिसने यह सोच कर आज ख़ुदकुशी की है

की उसके शब्द बड़े फीके हैं, उसकी जुबान बड़ी तीखी है

और उसकी स्याही में कभी था कोई जज्बात नहीं ||

|| I would have also felt very sad, if no one would have been there with me

I know my repute in society so if I die tomorrow there wouldn’t be any talk about me

But what to do about that bard in me who hanged himself today thinking that

His words are awfully sallow, his tongue is extremely sharp

And he possessed that dismal ink which never had a sentiment in it ||

In Bombay they say – ‘No matter what, nothing ever stops. And so as the saying goes, nothing really stopped.’

Life at every corner, at every junction went on as it used to. Vehicles zoomed away farting the toxic smoke while the rag pickers continued their ‘cleaning campaign’ at the nearby block.

And the ambience in the room no. 786 of the building no. 43 inside the Aazad nagar colony was in full swing when I stepped inside its periphery. The weekly gathering around the fading evening there of few regulars was yet another proof that, indeed, in Bombay nothing ever stops.

Anyways, their drinks surely did stop, though, for a second only when they raised their glasses to greet me. I bowed at them and threw myself over the bundle of cushions which were kept on one side of the room.

I sat there quietly looking at them when one of them came to me with a big sized glass of bear.

‘Have some, brother.’

I looked at him and as I was going to politely decline his offer a ‘someone’ yelled at him from behind –

‘Bloody, how many fucking times we have to fucking hark back to you that Sadho doesn’t fucking drink?’

And before I could part my lips to utter something ‘the one’ who had come to me offering the glass of bear was already begging and pleading –

‘Oh shit, brother, please, forgive me, please. I always tend to forget this one little thing. I hope you didn’t felt bad ...’

And he would have gone on and on had I not requested him to stop. I felt he was genuinely feeling bad it. And eventually I felt bad for him that he had to feel as such coz of me. Then just to cheer him up I patted on his shoulder and smiled at him and even though he didn't but I could see the feeling of embarrassment was fading away slowly.

‘Come on, guys, let it go now.’ – I requested everyone.

It took some time before the bear again started to roll down through their throats. The mood gradually but mercifully started to mount again as everyone, except me, got in the battle to gulp down as much bear as one could.

And though, I was not feeling the way I always felt whenever I was around them but I tried to hide my uncalled emotions from them. It was that moment when they started to insist me for some food for thought without much realising that Sadho today is a bit lost.

‘Never mind’ – I said to myself.

And tried my best to gather few words and force a line out of them for these literary nerds. Well, I failed. And I kept on failing and they kept on staring at me. Not in disbelief but in anticipation that any moment from now on Sadho will say something on ‘love’s lamenting’ which will not only be intense but will also heal their wound. But, I failed.

I closed my eyes. Not that I was trying to think. But instead, I was trying to avoid their anticipated gaze which was so full of humbling appreciation that it shamed me. The appreciation which I, at least, at that moment did not at all deserved.

How could I? After failing to fulfil their little wish how could the Sadho in me take something from them which did not belong to him? How could he?

And, so he didn’t!

‘Excuse me.’

I stood up from there and at once flushed myself out of their presence. I had failed today. Today at the birth and also the death day of Prophet Mohammad, at the day of ‘Eid-E-Miladulnabi’ ...the poet in me has failed so miserably that I felt –

‘Damn, such a promising day, along with such humble friends... and, yet another bard succumbs.’

May he – “Rest In Peace.”