Khirkee Voice (Issue 5) English

KHIRKEE VOICE

WINTER EDITION

ISSUE #5

The Origins of the word ‘Habshi’

12 PAGES

Hair as an Invisible Bond Between Cultures

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DELHI, INDIA

COLD AND DRY, WARMER

BY MARCH

DEMERARA, GUYANA

MOSTLY WARM AND HUMID WITH PERIODIC THUNDER STORMS

YAOUNDE, CAMEROON

Clockwise from top: Abdul chats with Arvind; Yues and Ram Devi discuss food; Shaista speaks her mind; A crowd listens in on the conversation.

A pop-up space for tough questions and honest conversations makes way for new friendships and a renewed understanding among members of our diverse community

KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

Mahavir Singh Bisht

LAGOS, NIGERIA

WARM, PARTIALLY SUNNY, OCCASSIONAL SHOWERS

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

WARM, PARTIALLY SUNNY, GETS WARMER BY MARCH

illustrations: anarya

PATNA, INDIA

WARM, PARTIALLY SUNNY, GETS WARMER BY MARCH

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CRACKS OPEN A WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY

WARM WITH PARTIAL SUNSHINE THROUGHOUT

FREEZING WITH SNOW AND RAIN, SLIGHTLY WARMER BY MARCH

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A Jahajee Returns to His Roots

‘KHIRKEE TALK SHOW’

& malini kochupillai

J A N U A RY - M A R C H 2 0 1 8

The Fascinating History of the Shikargah

Supported by

photographs: mahavir singh bisht

S E A S O N A L REPORT

PERSPECTIVES ON INDO-AFRICA LINKS

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n a misty October afternoon, the ‘Phone recharge ki Dukaan’ next to Khoj was abuzz with activity.

Over a three day period, ‘Khirkee Talk Show’ hosted an open conversation between our friends, Mohammad Abdul and Yues Ta Bi Dje, and a variety of locals from the neighborhood.

Abdul is from Somalia, and has lived in India as a refugee for over 19 years. He did his graduation from Pune, and is currently pursuing an M.A. in Social Work from Delhi University. Yues, from the Ivory Coast, came to India as a student, and is now a businessman. Both of them live in Khirkee.

Khirkee Voice and Phone recharge ki Dukaan, both community based art projects supported

by Khoj, decided to collaborate on the Khirkee Talk Show project primarily as a means of mending the schisms that often develop in tightly knit communities like Khirkee. We were keen to understand how different communities view each other, and what were some of the prevailing misconceptions and myths they held onto.

Swati Janu’s ‘Phone recharge ki Dukaan’ has become somewhat of a landmark in the neighbourhood.

Passersby were immediately drawn to the sight of an African man sitting in front of the familiar green screen, awaiting a second person to sit next to him. A small table with a plant sat in between. We explained to a gathering crowd that the talk show was a safespace for the community to have an open dialogue with a couple of African nationals. After some initial hesitation, a few people came forward and avid conversations began.

Everything ranging from food and cultural practices, to the uncomfortable realities of racism and misinformation were discussed, making for some excitingly real exchanges.

Arvind was in conversation with Abdul, “Tell us a little bit about your country”, to which Abdul replied, “My country has been at war and the situation there is very bad” adding that this was the reason he had to leave his country. Arvind is from Darbhanga in Bihar, he is in the city for his education. Full of curiosity, he asks Yues, “What is special about your country?”, to which he responds, “In my country, people from different communities and religion live together, just like here

in India.” Arvind was happy to hear this and invites both of them to visit Darbhanga, asking- “If I were to travel your country, which is the place that is a must visit?”. “You should definitely visit Yamoussoukro, the capital of Ivory Coast. That city is full of Punjabi people!” said Yues with a laugh.

Shaista asks with some incredulity, “Why do African men stare so much at women walking down the street?”. Amused and embarrassed, Yues replies, “Most of us do not stare, and if we do, it is out of admiration for their beauty, never with bad intentions”. Shaista is from Afghanistan and had many friends from various countries across Africa while she was a student in Pune.

The topic quickly turns to food and delicacies, with Shaista telling Yues about all the African cuisines she has tasted, “whenever there was a function is college, people from different countries wore ethnic clothes and danced together, it was quite a spectacle.” When we asked about the recurring incidents of racist attacks on African people, she said, “to mistreat people because of their skin colour is not unacceptable, it is something we are born with!”

One of the most fascinating peo-

ple to stop by the talk show was Ram Devi, a gentle looking lady of about 60-65. She was direct, and full of questions for Yues, “Why does your food smell so much?”, he replied, “We use some strong spices and our food is mostly meat and fish, which smell a little when cooked.”

Ram Devi’s family is vegetarian, and have had African neighbors in the past, they had a tough time with the smell wafting up the common shaft into their home. Asking about Yues’ family back home, he tells her, “my mother lives in Ivory Coast and my father has died”, adding affectionately that he sees his mother in Ram Devi, she smiled radiantly in response!

“You have been staying here for 7-8 years, how has your relationship with the African community been in this time? Yues asks Jamil- who says, “I have not interacted enough with them. However, I would like to ask you how it feels when someone calls you Habshi?” Unperturbed, Yues says, “I ignore people who say such things to me, I am not even sure what it means. Some say it to tease me, but if I answer back, then I would just be proving them right.”

Yues asks about Jamil’s village and the kind of farming they do.

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

THE EPHEMERAL TIES THAT BIND DIVERSE CULTURES 2

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s the days get shorter and the nights colder, the migrant population of our neighborhood, all far from home, long to go back to its warmth. Our neighbors from countries across Africa are longing for the warmer weather back home- after all, it is summer in the southern hemisphere. In our fifth issue of Khirkee Voice, we revisit the idea that gave form to this newspaper for the first time last yearthe historical, and persisting links between India and the vast African continent.

While attacks against African nationals continue to be sporadically reported across the country, everyday incidences of casual discrimination and mistreatment go unreported, and unchecked. We thought it was important to reframe the conversation around racism, and search for deeper and

more enduring links between our rich cultures, revealing some fascinating histories, stories and contemporary realities along the way.

Leading up this new issue, we were keen to counter some of the hate and mistrust by opening up platforms that would make open dialogue and discussion between communities possible, and accessible. We did this in collaboration with Swati Janu’s Phone recharge ki Dukaan team, setting up the ‘Khirkee Talk Show’, which opened up the shop to the street- inviting passersby to interact with our friends from the Ivory Coast and Somalia, leading to some refreshingly honest conversations between a motley cast of characters.

Artist Andrew Ananda Voogel created the artwork for the center spread in this issue

as a meditation on all the individuals that were forced by colonial rulers into making the grueling journey across the oceans and into indentured labour, more than a century ago. His personal history of being a Jahajee descendant speaks of the lost, but not forgotten, and undeniable links between our shared colonial pasts.

The persisting animosity of some for the African Diaspora is ultimately rooted in ignorance, and a lack of understanding and empathy for the community. By introducing some nuance and complexity into the discussion around ‘Africans’, we hope to dispel some of this ignorance, and add fodder for thought, perhaps encouraging a friendly retort where there might have lurked some negativity before.

Winter Edition, 2017 • KHIRKEE VOICE

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n any given Sunday in one of South Delhi’s dozens of Pentecostal African church services occurring in various, stuffy rented halls, you might see the following: a Nigerian lady dressed in a bright pink sari; an Indian lady cuddling a curly-haired baby fathered by her Nigerian husband; a small cluster of Indians trying to sing a hymn in Igbo or a tall Nigerian man dressed in a spotless white agbada speaking Hindi. At climactic moments in the pastor’s sermon, the entire congregation shouts in unison, “Amen my faddah, amen my faddah, amen my faddah.”

Every Sunday and even on weekdays, when there are pastors visiting from Nigeria, thousands of Africans living in India’s National Capital Region (NCR) head to these “charismatic” church services lasting three to four hours. The majority of the congregants hail from Nigeria, but in attendance are also Congolese, Ugandans, Tanzanians and various other African nationals, along with Indians, especially from the Northeastern region.

These churches are part of a wider transnational phenomenon.

They were born in the USA but are increasingly popular in many African countries and other develop-

ing nations afflicted by the brutal inequities produced by global capitalism. In India, however, they also provide Africans with a refuge.

Africans, especially Nigerians, have a bad reputation in India as criminals and drug dealers. In recent years, they have become victims of numerous violent, sometimes deadly, xenophobic attacks.

“Nigerian Tied To Post, Thrashed By Mob In Delhi, Nobody Helped” reads one typical headline.

Despite the hostile environment or because of it, many African migrants seek comfort in church communities. One Nigerian student I interviewed told me he did not attend church when he lived in Nigeria but does in India because he sees it as “a nation of idol worshippers.” He is also lonely and finds it difficult to integrate into the lowermiddle class neighborhood he lives in because of negative stereotypes about Africans.

Of course, the majority of Africans in India are not criminals.

They arrive in India on business and student visas and often end up staying years, settling down, marrying, having children, exporting Indian products to their home countries and importing their home foodstuffs, fabrics, and of course, cultural practices such as going to church.

What is a ‘Habshi’?

Anoushka Matthews

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They are man-eaters”, he said to me in response to my question-“What is a Habshi?”

The story goes that an ‘African’ man had lured an autorickshaw driver to his apartment with the sole intention of eating him. The police was believed to have found evidence in the form of human flesh cut and stored in the freezer of the said African man. Other accounts claimed that the Africans, in their cannibalistic pursuit, had kidnapped children from the neighbourhood. None of them had a firsthand account to share yet everyone seemed convinced that the story was in fact authentic and a hundred percent accurate.

Shared and repeated, in time these urban myths have acquired the power to reinforce prejudice which in turn leads to conflicts based on racial and cultural differences. The Africans or ‘Habshis’ bear the brunt of this ignorance.

The belief that Africa is a country populated with men who eat menbranded for eternity as slaves and savages, has planted itself in the minds of the villagers. Refusing to budge on their views regarding Habhsis, they are content to limit themselves to narratives that bear very little factual or historical basis.

The African man-the very char-

acter who ignites this intriguing urban myth is rarely offered a chance to defend his position. He is believed to belong to a country called Africa and if he is particularly burlesque than surely he must be a Nigerian. The sheer lack of exposure causes villagers to view all Africans, irrespective of the country they belong to, as a singular, homogenous group.

The word Habshi was in fact used historically to refer to Africans living in India, who had been brought here as slaves working as soldiers, sailors, dockworkers, horse-keepers, domestic servants, agricultural workers, nurses or had migrated to India as traders, bureaucrats and clerics. While a majority of them belonged to the horn of Africa, and to parts that now constitute Ethiopia, others belonged to regions more to the south such as Tanzania, Kenya and South Africa.

Ethiopia was once known as Abyssinia and Habashi or Habshi was the Arabic word for Ethiopian or Abyssinian. The word Habshi was used to collectively refer to enslaved Africans living in India, despite so many of them belonging to tribes and regions other than Ethiopia/Abyssinia. Thus, the very usage of the word is symbolic of the inherent ignorance about Africans that has prevailed in the country

One congregant of the Shiloh Global Worship Centre (AKA Chapel of Possibilities) in Delhi’s southern suburb of Saket has found success as a fashion designer with showrooms in Lagos and Delhi.

Once settled, African migrants bring other family members over for medical treatment because India offers sophisticated care at relatively cheap cost. One Nigerian student who was charmed into coming to India by Bollywood films brought her elderly mother over for a course of treatment that lasted months. This dignified woman always wears traditional Nigerian dress with an elegant head wrap. One day, when she was walking through Khirkee Village’s narrow, winding alleys, someone threw food scraps at her. This experience radicalized her daughter, who laments the fact that Indians are treated so well in Nigeria while Africans suffer such indignities in

India.

India is a complex environment. The African experience is over-determined by the country’s general obsession with lighter skin.

As usual, white foreigners enjoy extraordinary privilege. The reverse is true for darker skinned people, those who are associated with being “low caste.” Indians, especially those with less exposure and education, look down on Africans.

Many middle-class Africans find themselves living amongst Indians who are less cosmopolitan than those who live in South Delhi’s more upper-class “colonies.”

Dark-skinned Africans and single-lidded Northeastern Indians whom locals describe as looking “Nepali” or “Chinese” are both marginalized groups in the NCR. Both Africans and Northeasterners often experience difficulty finding housing because of xenophobic prejudice and hence, both end up

living together in Delhi’s lower middle-class, less regulated, “urban villages” like Munirka, Khirkee, Chattarpur, and Safdarjung Enclave’s Arjun Nagar. Hence, a large network of churches has grown up in and around these areas.

Like Africans in India, Africans on the continent are turning more and more to these churches. Ironically they may be doing so for the same reasons as African migrants in Delhi: to seek solace from the hostile environment engendered by the endemic failures of African governments to provide adequate opportunity and decent quality of life for their citizens. Which is the reason so many move to India in the first place.

Reprinted with permission from the author, first published online at http://africasacountry.com/ on Oct 19, 2017.

KHIRKEE TALK SHOW /from page 1

IMAGE CREDIT: THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD

Melissa Tandiwe Myambo

illustration: neha narayan

THE AFRICAN CHURCHES OF SOUTH DELHI

Sultan Muhammad Adil Shah of Bijapur with his African Courtiers, ca, 1640.

for centuries.

Most Africans, when they first move to India, are clueless about the word, its meaning or origin.

On uncovering the meaning, their reaction is one of shock and indignation. The very idea of being thought of as a cannibal is insulting. They are unable to stomach the ignorance that keeps these stories alive.

What motivates such myths and why do the villagers continue to hold on to these false beliefs?

The lack of effort to enquire more about African migrants is perhaps the fuel that keeps the story going.

The disinterest in creating an atmosphere of acceptance and inclusion is also rooted in the fear that the Africans, if treated fairly, will be more likely to continue living in the village, which is contrary to local sentiment.

Khirkee village is a vibrant and

diverse neighbourhood, populated with persons of every size, colour and shape. For conflicts to emerge as a consequences of cultural and lifestyle differences is but natural.

Yet living in a state of constant distrust and resentment is also not a viable long term solution.

In continuing to use the word Habshi as a blanket term for all Africans, we are doing great disservice to the current reality of the 54 nations of Africa, which are far from being backward and uncivilized. The word Habshi, having been unfairly passed on from generation to generation, must find a resting place in the pages of history books. Its continued usage is reflective of the deep seated prejudices that exist in the minds of so many Indians who strive to deny Africans the right to live, work and study in an atmosphere that is safe and welcoming.

“We grow corn, wheat, sugarcane and varieties of vegetables,” came Jamil’s response. Yues talked about the main crop in Ivory Coast being Cacao beans, “not much else grows there, thats why we eat so much meat”. Soon the chatter veers to Bhojpuri music, we played a popular number in the studio, propelling everyone in the audience into an enthusiastic dance.

Local businessman Aditya Kaushik has had many tenants from different African countries in the past, Abdul asked him with some exasperation, “many people here believe African men are cannibals and African women are prostitutes, what do you say to this?” Aditya responds, “I have known many Africans over the years, they were mostly into business, some were nurses, others students. These are just rumours people propagate to incite fear in people’s minds.”

“The Khirkee Talk Show” gave us a renewed sense of the faith and goodwill that most people have towards each other in the neighborhood. Khirkee has gained a reputation as a hostile place for immigrants due to some incidents in the past, it was heartening to see people sorting through differences with open dialogue. Our teams at Khirkee Voice and Phone recharge ki Dukaan plan to continue the series in the future, creating a recurring space for new friendships to form over conversations.

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

EXCLUSIVE SERIES

FORCED INTO THE OCEAN 5th installment of an Artist’s rendition of his great grandmothers forced migration.

The Isle of Calypso TEXT + ARTWORK

ANDREW ANANDA VOOGEL

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y words are lost and it is dark now. The silence of your seduction creeps late onto this Isle of Abandon, this Isle of Calypso. When the new gods arrive, the old ones will hurl themselves from cliffs. Their littered souls will glisten along the shore, rising in the mornings and wandering late into the evening, gathering parts of the jungle to spirit away to another world. Their bodies droop behind them. No longer contained between borders of flesh, their spectral insides soak every tree and leaf in the jungle till each and all glow with darkness.

Polo stood at the bottom of the last narrow cliff side, surveying the descending tree line. The sky above had melted into liminal hues of violet and the winds began to blow hot on Polo’s face. He brought his attention toward the dank air that was rising from the entrance of the jungle. It rose restlessly, shimmering in the fading light, like a procession of tired spirits.

Taking measured steps, he sets foot into the dark linger of the jungle. The trees shuffle their leaves, shaking off undisturbed dust as Polo enters the dark canopy.

Pacing through the expansion of green, he slowly inhales, sensing a deep silence. He remembers his boatman Ram is waiting at the

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shore, probably fast asleep, snoring away. As Polo advances through the jungle, each foot falls gently onto the softly decomposing layers, those which time had hurriedly been gathering up that afternoon.

The gentle seduction of the jungle is gradual at first. The eyes become attracted to the infinite crevices that whimsically scatter through your field of vision. The sense of smell becomes lured by subtle aromas that hang in the air. Delicate chirps originating from small birds that live in-between the branches sound out like the chime of small bells. Polo follows their voices.

The air got hotter and hotter and within an instant Polo began to sweat, thinking back to a few weeks past, when his middle daughter came home, her face soaked in tears. Their neighbor teased her on her way back from school. When she arrived home, she was furious and Polo felt her rage. Picking up a hammer, he brought all seven of his daughters to the man’s house.

The neighbour and his two sons working outside, noticed the girls’ approach. Each with hammer and shovel, brick and timber in hand, enter the yard and bash away at the men. Bruised and beaten, they all repented and the girls headed back home. Polo felt amused about this story, as he was now sitting deep

Winter Edition, 2017 • KHIRKEE VOICE

in the jungle, far far away from his village.

His silence, disturbed by the scurrying of a little creature, pushes him to continue to wander through the trees. Dewy flowers lined the forest walls, acting as a precursor to the path’s uneasy ground. Lurking shadows pursue Polo as he advances. Sensing a presence, he begins to look around.

The more he looked, the slower his pace became, causing the wash of green to morph back to defined shapes, sizes and eventually into foliage. The cracks and voids in the brush gave way to endless cavities of darkness. The moment felt ominous, but not final. “Who are you?” he shouted. It moves closer toward him, and as the slender reeds give way, a figure appears, holding a machete and a weathered old hemp sack.

Visibly stuffed full of some rare commodity only a jungle knows how to manufacture, the sack nestled comfortably on the figure’s hip. Antique white eyes looked back at him. Polo takes a lazy gaze across the figure’s skin, which like a deep collection of stars, sparkled brightly and dimly at the same time. As the two peered at each other, Polo could not make out where the figure’s body began and where it ended. He looked back onto the antique white eyes and noticed a machete lifting in the air above his head. It swiftly swiped down and connected with some creature that must have been flying above his head. The figure’s eyes shine briefly, and it bends forward, delicately placing the creature in the rucksack. Polo’s eyes lingered a bit longer, and it was only through shards of light, that Polo could make out the specter moving, departing back through the jungle.

Polo wasn’t even sure if the figure had noticed him or not. A momentary passing of a curious kind he thinks to himself. He pulls out the map and gazes again at the strange character that had been drawn on it. Sweat drips from his forehead onto the map, and Polo forgets which side he had entered on. A crevice of some sort catches Polo’s eyes. It is a hearth, sitting underneath a piling of trees.

Cautiously, he moves closer toward it. Shrouded in vibrant ferns and

drooping palm trees, the hearth lightly glistens. Polo moves closer and sees that mischievous character from before etched on the inside of weapons, the hearth. The character smiled, My Africa Home For the destruction of the making Polo uneasy. He reaches Efe Benjamin Fellow man. inside and places his hands on a It is almost three decades small form, it felt like a miniature My Africa, my home now, and I still think of you person or a doll. He places it against As I cast back my mind Like yesterday. his rapidly beating heart and presses To days before I left it firmly there. A loud boom bursts Before you left me impotent • into the sky, and rain begins to fall. Before the wars broke He hears the flow of some water Before thieves and looters Colonial Mentality pouring and spattering. The weight Who parade themselves Eche Ononukwe of the form bore into his chest, As politicians but he paced onward toward the Took over your affairs We always say our land is desecrat’d; encroaching berth of light. More Before morale and hopes that the whites from the wintry land and more light leaks through the were lost, and both old came with their heavy machine increasing cracks in the trees, until And young, left your shores guns, he looks down and no longer sees To ‘I dont know where’ firing here and there our agedthe jungle floor, but luminescent When I think of what civiliz’d land sands being lapped by glowing This modernisation has like Shylock on the flesh of Antonio. cobwebs of white foam. The liquid done to you, I weep; But we’re quick to forget cobwebs strewn around his feet, Men, thinking, that we fought ‘em heart and soul shifting the sands underneath him. and inventing to claim back our enslav’d land, Sky a burst in stellar abstractions, everyday, which they demanded from us – the Demerara River was wine dark, New and more they won us, we won ‘em lat’r. and full of haze, her waters abuzz sophisticated kind of with insects and birds flying and swooping into the water. Polo walks over to his sleeping boatman and gently shoves the boat away from shore. Ram hurriedly sputters on the engine and begins to motor the boat off. They move upstream and the villages show up once more, Calypso sounds echoing through the trees. Polo unclenches his hand and a glint of golden light flashed into the night. The form that laid in his hand was a figure carved in gold. One of the older gods Polo thought. When they shift from one world to the other, a part of their body is collected and compressed deep in the jungle, and as it hardens it dries into a small block of gold. Few ever find a golden jungle spirit. They rarely shift between worlds and when they do the earth cracks open and its heart A Banarasi Silk, Resham Meena Sari with traditional Shikargah motifs explodes beneath the surface of the ground. Polo knows the spirit Mayank Mansingh Kaul lion in a pristine meandering must be carved up. He must give creeper of foliage and flowering ara percentage to the boatman and mong several popular abesques - sometimes intertwined the rest will be melted and formed visual themes in the with figurative motifs of women into jewelry for his daughters. The Benaras repertory of and men set in lush forests - seems shore was pitch black now, and hand-woven textiles since the far removed from the endless stark the only marks on the water were twinkling trails of light, fluttering late 19th century, has been the landscapes which we are used to Shikargah. The word itself has associating with the African savanbetween the river’s wakes.

Indo-Islamic origins, and refers to nahs. simulated hunting grounds which Notions of such displacement • were developed for royalty and occured to me almost 7 hears back, the aristocracy to breed species of through a two-week residency I Facing page and Below: Demerara Slides 1-5 lions, leopards and cheetahs which was co-curating at the Khoj InterThe artist examines his archives of slides from his time in the Caribbean are believed to have been brought national Artists’ Residency in Khinto the Indian subcontinent from irkee: Every morning, groups of Africa. The recurring format of young students from Africa walked design is seen in Mughal miniature across the neighbourhood’s narpaintings, and similar imagery row lanes, dressed in flamboyant appears in other historical textiles, textiles from their home countries. art and surface ornamentation in Bold animal prints played with the Indian sub-continent - from geometrical mud-resists and inGujarat to the Coromandel Coast. digo cottons in complex ensembles The presence of such visuals with elaborate headdresses. I saw remind us of the cosmopolitan them as the majestic lionesses, copnature of influences which have ing with an altogether other kind shaped the range of material cul- of Indian landscape than the Shiture in the South Asian region, kargah textiles, this time in chaotic evidence of which we have for over labyrinths of concrete, plastic, temtwo millennia now. In this regard, ples and the bazaar. while a symbol of regality and poIn small measure, we hear of litical power, to think of the mighty the historical slave trade between

Africa in Verse

The Enduring Legacy of Historical Trade Routes on Indian Textiles

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After a long period of perpetual chains, we won our land, thanks to our Chineke God. Now we rule ourselves yet enslave ourselves, with our acquir’d colonial mentality of rule-and-divide, standing in a platform, mouth wide open like windows of heaven about to let a heavy pour.

We preach a corrupt free society, yet we’re corrupt in our heart.

•

Haiku Barnabas Ikeoluwa Adeleke Midday shower a cow’s hoofprint quenches the dove’s thirst India and Africa, and occasionally the rise of such ‘captives’ brought into the subcontinent from the western coast, who rose to become powerful political leaders down to the Deccan. Some of the oldest evidences of historical textiles attributed to the Indian subcontinent are fragments of hand block-printed and painted cottons founds in the 1920s in the town of Fustate near Cairo. Attributed to a broad period between the 13th and 17th centuries, these have been traced to Gujarat and to a flourishing trade between the region and Northern Africa, under the Mamluks, that have been known famously as the ‘Slave Dynasty’.

Indigo-dyed fabrics have been and continue to be - exported to Africa from India: Intorica is a term which is used for Indian handloom textiles exported to Nigeria, literally made from co-joining the words ‘India to Africa’. Mostly plaids and checks, and combined with reds and whites, these are also referred to as the more commonly used ‘Madras Checks’, and are important for the Kalabari community from the region. The pure cotton varieties of such fabrics are also called ‘Injiri’ in Kalabari language meaning ‘Real India’ in English.

Used as wraps by both men and women, their older versions are believed to have been traded with Africa from India through the British trade routes between the 17th and 19th centuries. Till date, the use of naturally-dyed indigo for textiles is associated with symbolic notions of the esoteric. And the dye that runs from the fabric when worn, is endowed with healing and cosmetic properties. Interestingly, the dark-skinned is evoked in Indian mythology as blue, the very same indigo. Are we then looking at a reverence here for a predecessor from another ‘West’? Perhaps we need to re think of these enduring images as the products of a more cosmopolitan past.

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

MIDDLE PASSAGE Andrew Ananda Voogel 6

Winter Edition, 2017 • KHIRKEE VOICE Winter Edition, 2017-18

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

Going Home for the Holidays Local Talent to Shine at Fest Feka Aniedi Mark Bertrand Radha Mahendru

A

fter completing a three year bachelor’s course in cinema with the Asian school of Media Studies here in Noida, returning to my home town Yaoundé in Cameroon was a bit of a shock. Needless to say, to an extent, I felt a little more like a stranger in the city where I was born and grew up at.

I was quite amazed at how much things could change in such a brief span. But of course some things never change. The people, culture, foods and topography, always stay the same. I was very warmly welcomed as almost everyone seemed happy to have me back. It was amazing to see that even the airport staff communicated with me like they had known and missed me for so long. It was an indescribable feeling to meet family which I had not seen for a while.

As we drove home, what hit me almost instantly was how small everything looked. Spending so much time in and around Delhi, I had gotten used to the bigger roads and the many high rise buildings.

More to that, the streets seemed to be quite empty; since I had gotten used to the tight traffic and population in Delhi, my first days back home had me feeling like, “where

CHAI AND CHATTER IN THE HOOD

Rajyashri Goody

K

hirkee has been a revelation for our little threesome, Aziz comes from Bamyan, in Afghanistan, Tito is from Lagos, Nigeria, and I am from Pune. As artists living and working at Khoj for one month, we often go on long walks to discover hidden gems and make new friends, and consequently we end up drinking many cups of chai.

There are two shops very close to where we live, steadily serving steaming hot chai day and night to everybody and keeping the street alive and buzzing with energy. This is the chai that I’m used to back home in Pune, where the milky sweetness lingers on your tongue for a long while after. It’s best had with Parle G biscuits, in my opinion.

Afghani chai is clear and crisp, made with boiling water and tealeaves. We’ve been consuming lots of it at local restaurants and in people’s homes. I was indeed very

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I Mark (first from left) with college friends in NOIDA

the people at?”

It made sense though, my country has a minute population of about 20 million, which is just about the population of Delhi alone. The weather and climate gave me a sense of relief. Leaving Delhi in early August with temperatures of about 38 degrees Celsius, it was fun not to have to rely on air conditioners and fans anymore.

The same foods I grew up to, tasted like I had never eaten them before.

Almost every meal was astonishing to my taste buds.

I wasn’t yet sure of what it meant to be home till I noticed I was actually overwhelmed to see that many Africans. Out here in India, there is always a sense of security and comfort that comes along with seeing a fellow brother. So to be surrounded by people who looked like me gave me this feeling of belonging.

All these feelings and emotions were short-lived as time

went by though. After about two weeks there, home was the same old Cameroon which I had always known, with but a few changes.

However, I noticed I had this desire to relate with every Indian I saw out there. Somehow I just felt like walking to them and spewing some of the Hindi I learned, just to see the look on their faces. It felt good to be able to identify Indians from a mile away. Back home people turn to refer middle easterners and Indians as Arabs as a whole, so I had my self correcting a few of my mistaken brothers like “no they not Arabs, they Indians.” Now I’m back hein India and I have to say I miss my home town quite a lot, but I cannot regret being here. It’s amazing to be able to live amongst and experience a whole other culture and people. To understand and appreciate the similarities and differences we share.

n the two decades of its existence as a contemporary arts organization, Khoj International Artists’ Association has worked with communities, artists and individuals, enabling them to act with imagination and creativity.

What does it mean for an Art Centre to exist in the heart of an urban settlement like Khirkee?

How can the art space work with and within the community in a mutually beneficial, organic and sustainable way?

Khoj’s engagement with Khirkee began in 2002, when it moved into a building in the neighbourhood. Khirkee is a largely transient space, home to immigrant communities from within and outside India. This cultural diversity has been the cause of tensions, discrimination, and racial biases, but also makes it a rich and vibrant space.

by Khoj International Artists’ Association, the festival is a celebration of the cultural multiplicity of Khirkee, bringing to the foreground a variety of narratives about and from the neighbourhood through exhibitions, interventions, music, theatre, sports, bazaars and food.

Khirkee Festival will activate the spaces of Khoj Studios, the Sai Baba Mandir Road and Jamun Wala Park.

At Khoj Studios, there will be an exhibition comprising of interactive installations, videos, workshops, and conversations showcasing four long-term community-based projects supported

by Khoj: Khirkee Storytelling Project by Swati Janu; Khirkee Voice/ Khirkee Awaaz by Malini Kochupillai and Mahavir Singh Bisht; Khirkee Dialogues and Kisse Connection by Aagaaz Theatre Trust; and Young Artists of Khirkee project by the children of the neighbourhood, facilitated by Aru Bose.

suresh pandey

From left to right: Rajyashri, Tito, Azeez and Karma enjoy tea at a local Chai shop

touched when, a few days ago, an Afghan family offered us chai with golden raisins and badam that they had brought specially from Kabul.

Kai Qubad, a young man who works in a local restaurant in Khirkee, told us that this chai, if had with lemon, is able to cure those suffering from asthma. Whenever someone he knows is coming from Afghanistan to Delhi for medical treatment, Kai makes sure they bring 5 or 10kgs of tea leaves from Kabul so he can always have a steady supply for his customers.

Incidentally, the Chinese have had a large role to play in both Indian and Afghani tea culture. In Afghanistan, it is said that local tribes would exchange their goods with silk and tea from Chinese traders.

Tea soon became a drink of choice as it is non-alcoholic and easy to transport. In India, the British East India Company introduced tea in the early 1800s in an attempt to break the Chinese monopoly on tea. They used Chinese planting and cultivating techniques to start

a tea industry that then became common with local Indians only since the 1920s.

Tea drinking is favoured in parts of the African continent such as Morocco, Sahel, and Somalia. In fact, in Somalia, tea is made with milk (camel’s), cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger, very similar to Indian masala chai. At times it’s even referred to locally as chai. Tito informed me that in Nigeria, Zobo tea, a hibiscus herbal infusion, and Lipton black tea are very popular.

People drink Lipton straight from the box. In fact, she believes Nigerians might be bewildered the first time they see tea in any other form, especially with milk.

I’m looking forward to trying some hibiscus Zobo tea during a future walk in Khirkee in the next few weeks, and perhaps come across some other interesting chais from diverse parts of the world.

And in doing so, maybe they will pave the way for new conversations and friendships with some of Khirkee’s eclectic range of residents.

Over the years Khoj’s relationship with the community of Khirkee has grown in an organic and sustainable manner, responding to the feedback and reactions of Khirkee’s residents through their participation in various long and short term programmes. This relationship began in the form of friendships, dependence and cooperation amongst neighbours, economic exchanges, and informal institutional support. In the last three years, the organisation has made a conscious effort to support and facilitate more long-term projects, forging deeper connections and networks within the community. The nature of Khoj’s community engagement has changed from participation to creating active stakeholders and citizens.

Khoj has worked to create an eco-system of long term projects that feed and branch off each other, share creative networks, and collaborate within the community and across disciplines and practices. As a result of these deep and varied engagements, the residents of Khirkee increasingly see Khoj as a third space in the neighbourhood, one that provides infrastructure, resources and support, physical and otherwise, for ‘all things creative’.

Khirkee Festival is a four-day festival of the arts taking place from 14 – 17 December 2017. Organised

Simultaneously, Khoj Studios will host an open studio exhibition of the first Khirkee Residency, where artists Tito Aderemi-Ibitola (Nigeria), Aziz Hazara (Afghanistan), and Rajyashri Goody (India) will be showing the works they have produced in their four-week residency in response to the neighbourhood of Khirkee.

The cultural diversity of the neighbourhood is perhaps best experienced through food. The Khoj terrace will host a food mela and bazaar, which will see home cooks and small eateries from Khirkee offering samplings of Afghani, Somali, Cameroonian, and Bihari cuisines, among others.

Public performances in the Jamun Wala Park will take place over the weekend. The Survivors Crew, a local group of B-boys, will be performing along with the Khirkee Ensemble, an international fivemember band. Young members of the community will be putting on two short plays, Duniya Sabki and Kitaabein, made in collaboration with members of the Aagaaz Theatre Trust. There will also be screenings of short music videos and films that were created as part of the Khirkee Storytelling Project.

Additionally we will have a Miss Bahubali (Khirkee’s Strongwoman competition) and a Music Talent Show, with exciting awards for the winners.

Winter Edition, 2017 • KHIRKEE VOICE

A Jahajee Returns Home Text + Photog raphs

ANDREW ANANDA VOOGEL

O

n the weekend of November 26th, 2017, I decided to set off from New Delhi on a journey to locate my lost ancestors, and to resolve a mystery that has haunted my family for over a hundred years.

My great grandmother was taken from her village in Uttar Pradesh during the British period of Indian Indentureship, a system of slavery enacted by the Colonial Government that took millions of Indians by force from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and other parts of the country, into indentured labour. A majority of them were sent to work in the grueling colonial plantations of the West Indies, South America and the South Pacific.

I started around 8 am with my driver and guide, Bhupendra Bisht.

Although daunting, I felt compelled to go on this quest, being geographically so close to potentially seeing my family’s village. The evening before, I spoke with my mother in the United States who had made her own attempt to locate our village about 15 years ago.

She made it as far as Kanpur, with no success. My only point of reference for the journey was a 100 year old indentureship document that I had tracked down on a trip to the West Indies over ten years ago.

Our first destination was a village called Gajiyapur, a few hundred kilometers from Delhi. As an American on my first road trip in India, the winding, intricate back roads carrying all forms of transport, the wintertime haze, the eclectic roadside stops and the vast depth of the landscape on either

The Sugarcane fields of Village Gajiyapur, Rae Bareily

side made for three days of pure enchantment. Droving down endless dusty UP roads, we arrived at the first village that afternoon, not far from Shajahanpur. The sight of the beautiful, pastoral village, with a narrow winding path dividing sugar cane fields on either side warmed my soul- my family’s village in the West Indies is similarly surrounded by sugar cane fields. As we approached, many local farmers came out to greet us. They were friendly and curious to hear the reason for my visit. Finding no answers to my questions however, it became clear that we were in the wrong village.

By the time we stopped for the evening my guide was full of curiosity about my mission and began to ask an array of questions.

With his little English and my little Hindi, he collected the key details of Caste, District, Village, Thana and Names, and committed them to memory. In the morning, we set off for the second Gajiyapur, a 5 hour drive past Lucknow. As we approached the entrance of the village, Bhupendra opened his window and began calling off the information he had memorised to anyone within listening range.

When my great-grandmother, was taken from her village, she was forced to leave her daughter behind, which is one of the great pains that has stayed within my family. Her daughter’s name is listed as Kwaria, but my family was also told that her formal name was Indranie. At this Gajiyapur, we were directed to the house of an Indranie Chauhan. Driving past

Jaggoo’s extended family gather around to meet Andrew

cows and a beautiful lake, we arrived at her house. Indranie would have been over 100 years old if still living, so I was extremely curious to know if it was her. I anxiously knocked on the door, and a woman of approximately 50 years of age came to the door and introduced herself as Indranie. I spoke with her and her husband, but concluded that I was yet again in the wrong Gajiyapur. Within 20 minutes though, the local panchayat had arrived, and many chai’s later, everyone was on their cellphones calling contacts across Uttar Pradesh.

By early afternoon, we had confirmed the location of a third Gajiyapur. The local advocate, Mr. Udai Pratap Singh provided us with the contact information of someone at this Gajiyapur, which was 4 hours away in the direction we had just come from.

Bhupendra, worried that we wouldn’t make it there before sundown, pushed down hard on the accelerator. Two hours later, we were in the town of Lalganj. Bhupendra, getting increasingly stressed, rolled down his window and asked the first person that passed us about the whereabouts of Gajiyapur village, with the Thana of Bachrawa.

The man, Pratabh Singh, weighed down by supplies from his shopping excursion, declared that Gajiyapur was his village. Bhupendra immediately invited him to join us on our mission and we sped off into the waning light.

Something felt different. It was approximately 6pm, and we were well off the beaten track. I was completely immersed in the light

and the magical landscape of the area. After a few failed leads, we found Sridhar Misrah, whose contact we were given by the panchayat at the previous Gajiyapur. Sridhar brought us to one of the local elder’s homes, and another panchayat gathered organically.

As I sat with Vijay Shukla and his son Aman, I pulled out my laptop and zoomed in on the passage documents, while the local elders read off the information. They immediately referred to the sad history of Indian Indentureship, and the slave trade to Guyana, Suriname and Maurutius. I was heartened to hear this- sometimes when you delve deep into history, the lines begin to unravel, and facts begin to turn into fuzzy fictions. But, the panchayat was on track and once they had a clear understanding of the details, their mobile phones were ablaze. By 9:30 pm, Mr. Vijay Shukla told me that they may have a lead based on the few bits of information I had provided: my great grandmother was Chamar, her father’s name was Jaggoo, she had a daughter named Kwaria or Indranie, and she was from Gajiyapur, in the District of RaeBarelli, local thana Bachrawa.

We made plans to meet with the village elders again early next morning. Checking into the only accommodation nearby, I anxiously began chain smoking with Bhupendra. The interior of the hotel was lit by blue lights, and it seemed as if no one had spent the night there in some time.

The next morning, we met again with the local panchayat over chai

at a local dhaba. As the morning progressed, we backtracked to one of the dirt roads we had travelled on the previous evening and Vijay approached a young man. He asked him about Jaggoo, and what his age would be presently. The young man, Gitendra Persaud, said that Jaggoo would be approximately 140 years old. That was the same age as the Jaggoo listed on the form. Vijay further queried Gitendra about Jaggoo’s daughter and granddaughter. Gitendra mentioned that something had happened to his daughter, after which Jaggoo took his granddaughter to his ancestral village near Lucknow. This would have been in the early 1900’s. I was aghast, I wanted to cry, I wanted to hug this young man who just confirmed a potential detail of a mystery that has haunted my family for over century. But, standing in front of a hundred new friends in the village, I felt like I needed to hold back my emotions for later. Bhupendra, my tireless and tenacious guide, made sure to step in and begin confirming details as well.

The young man called his father and confirmed some more details in the document. Knowing we had the right village, district and thana, and a group of people in front of me that were related to Jaggoo, gave me a moment of resolve. We proceeded to Jaggoo’s house where of course chai and sweets ensued. The local panchayat assured me that they would do the cross referencing to confirm each detail. At this point, I felt the psychic weight of a hundred years of estrangement, loss and pain drop away from me.

Two weeks ago, my grandfather passed away. He was one of the first generations of what were called the Jahajees in the West Indies. When I spoke with my mother that day, she told me of the regret she had of not being able to track down his sister in India, it had saddened me deeply. Driving back to Delhi, I still feel a small weight on my chest. I’d like to go back to Uttar Pradesh soon and spend more time in Gajiyapur, not only to learn more about my past, but also to spend time with the kind and generous people of Uttar Pradesh who assisted me on this historical journey.

Andrew with Jaggoo’s extended family in Village Gajiyapur, Rae Bareily

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

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Winter Edition, 2017 • KHIRKEE VOICE

The Journey of Hair Across the Oceans Caroline Bertram

I

n a globalised world where we can buy anything at the tip of our fingers and through our constantly connected screens, the distance between us and our consumables appears to be shrinking. As a consequence, it is easy to disregard the histories and journeys that bring us the things we consume and take for granted.

All things have a story to tell, and everything we own has passed through someone’s hands, or in the case of my particular interest, grown on someone’s head!

I became curious about the transnational hair trade while doing research for a documentary film in India over the past few years. Hair, being a biomaterial and human product, immediately made me think about its origins and conditions of procurement.

While it might be odd for some readers, there is infact a booming export industry that produces wigs, weaves and hair extensions from high quality human hair that gets sourced from a handful of Hindu temples in South India, where photographs: caroline bertram

devotees shave their head hair in a ritualistic act of self-sacrifice to their Gods. The temples, through newly developed auctioning systems, sell off the hair to the highest bidding wig manufacturers that make products specifically aimed to satisfy the hair fashions of black women around the world.

“Hair matters a lot, especially for us African women, it makes up our character, our identity,” Fatoumata says as she gets ready for college one morning, carefully running a comb through her wig, positioning it with skilled precision. Fatoumata doesn’t need the wig to look pretty.

However, like so many other black women, she has grown up feeling conscious about her natural hair and tells me that she has never left the house without covering her afro. As her appearance transforms with the wig, she oozes confidence and seems braced for the day.

Fatoumata is a 20-year old student of Malian origin, pursuing a BBA in Delhi. She owns around half a dozen different wigs in different styles and colours, and chooses which one to wear depending on her mood and the occasion: “The

n New Delhi Lagos

very friendly. “You’re really nice, I know when people come from abroad they aren’t always so nice.

Can I ask you something, I want to model, I cannot be tall like you but I can be slim”. I don’t have the physique to model, we both know this, but I am flattered all

the same. Physiologically, I am less tense, endorphins release, my head swells. This is what happens when nice things are spoken about you.

I am disarmed. It helps that I know that this is farce. Some newcomers and some slow comers don’t always get it. I sometimes feel bad for westerners when they come. It is difficult for them to understand that their way is not always our way. “I want to learn to improve the way I’m talking, will you teach me”. The majority of my education was undertaken in America, not Lagos, and I sound like it. In a place like Lagos, my default accent is a commodity. Stefanie does not sound too far from my own accent; I’m sure it’s why she was hired in the first place, she can speak “clearly”.

“I want to speak better”. I switch to my local tone, “what do you mean”.

Stefanie remains posh “Oh, I wish we could take a tuk-tuk from here” I am bewildered. We call rickshaws kekes. “When are you leaving?

You’ll bring something for us next time you come back”. I now realise that she wasn’t enamoured by my accent, she was was only trying to flatter me; I was slow. Before we are

back at the complex, Stefanie begs for a detour, I remember how late it is. “Please I will be quick” How could I abandon this woman when the shadows are this dark. “Fine” she goes to the mallam to buy a recharge card. I wait. Airtel 200 naira. He does not have. Airtel 500 only. Stefanie does not have. “I am not carrying any money”. We need to move faster. I want to get back.

I am at the airport. The guard recognises me, “you were here last week. When are you coming back” “One month’s time” “bring us something” “no problem”. The man who points me in the direction of my flight tries to help me with my bag. I do not let him. The woman printing tickets gestures me to the express line “Sis, anything for the girls” “I’m coming”. The newcomers and slow comers would have lost all their money by now.

In Delhi, I am surprised at the row of taxi men outside of the airport, they try to help me with my bag and point me in the direction I need to go. I do not let go of my bag.

All that is on my mind are reciprocals as I enter the left side of the car to the passenger set. In Lagos, we

drive on the right; the roads seem to mirror one another. The electrical wires knitting the flats together are anchored by one wooden pole.

I pass under. The motorbikes and rickshaws call out as I walk by, the song is familiar. Nobody walks on the sidewalks. I know this. Street vendors have their stalls wide open selling airtel sim card. I need a sim, I ask the man for the price.

500 rupees. I know I made a mistake. I check the price online. Sims should cost no more than 50. I am a mumu, I need to backtrack from this, I want to cajole him “you’re my brother” that’s not something I can say here. I haggle, I say “this is not the price”, it is 100. My friend urges him to relent. The site might be wrong. The site is not wrong.

But this a market. I am from Lagos, I am a mumu. I protest, he removes small money, 400 rupees. I let go of that money too easy, I should not have paid. I am annoyed but I am happy my friend is with me. I have a sim card but my service has not come. It has been one week. One week of no calls and missed connections. I am not sure if it will ever turn on, but I will wait.

n New Delhi

I

don’t like walking around at night. I do my best not to do so past 11pm. The shadows are deep enough to swallow you whole. It makes me feel better that Stefanie is walking with me. She’s

is the least I can do to show God how grateful I am that He has let me live”. Meena speaks with confidence and carries off her new look with grace and pride. “Of course, hair is important for us women, we believe that long hair makes us look beautiful. But I think the beauty lies in sacrificing this desire. God made us beautiful as we are, with or without hair”, she asserts. Does she know what happens to her hair after it is shaved off, I ask her. “I know that they separate the long hair of women and sell it, but I have never thought about where it goes from there”, she explains, adding “with the tonsure, our duty is fulfilled. If we were concerned about the hair’s afterlife, we wouldn’t give it away.”

Meena’s is just one story of suffering and salvation behind the thousands of tonsures that take place in Tirumala daily. However, these stories are rendered invisible when Fatou goes shopping for her wigs in Delhi. Such is our simultaneously connected and disconnected culture of globalisation and consumerism.

Lagos

The Lekki/ Jakende Market in Lagos

Tito Aderemi-Ibitola

from their suffering.

I meet Meena early one morning in Tirumala, the famous temple town in Andhra Pradesh. She came here with her husband and two children to pray to Lord Venkateshwara, the resident God of Tirumala. Meena has a tumor in her stomach, and while she was hopeful to recover, the doctors gave up, given the advanced stage of her cancer.

Feeling let down by doctors, Meena placed her faith in Lord Venkateshwara, and vowed to make a most personal sacrifice if He helped her recovery. When I meet her, she is completely bald, having renounced her hair as a symbolic sacrifice of her ego to God. She speaks of her illness in the past tense, her visit to the temple at Tirumala and the tonsure marking the celebration of her recovery. Only a week before, she tells me, she was still bedridden, convinced that God sent a force through her body enabling her to come all the way here – an overnight journey from her home in Tamil Nadu.

With a smile on her face that reveals relief and satisfaction, Meena tells me: “Sacrificing my hair

Fatoumata adjusts her wig with easy precision tito aderemi-ibitola

Meena at Tirumala after her ritual tonsure

long straight black wig makes me look really classy, I wear it for formal events when I want to look particularly good. The shorter wigs are more casual, I wear them during the summer when Delhi gets unbearably hot.” Fatou, as she is known among friends, even turned her passion for hair into a business, regularly sending bulk orders to exiled Malian women in Europe.

“Since I live close to the source and have contacts abroad, I thought it would be stupid to not take the opportunity to make some extra money,“ she says.

Fatou sources the highest quality of human hair available on the market, called Remy Hair. This hair has been collected in a single cut from one person’s head, preserving its natural directional growth to create the most natural look on the new owner. Given its universal significance as a symbol of femininity, hair like this is difficult to come by.

However, in an age-old South Indian Hindu tradition, female and male devotees of certain deities tonsure their head hair in a ritual act of self-sacrifice to God, who they believe has redeemed them

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mahavir singh bisht

MEET ROMEO Our neighborhood is teeming with talent from across the world, we recently met a young Congolese Singer and Guitarist who has been living here for the past year. Khirkee Voice spoke with Romeo Kiseke Lembisa about his musical interests and influences, his journey to India, and his life in Delhi as a musician, finding his way around a new city.

Romeo Kiseke Lembisa

KV: Tell us about Congo and your life there. What brought you to India?

RKL: I am from Kinshasa, which is the capital of Congo, in central Africa. I was a famous musician in my country, I used to sing against our president, he was killing people for no reason, I used to sing in protest of these killings and it became dangerous for me to stay as I started to get threats against my life, so I had to leave. I came to India as a refugee last year.

KV: What are some of your struggles of living and trying to make it as a musician in delhi?

RKL: Im a stranger here, so I have many difficulties. I need to find many things to make a new start in Delhi, I need a good guitar, my guitar right now is not the best.

One year is a short time, I am very patient, I hope to make more contacts here and start something

new.

I like to mix cutures, I am African, I want to mix with Indian people to make new sounds and ideas. The advantage of mixing cultures is that there will be less racism in the world. There is too much racism in the world, if we mix all the races, make cross cultural connections, then I believe the world will be a less racist place, there will be more acceptance of black colour and brown colour. It can be powerful, to love each other, be happy.

KV: What did you listen to when you were growing up?

RKL: I used to listen to a lot of classical music, Loko Acanza, Fransica Buel, who is a french singer, R Kelly, I used to love Michael Jackson- I saw him first when I was about 6 years old and immediately fell in love.

KV: How did you get your first guitar?

Romeo (center) jams with friends at the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art in Saket, New Delhi

Do you play other instruments?

RKL: I play drum, guitar, some bass, percussion. My first instrument was drums, around when I was 10, and when I was 13 I started with the guitar, and I still play it, now I am 25.

KV: Tell us about your musical journey back home, how did you get famous?

RKL: I made many songs, and concerts, in public places, at the church sometimes, at the studio.

I didn’t have a band or contract with anyone, I played with many different people, some French musicians, some local musicians.

Ive jammed with many different kind of artists, its always difficult in the beginning, the fingers get tired, but as you practice, and it starts to sound right, you feel happy.

KV: Do you like Bollywood music?

RKL: I love Bollywood music, you wont believe me, one day if I can,

I would like to marry and Indian woman. I learn a bit in my school about India, many people said to me that Indian people are not good- me I don’t believe them, I would marry an Indian girl any day.

KV: Do you have any questions for our readers?

RKL: Can you stop racism? Can you stop this caring about skin colour so much?

KV: How do you deal with it when someone says something racist to you?

RKL: If someone is racist with me, I try to understand that it is coming from a place of ignorance, they don’t know about me or my culture, so they think it is ok to say racist things. If there is more mixing of cultures, if people here are introduced to more African culture, music, food, maybe they will be less antagonistic towards us.

KV: Do you find that if you speak in Hindi with people that are being hostile to you, does that change the way they address you at all?

RKL: Indeed, I try and speak a little bit and I find that every time the person is very happy to hear me speak Hindi. I usually just say “mera hindi nahi accha” and they immediately become friendly and happy to hear me atleast try to speak their language.

KV: What are your plans for the future?

RKL: Our future is by God, I need to be as I wish, a good artist, I want people to understand me through my music, listen to my message, I want the world to be one country, where you can go fly anywhere without complication, you can be free anywhere you are, you can mix cultures and make new ideas, this is what I would like to see.

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Layout design by Malini Kochupillai

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WHO NEEDS KNOWLEDGE WHEN YOU CAN BUY A DEGREE

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Winter Edition 2017

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Edited by Malini Kochupillai & Mahavir Singh Bisht [khirkeevoice@gmail.com]

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Supported & Published by KHOJ International Artists Association