Vislumbres - Issue 3: Families by LimonKraft

Argentina Brasil Chile Cuba Ecuador El Salvador España México Panamá Perú Portugal

2010

República Dominicana

Vol 3

Paraguay

Vislumbres

Colombia

Uruguay Venezuela

A cooperation project of the Embassies in India of Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Portugal, Spain, Uruguay and Venezuela An AECID Program

FAMILIES

FAMILIAS

FAMíLIAS

INDIA & IBEROAMERICA

VOL 3

2010

VISLUMBRES is a yearly journal supported by the Ibero-American Embassies and financed by the Spanish Embassy in India. An AECID Project. Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional y Desarrollo. A cooperation programme of the Embassies in India of: Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Portugal, Spain, Uruguay and Venezuela. Project Ion de la Riva. Ambassador of Spain to India Director Gerardo Fueyo-Bros. Cultural Counsellor, Embassy of Spain Editor Lola Mac Dougall Guest Editors Santiago Gamboa and Rahaab Allana Consultant for the Lusophone contents Rita Casanova Advisory Board S.P. Ganguly (President), Sonya Gupta, Vibha Maurya, Amal Allana, Dilip Luondo, Indranil Chakravarti, Saeed Naqvi, Aveek Sen, Lotika Varadaranjan, Sovon Sanyal, Manjulata Sharma, Kavita Panjabi, Minni Sawhney, Martin Hacthom and John Cherian Translators Spanish into English: Minni Sawhney English into Spanish: Jeannine Diego and Marisa Abdala Portuguese into English: Rita Ray Proofreading Jeannine Diego and Loulou Stirrup Acknowledgements Devika Daulet-Singh (Photoink), Rahaab Allana (Alkazi Foundation for the Arts), Irene Mendoza (Fundación Foto Colectánia), Silvia Rodríguez. (El País -Redacción Galicia), Lourenzo Fernandez Prieto, Saugata Mukherjee, Rajni George, Savia Viegas, Nikhil Padgaonkar, Anita Roy, Shalini Gupta (Tasveer Art)…and the authors Published by The Embassy of Spain in India 12, Prithviraj Road New Delhi - 110001 ISSN: 0974 – 6226 VISLUMBRES All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the written permission of the publishers. Text © Authors Photographs © Photographers Designed by Incarnations Printed by Archana Advertising, Delhi Contact vislumbres@yahoo.es

Argentina Brasil Chile Colombia Cuba Ecuador El Salvador España México Panamá Paraguay Perú Portugal República Dominicana Uruguay Venezuela

Editorial Presentation

Greetings Ambika Soni

Salutation Agustín Paniker

8 Revelation Anu Jayanth

SNAPSHOTS

Guest editor. Santiago Gamboa

The Roads not Taken Samrat Choudhury Knowing Others Parvati Sharma

The Nymphet Rosa Montero

Dressing up for Jesus Ameen Merchant

SEPIA

Open to the Gaze Rahaab Allana

You See a Man Omair Ahmad

44 47

84 87

Logbook: The Last Journey Virginia de la Cruz Lichet

Biographies

The Miracle Rahul Mehta

Before Patriarchy Òscar Pujol

Sons and Lovers Aveek Sen

Rites of Passage Kankana Basu

Art and Revolution Savitri Sawhney

36 Guard Tabish Kair

FAMILIES

The First Family through the Lens of Homai Vyarawalla Sabeena Gadihoke

The Only Definitive Ancestral Gesture: Looking Towards the Light Amir Valle

Destiny Luiz Ruffato

Guest editor. Rahaab Allana

Family Portraits and the Circulations of Empire Jason Keith Fernandes

Three Short Conversations about the Disappeared Neel Chaudhuri

Knowing Others Chantal Maillard

Elsa and Ma Elsa Osorio

El Milagro Rafael Argullol

His Father’s Journey Mridula Koshy

The Box Sudeep Chakravarty

Labyrinths Elmer Mendoza

Sí, Teresa Anjum Hasan

Desisting Jose Luis Peixoto

The Vertigo of Time Juan Gabriel Vásquez

1 Octavio Paz. Vislumbres de la India, Editorial Seix Barral, 1995 / In Light of India, Harcour Brace & co. 1995. 2 The embassies of Ibero-American countries who have participated are: Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Portugal, Spain, Uruguay and Venezuela.

Ever since the birth of their crafts, writers and photographers have turned to families (their own, of others, or even imagined ones) for inspiration, for derision, for despair and for hope. Ibero-America itself is one great family on the two sides of the ocean. To mark Vislumbres’s third anniversary, we have chosen the “family” as this year’s central theme. In this issue, the reader will find a sample of real and imagined families that, we hope, will contribute to cultural intermixing between India and Ibero-America1. We invite the reader to delve into this collection of archetypes (the black sheep, the poor relative, Uncle Scrooge, the mad cousin etc). We have deliberately chosen to show different kinds of families, for each family is happy in its own way. We will begin with a “Salutation” from the well-known Indo-Spanish philosopher and editor Agustín Paniker. Then we proceed to the “Snapshots” section in which Indian writers face the challenge of writing texts inspired by Spanish American family portraits and vice versa. We will pause in the “Sepia” section to ponder on the vintage family portrait. We will end with the section on “families” in the wider sense where the reader will surely find unusual material like the article on the post-mortem family portrait in Galicia. We are convinced that between India and Spanish America there is much more miscegenation than meets the eye. Let’s find out! The Editors

Desde o começo das suas artes, escritores e fotógrafos recorreram à família (própria, alheias ou imaginadas) como inspiração, como motivo de troça, desespero ou de esperança. A própria Ibero-América é uma grande família situada nas duas margens de um mesmo oceano. Para a terceira edição da Vislumbres’1, queremos mostrar um pequeno catálogo famílias reais e imaginarias que contribua, como em anos anteriores, para o intercambio cultural entre a Índia e a Iberoamerica . Convidamos o leitor a mergulhar nesta colecção de arquétipos (a ovelha ranhosa, o parente pobre, Uncle Scrooge, o primo louco entre, etc). Escolhemos propositadamente mostrar diferentes famílias, dado que cada família é feliz à sua maneira. Começaremos com uma saudação do conhecido filósofo e editor indo-espanhol Agustín Paniker. Depois passaremos para a secção Viñetas na qual escritores indianos são desafiados a escrever textos inspirando-se em retratos de família Ibero-americanos, tendo o mesmo desafio sido lançado aos escritores Ibero-americanos. Deter-nos-emos na secção sépia para dar um enfoque actual aos antiquíssimos retratos de família. Acabaremos com a secção famílias no sentido mais lato no qual o leitor encontrará com certeza material surpreendente, como o artigo sobre o retrato de família post-mortem na Galiza. Continuamos convencidos que entre a Índia e a Iberoamerica existe muito mais miscigenação do que se pensa. Descubramos! Os editores 1 Octavio Paz. Vislumbres de la India, Editorial Seix Barral, 1995 / In Light of India, Harcour Brace & co. 1995.

I extend my hearty felicitations to the Ibero-American Missions here in India, especially the Spanish Embassy, for this very commendable and unique Annual Cultural Treat VISLUMBRES, with contributions from Hispanic and American authors, reflecting traditions and family values of love and bonding. That Indian authors have joined this endeavour makes me doubly elated. This joint venture ushers in a confluence and cross-pollination of minds and intellects of two distinct worlds and presents to the readership, on both sides, a veritable Kaleidoscope of life, thought and all that embodies culture, enriched by its incredible variety. The potential of this venture is immense, given the vast canvas it covers of cultures, traditional family bonds and legacies. In this riveting thematic publication, while the first two issues of Vislumbres were devoted to ‘Cities’ and ‘Portraits’ the current number before us is focussed on the “family”. A common thread of basic values runs through the institutional fabric of the “family” in both the Indian and Ibero-American Societies: a religious bent of mind, intense familial bonds, adoration of parents, filial respect of elders and pride of heritage are common basic elements of both. These basic values have, by and large, withstood the force and trends of disruptive alien influences in our respective societies. I have experienced from close proximity, during my fairly long sojourn in two countries Cuba and Mexico and travels to several others in that hemisphere, that we are simple-hearted, generous and emotionally intense people. I am confident that the poetry of Pablo Neruda, writings of Octavio Paz, the plays and the writings of Rabindranath Tagore and others of similar intellectual eminence, all give us “Vislumbres” or “glimpses” into each others love of music, dance, festivals, cultural traditions and family bonds. This makes us so close emotionally even though geographically we are so far! I would once again congratulate the authors and promoters of Vislumbres for their laudable enterprise of getting people in distant and distinct parts of the world to get to know, and appreciate each other better and thereby help in promoting understanding and goodwill among them. I wish Vislumbres all success in its endeavours. Ambika Soni Minister of Information & Broadcasting Government of India

Ambika Soni

Desde que nacieran sus oficios, escritores y fotógrafos han recurrido a la familia -la propia, la de otros o ficticias- para inspirarse, para mofarse, por desesperación o en busca de esperanza. La propia Iberoamérica es una gran familia a los dos lados de un océano. Vislumbres 1 cumple tres ediciones , y queremos dedicar este número a mostrar un pequeño catálogo de familias reales e imaginadas que contribuya, como en años anteriores, al mestizaje cultural entre India e Iberoamérica2. Invitamos al lector a adentrarse en esta colección de arquetipos (la oveja negra, el pariente pobre, el desalmado de turno, el primo loco, etc). Deliberadamente, hemos optado por mostrar familias diferentes, pues cada familia también es feliz a su propia manera. Comenzaremos por un “saludo” del conocido filósofo y editor hispanoindio Agustín Paniker. Pasaremos después a la sección “viñetas” en la cual los escritores indios son desafiados a inspirarse en retratos familiares Iberoamericanos para sus textos, y viceversa. Nos detendremos en la sección “sepia” para dar una mirada actual al retrato tradicional familiar de los comienzos de la fotografía. Y terminaremos en la sección de “familias” en sentido amplio, donde seguramente el lector encontrará materias sorprendentes, como el artículo dedicado al retrato familiar post-mortem en Galicia. Seguimos convencidos que entre India e Iberoamérica hay más mestizaje del que se piensa, así que ¡explorémoslo! Los editores

greeting

editorial 6

It seems almost absurd writing about the “family” in such complex spaces as South Asia, Latin America or Europe. It would seem more fruitful, for example, to concentrate on Bengal, Argentina or Spain and hence deal with more manageable and commensurable entities. It would have been wiser to talk about families, in the plural; each one singular and unclassifiable, exquisitely reflected in the images and texts in this edition of Vislumbres. However, in this “Salutation” one can only venture into the world of interpersonal relationships so you will allow and pardon some of my generalizations. It is of course a truism to state that the “family” constitutes the centre of gravity of these societies. (Suffice to say that some 44% of the Spaniards surveyed at the end of 2010 thought that the family was the most important feature of their lives, much above health or work.) But this is something so obvious that it is often forgotten, or not given the importance it deserves. The family does not have the sociological or political pedigree of the ethnic group or social class; and yet it is the first identity marker of people. (Commendable, therefore, that Vislumbres has devoted an entire issue to the subject.) The family habitat is part of our constitution as much as our biology. We can prove this with some examples from the Indian context. In a now classic essay, Ashish Nandy traced the trajectory of the first Indian psychoanalyst, Girindrasekhar Bose, and showed how the emancipatory power of psychoanalysis was much more stimulating and controversial in India than in Europe. At the beginning of the XXTH CENTURY only small sections of the Indian middle classes had assimilated Victorian and Puritanical moral codes. Besides, the bourgeois respectability that Freud dared to attack had reached India in the same package as colonialism, and thus psychoanalysis soon lost its charm in India. It was difficult for a culture with a long tradition of introspection and profoundly complex theories of consciousness, that had considered the Kama-sûtra a sacred text, to see in psychoanalysis sufficient philosophical fervour for it to displace other theories of the self. For many Indic currents of thought what we call the Self is not really a psychological category. In India the person is contiguous to his family. One can thus almost talk of a family Self. So much so that there are those who believe that Indians develop a “radar” consciousness that draws them towards others. Anyone who has lived in a flat in India knows how difficult it is to be alone – not just in solitude – at home. The first notion that children in South Asia learn is that of interdependence, or the understanding that they are not just mere individuals but members of a family and a larger group. In the home, children move freely between different “mothers”, “uncles” and “sisters”. They are never alone. Although their mother is their essential link, boys and girls learn at once that she is not their only source of care and attention. (The Oedipus Complex does not function the same in the tropics!) Personal autonomy, a feature of Euro-American society is not a priority for most Indian families. Neither is there a well-defined period of adolescence, when the young ego affirms, rebels and becomes individualized in contrast to the family. Only in the modern urban context does the Indian adolescent come close to being like his Western counterpart. Of course, I am referring to certain characteristics of a particular kind of family: the so-called patriarchal “extended family” (joint family); which is a household characterized by multigenerational, patrilineal (only the men inherit and bequeathe) and patrifocal (the men of each family stay in the paternal home and bring their wives home to live with them) features. The authority rests with the males while the honour of the family is linked to the purity of the women who pass from one family to another. Variations of this kind of family are also found in Latin America and in the Iberian Peninsula (although it is clearly in decline there). It is not a coincidence that, as regards the lifestyle of

Escribir sobre la “familia” en espacios tan complejos como el Sur de Asia, Latinoamérica o Europa es casi un absurdo. Más prometedor sería concentrarse en Bengala, Argentina o España, por poner ejemplos de sectores más manejables y, a su manera, conmensurables. Y aún mucho más certero sería hablar de las familias, en plural; cada una irrepetible e inclasificable, como exquisitamente reflejan las imágenes y textos de este número de Vislumbres. No obstante, y puesto que en esta “salutación” sólo se trata de zambullirse en el mundo de las relaciones interpersonales, me permitirán y excusarán algunas generalizaciones. Desde luego, es una obvieded decir que la “familia” constituye el centro de gravedad de estas sociedades. (Baste decir que 44% de los españoles encuestados a finales de 2010 consideró la familia lo más importante de sus vidas, muy por encima de la salud o el trabajo.) Pero es una obviedad demasiadas veces olvidada o rebajada. La familia no posee el pedigrí sociológico o político de la etnia o la clase social; y, sin embargo, es el primer marcador de la identidad de las personas. (Todo un acierto, pues, que Vislumbres dedique un monográfico al tema.) El hábitat familiar nos constituye tanto como la biología. Comprobémoslo con algunos ejemplos del mundo índico. En un ensayo ya clásico, Ashis Nandy rastreó la trayectoria del primer psicoanalista indio, Girindrasekhar Bose, y nos mostró cómo el poder emancipador del psicoanálisis resultó mucho menos estimulante y controvertido en la India que en Europa. Y es que a principios del siglo XX sólo unas pequeñas secciones de las clases medias indias habían hecho suyos los códigos morales victorianos y puritanos. Es más; aquella respetabilidad burguesa que Freud audazmente atacó había llegado a la India en el mismo paquete del colonialismo, de modo que pronto el psicoanálisis perdió su encanto en la India. Una cultura con una larguísima tradición de introspección, con teorías de la consciencia sumamente complejas, una sociedad que ha tratado al Kama-sûtra como un texto sagrado, era difícil que viera en el psicoanálisis la suficiente potencia filosófica como para desplazar a otras teorías de la persona. Y es que para muchas corrientes índicas eso que llamamos “yo” no es principalmente una categoría psicológica. En efecto, en la India la persona es contigua a su familia. Puede hablarse casi de un Self o sí-mismo familiar. Tanto es así que hay

Photo. Frank Kalero

families, an Ecuadoran immigrant in Prague would find a great affinity with the resident gypsy minority (whose Indian origins are widely recognised) due to the unity, solidarity and congestion of the family “clan”. But even though this kind of home is very common, we now know that the concept of an atemporal “extended Indian family” has not been as overarching as it has been made out to be. In India different kinds of homes have always simultaneously existed. There are areas of the south where there has traditionally always been a matrilineal, matrifocal extended family. Amongst the agricultural classes of Punjab, fraternal polyandry (one wife for two or more brothers) has been relatively common. The extended family is an anomaly even amongst the lower castes. The norm is the small “nuclear” family (single generation) and “conjugal” (where the authority rests with the couple). In fact the stubborn “developmentalist” stereotype with its privileging of the nuclear family has only existed in the modern West and has been disproved by sociological and historiographical studies from South Asia. We know of the long existence of nuclear families in many non-capitalist, non-industrialized and nonmodern societies. Today, statistics show (although one must be careful while citing statistics), that the extended household is not the predominant model in India. But contrary to what some had predicted, it is not in decline nor is it disintegrating. The cliché that maintains that if a society took the road to modernity its “family” would take to the nuclear model is also defunct. Like in Europe or in Brazil, where it is impossible to generalize on the question (given the increase in the number of consensual families or single parent homes or homosexual couples or those with children born out of wedlock), in India, too, there is a plethora of family models, marked by regional, urban, class, caste, religion and lineage characteristics. India does not have any monolithic pattern as regards the relations with the children, kinds of marriage or conjugal love (some examples of essential aspects). Diversity is undoubtedly another truism of South Asia. The articles and photographs that follow do not only reflect different points of view, emotions and lifestyles, but also hold up a mirror to this multitude of microcosms, paradoxes and idiosyncrasies with which, I think, it is opportune to broach the subject. I am sure you will enjoy it all.

quien piensa que los indios desarrollan una consciencia “radar” que los orienta hacia los demás. Cualquiera que haya vivido en un condominio en la India conoce lo difícil que resulta estar solo –que no en soledad– en casa. La principal noción que aprenden los niños en el Sur de Asia es la de interdependencia, es decir, la comprensión de que no son meros individuos, sino miembros de una familia y grupo mayor. En el hogar, los niños se mueven libremente entre diferentes “madres”, “tíos” y “hermanas”. Jamás están aislados. Aunque la madre constituye su vínculo esencial, los niños y niñas aprenden enseguida que ella no es la única fuente de cuidado y atención. (¡Los edipos no funcionan igual en los trópicos!) El sentido de autonomía personal, típico de la sociedad euroamericana, no es prioritario para gran parte de familias indias. De ahí que tampoco exista una clara fase adolescente, donde el joven ego tiene que afirmarse, rebelarse e individuarse en oposición a la familia. Es únicamente en el contexto urbano moderno donde el adolescente indio se asemeja al occidental. Por descontado, me estoy refiriendo a ciertos detalles de un modelo peculiar de familia: la llamada “familia extensa” (joint family) patriarcal; esto es, un hogar multigeneracional, patrilineal (contempla la herencia y la descendencia sólo a través de los varones) y patrifocal (los varones de cada familia permanecen en el hogar paternal y traen a sus esposas a vivir consigo). La autoridad recae en los varones mientras que el honor de la familia reside, en buena medida, en la pureza de las mujeres, que son las que transitan de una familia a otra. Una variante de dicha familia se encuentra también en América Latina y la península Ibérica (si bien ahí va claramente a la baja). No es casual que, en lo que a vivencia de la familia respecta, un migrante ecuatoriano en Praga encuentre gran afinidad con la minoría gitana (cuyo origen índico es reconocido) gracias a la unidad, solidaridad y congestión del “clan” familiar. Pero aunque en la India este tipo de hogar es muy común, hoy sabemos que el concepto de una intemporal “familia extensa india” no ha sido tan hegemónico como lo han pintado. Porque lo cierto es que en la India han existido simultáneamente otros tipos de hogar. Hay zonas del Sur donde tradicionalmente se ha seguido un modelo de familia extensa matrilineal y matrifocal. Entre clases agrícolas del Punjab la poliandria fraternal (una esposa para dos o más hermanos) ha sido relativamente común. La familia extensa llega a ser incluso rara entre las castas bajas. Lo normal es la pequeña familia “nuclear” (una generación) y “conyugal” (autoridad en la pareja). De hecho, el pertinaz estereotipo “desarrollista” que dice que la familia nuclear sólo ha existido en el moderno Occidente queda desmentido por el estudio sociológico e historiográfico del Sur de Asia. Sabemos que en cantidad de sociedades no-capitalistas, noindustriales y no-modernas han existido familias nucleares desde hace muchísimo tiempo. Hoy la estadística demuestra (aunque ojo con el uso de la estadística) que el hogar extenso no es el modelo predominante en la India. Pero, en contra de lo que algunos preveían, tampoco decae ni se desintegra. El cliché que afirma que si una sociedad toma la vía de la modernidad su “familia” se dirigirá hacia el modelo nuclear, sale también malparado. Como en Europa o en Brasil, donde se hace imposible generalizar sobre la cuestión (dado el aumento de hogares consensuales, monoparentales, homoparentales o con hijos extramatrimoniales), en la India convive una multiplicidad de modelos de familia, marcados por variantes regionales, urbanas, de clase social, casta, religión o linaje. En lo que respecta a la relación con los hijos, a las formas de matrimonio o al amor conyugal (por poner ejemplos de aspectos esenciales) la India no suscribe un patrón monolítico. La diversidad es, sin duda, otra gran obviedad del Sur de Asia. Los artículos y fotografías que siguen no sólo reflejan puntos de vista, emociones y vivencias distintos, sino que espejean esa multitud de microcosmos, paradojas e idiosincrasias con las que he sentido oportuno introducir el tema. Seguro lo van a disfrutar.

Agustín Pániker

É quase absurdo escrever sobre a “família” em espaços tão complexos como a Ásia do Sul, a América Latina ou a Europa. Seria mais produtivo concentrarmo-nos em Bengala, Argentina ou Espanha, para dar-mos exemplos de regiões mais acessíveis e de algum modo comensuráveis. No entanto seria mais acertado falar das famílias, no plural; cada uma única e não classificável, como reflectem soberbamente as imagens e textos desta edição da Vislumbres. Porém na medida em que nesta “Saudação” se trata apenas de mergulhar no mundo das relações interpessoais, ser-me-ão permitidas e desculpáveis algumas generalizações. Claro que é um truísmo afirmar que a “família” constitui o centro de gravidade destas sociedades. (Basta dizer que cerca de 44% dos espanhóis sondados nos finais de 2010 consideraram que a família era o factor mais importante das suas vidas, muito acima da saúde ou do trabalho.). Mas trata-se de uma evidencia demasiadas vezes esquecida e desvalorizada. A família não tem a linhagem sociológica ou política do grupo étnico ou da classe social; no entanto é o primeiro indicador da identidade das pessoas. (É portanto louvável que Vislumbres dedique um número inteiro a este assunto.). O habitat familiar faz parte da nossa constituição tanto como a nossa biologia. Podemos comprová-lo com alguns exemplos do cenário indiano. Num ensaio já clássico, Ashish Nandy registou a trajectória do primeiro psicanalista indiano, Girindrasekhar Bose, mostrandonos como o poder emancipador da psicanálise se revelou muito menos estimulante e controverso na Índia que na Europa. Só nos princípios do século XX é que pequenos segmentos das classes médias indianas tinham integrado como seus os códigos morais vitorianos e puritanos. Além disso, a respeitabilidade burguesa que Freud se atreveu a atacar tinha chegado à Índia ao mesmo tempo que o colonialismo, de modo que a psicanálise cedo perdeu o seu impacto na Índia. Uma cultura com uma longa tradição de introspecção, com teorias da consciência profundamente complexas, uma sociedade que considerou o Kama-sûtra um texto sagrado, dificilmente poderia ver na psicanálise o suficiente potencial filosófico para se substituir a outras teorias do Eu. Para muitas correntes do pensamento indiano, aquilo a que chamamos o Eu, não constitui verdadeiramente uma categoria psicológica. Na Índia, a pessoa é um prolongamento da sua família. Assim pode-se falar de um Eu familiar. Tanto assim é, que há quem pense que os indianos desenvolvem uma consciência “radar” que os aproxima dos outros. Alguém que tenha morado na Índia reconhece como é difícil estar só – mas não solitário – em casa. A principal noção que as crianças na Ásia do Sul aprendem é a da interdependência, isto é, a ideia de que não são apenas indivíduos mas também membros de uma família, de grupo maior. No lar, as crianças circulam livremente entre vários “mães”, “tios” e “irmãs”, nunca estão isolados. Embora a mãe constitua o vínculo essencial, as crianças aprendem imediatamente que ela não é a sua única fonte de cuidado e de atenção. (O Édipo não funciona na mesma maneira nos trópicos!) O sentido de autonomia pessoal típico das sociedades euro-americanas, não é visto como prioritário para a maioria das famílias indianas. Daí que nem se quer exista uma clara adolescência durante a qual o Jovem Ego tenha que afirmar-se, rebelar-se e individualiza-se em oposição à própria família. Só no contexto urbano moderno é que o adolescente

indiano se aproxima do seu homólogo ocidental. Claro que me estou a referir a certas cracterísticas de um tipo especifico de família: a chamada “família patriarcal extensa” (família unida); isto é um agregado multigeracional, “patrilinear” (apenas admite a descendência e a herança por via masculina) e “patrifocais” (os homens de cada família permanecem no lar paterno e aí vivem com as suas mulheres). A autoridade recai sobre os homens enquanto a honra da família reside, em boa medida, na pureza das mulheres, sendo elas que passam de uma família para a outra. Encontram-se também as variações deste tipo de família na América Latina e na Peninsula Ibérica (embora esteja ai claramente em declínio). Não é por acaso que -naquilo a que respeita à vivencia da família - um imigrante equatoriano em Praga encontre grande afinidade com a minoria residente cigana (cuja origem indiana é largamente reconhecida) devido à unidade, solidariedade e interrelação do “clã” familiar. Embora na Índia este tipo de agregado familiar seja muito comum, sabemos hoje que o conceito de uma “família indiana extensa” intemporal não foi tão unanimemente reconhecido como tem sido afirmado. Porque na realidade existem na Índia outros tipos de agregados familiares. Existem regiões no Sul da Índia onde tradicionalmente se seguiu o modelo de família extensa matrilinear e matrifocal. Entre grupos rurais do Punjab a poliandria fraterna (uma mulher para dois ou mais irmãos) tem sido relativamente comum. A “família extensa” chega a ser aliás rara nas castas inferiores. A norma é a pequena família “nuclear” (de uma só geração) e “conjugal” (onde a autoridade é exercida pelo casal). Na verdade, o existente estereótipo “desenvolvimentalista” que afirma que a família nuclear só existiu no Ocidente moderno foi refutado por estudos sociológicos e historiográficos da Ásia do Sul. Sabemos que em muitas sociedades não-capitalistas, não-industrializadas e não-modernas existiram famílias nucleares desde há muito tempo. Actualmente, a estatística demonstra (embora se deva ter cuidado quando se citam estatísticas), que a “família extensa” não é o modelo predominante na Índia. Porém, ao contrário do que alguns preveram, também não declinaram nem se desintegraram. O cliché, que afirma que se uma sociedade enveredar pela modernidade a sua “família” se tornará nuclear, é largamente insuficiente. Como na Europa ou no Brasil, onde é impossível generalizar sobre esta questão (dado ao aumento do número de famílias consensuais, monoparentais, homoparentais ou com filhos extramatrimoniais), na Índia há uma multiplicidade de modelos de famílias, marcados por variantes regionais, urbanas, de classe, de casta, de religião e de linhagem. A Índia não tem nenhum padrão monolítico no que diz respeito às relações com os filhos, às formas de matrimónio ou ao amor conjugal (para dar exemplos de aspectos essenciais). A diversidade é sem dúvida outro grande truísmo da Ásia do Sul. Os artigos e as fotografias que seguem não reflectem apenas pontos de vista, emoções e estilos de vida distintos, mas projectam também uma multitude de microcosmos, paradoxos e idiossincrasias a partir dos quais considero oportuno abordar o assunto. Certamente que gostarão.

SNAPSHOTS

Now she wants to take a picture. Standing on the road with a million things still to do, and her father’s hungry but no. Fight, yell, fight, stubborn as a mule and now Mama, smile! I’ll smile when I wish to smile, thank you very much.

Y ahora quiere sacar una foto. De pie en la calle con un millón de cosas aún por hacer, y su padre con hambre, pero no... Pelea, grita, pelea, necia como una mula y ahora Mamá, ¡sonríe! Voy a sonreír cuando quiera sonreír, muchas gracias.

If she didn’t want a present… I could have understood that. But to bring us here, of all places, to this second-hand clutter – we offer her every opportunity and she wants, instead, a candlestand – what it means is she doesn’t want a present from us.

Si no quería que le regaláramos nada….podría haberlo entendido. Pero traernos aquí, de todos los sitios, a esta pila de cosas de segunda mano –le ofrecemos regalarle lo que ella quiera y va y escoge un candelabro de pie –lo que quiere decir que no quiere que le regalemos nada.

Just look at her. Going to marry. Going to India. At her age, if I had only imagined going to meet a boy after dark my father would have known of it and why. But she won’t bear a question, of course not. Just look at her. It’s not that I won’t smile; I just don’t know whether to laugh. That hair, those clothes: it’s one thing to want to study art or whatever it is, another to decide on the spur of some ungainly love that you want to fight your parents, your country. Lead treasonous processions on a seashore half-way across the world. And then to hurl at me this accusation of prejudice. Prejudice – well, certainly, I’m prejudiced about letting my youngest spend her nights with a man ten years her senior. All right, let’s meet him, I said. But of course he cannot be available, of course he must be communist, of course he must fill her head with Goa. Her father’s too embarrassed to even look at her face any more.

Photo. Gérard Castello-Lopes Lisboa, 1957 Gelatina de plata, copia actual 31 x 46 cm © Gérard Castello-Lopes / VEGAP Colección Fundació Foto Colectania

A good man, a liberal man, if that’s what she so wants him to be: does he not allow and believe every Goan to be Portuguese? Is he to be a demon for his success? Our people and our civilisation, nurtured over four centuries, to be wiped away like debris on a kitchen counter because a mixed-breed communist declares fidelity to a country of socialist vegetarians? Does she not understand: that country will never know what it means, our meat, our wine, our language. They’ll crush her. And him: I cannot bear the thought of his intentions. She knows as well as I do her father’s wheezing has become worse. Must his short breath now defend the triumphs of Albuquerque, the burdens of Salazar? And me – always reaching into my purse for a little gift: a tissue to wipe her face with, a comb to straighten her hair, a roll of escudos to slip through her fingers like toffee as she rolls her eyes – am I to be forever the infant, the idiot? We did not exist before she came, of course; and now she leaves, we are to be ghosts in a photograph, to have no blood no scent. Just look at her: that wild hair torn and loose, that obstinate chin. Laughing at us, striding. Just look at her: that child’s face lost in a jungle of curls, half-eclipsed by the camera. She’ll appear to them a small, giddy monkey. They’ll never understand.

isbon isboa

Her father will sit deliberately in the car and leave us to our shopping. He’ll take out his watch to check the time and breathe to himself. There will be no mention of her at dinner tonight. Some impatient, snorting exhalation, that air of preoccupation, a drop too much cognac in everyone’s glasses, and when the house empties, the discreet click of the study door, and silence. Shall I walk again through dimly-lit rooms, turning off the lights, looking for signs in old photographs? Or shall I close my eyes and let that exasperation make its way into my dreams: the voice of this silly, stupid child, forbidding, scolding, hostile, crying Mama! and again, Mama, smile!

Mírala. Se va a casar. Se va a la India. A su edad, si me hubiese atrevido siquiera a pensar en encontrarme con un chico al oscurecer, mi padre hubiese tenido que saber el cómo y el por qué. Pero a ella no se le puede preguntar nada. No hay más que verla. No es que no quiera sonreír. Es que no sé si reírme. Esos pelos, esa ropa: una cosa es querer estudiar arte o como se le llame, y otra luchar en contra de tus padres, de tu país, sólo porque te has enamorado de un inútil. Liderar procesiones traidoras en una playa al otro lado del mundo. Y luego lanzarme la acusación de prejuicio. Prejuicio –bueno, desde luego que tengo un prejuicio en contra de que mi hija más pequeña pase las noches con un hombre diez años mayor que ella. Está bien, vamos a conocerlo, dije. Pero claro, él no puede, claro, debe ser comunista, claro, debe llenarle la cabeza con Goa. También su padre se avergüenza, tanto que no puede ni mirarla a la cara. Un buen hombre, un hombre liberal, si eso es lo que ella tanto quiere que él sea: ¿Por qué no puede permitir y creer que todo goano es portugués? ¿Está dispuesto a pactar con el diablo con tal de triunfar? ¿Nuestro pueblo y nuestra civilización de cuatro siglos desaparecida como los desechos de una encimera porque un mestizo comunista declara fidelidad a un país de socialistas vegetarianos? ¿Es que ella no entierde? Ese país nunca sabrá lo que significa, nuestra carne, nuestro vino, nuestro idioma. La aplastarán. Y él: me resulta insoportable imaginar sus intenciones. Ella sabe tan bien como yo que su padre respira cada vez con más dificultad. ¿Tendrá ahora, con el poco aliento que le queda, que defender los triunfos de Albuquerque, las preocupaciones de Salazar? Y yo siempre buscando en el bolso algo para regalarle: un pañuelo para que se limpie la cara, un peine para que se arregle el pelo, un rollo de escudos para deslizar en su mano como si fuera un caramelo mientras pone los ojos en blanco. ¿Hasta cuando seguiré siendo la ingenua, la imbécil? No existíamos antes de que ella viniera, claro; y ahora se va, no seremos más que fantasmas en una fotografía, sin sangre, sin olor. No hay más que verla: el pelo alborotado y suelto, la barbilla obstinada. Riéndose de nosotros, andando a zancadas. No hay más que verla: esa cara de niña perdida en una selva de rizos, medio eclipsada por la cámara. Les parecerá una especie de mono aturdido. Nunca la entenderán. Su padre se quedará en el coche y nos dejará ir de compras. Sacará su reloj para mirar la hora y respirará aliviado. No se hablará de ella a la hora de cenar. Algún suspiro impaciente, el aire de preocupación, un poco más de coñac de lo habitual en las copas y cuando se hayan ido todos, el discreto clic de la puerta del estudio, y silencio. ¿Recorreré de nuevo las habitaciones a media luz, apagando las luces, buscando alguna señal en las viejas fotografías? O cerraré los ojos y dejaré que la exasperación se introduzca en mis sueños: la voz de esta niña tonta, estúpida, hostil, que prohibe, riñe, grita ¡Mamá! Y de nuevo, Mamá, ¡sonríe!

Parvati Sharma

SNAPSHOTS

This little girl is a Lolita. Humbert Humbert, Nabokov’s unforgettable character would lose his head over those taut legs, but, above all, for over-wrinkled socks. For a paedophile, what is so attractive about young athletic and beautiful legs if they are not accompanied with wrinkled socks? I can give the answer: none. It is the contrast that disturbs and moves them. The moral and legal impossibility of joining the two things: childish socks and sexy legs. Pederasts horrify me especially those who commit the act, who abuse their power, their family’s or their social-economic status to disturb the lives of defenceless children. But, at the same time, if one makes the effort of seeing the world from inside their heads like the the genius Nabokov did, what immense tragedy they go through! Just the act of loving makes them abhorrent (and justly so) before all Humanity. These monsters have always moved me. This Lolita who hides her face has been set up, like in a montage. I cannot say for sure, maybe I am wrong, but I would say that this girl is not lying down on this bed for nothing. I rather think the photographer has placed her there, with these legs, with those socks on, with her face hidden, in order to correctly reproduce what we all seem to be perceiving in the very instant: this uneasiness, this perverse feeling, this quick fluttering of a butterfly’s wings that nymphets induce. It is a wonderful photograph but also very sad. This child with her face hidden in the pillow is all body. A body that has been dominated, objectified, maltreated. She is Lolita, of course, but the Lolita at the end of Nabokov’s novel, after the master has shown us with devastating and implacable lucidity that the tragedy of Humbert Humbert, the paedophilic monster, is nothing compared to the tragedy of the little girl that he destroyed. Indeed, this is what strikes me in the photograph: the victim’s unbearable suffering.

Photo. Dayanita Singh Untitled- Go Away Closer, STEIDL, 2007

ymphet ínfula

Esta Lolita que oculta su rostro es un montaje. En fin, no sé, tal vez me equivoque, pero yo diría que esa niña no se ha tumbado en esa cama porque sí. Más bien creo que el fotógrafo la ha colocado ahí, con esas piernas, con esos calcetines, con el rostro oculto, para recrear justamente lo que todos estamos percibiendo al ver la instantánea: ese desasosiego, ese filo perverso, ese fugaz aleteo de mariposa que generan las nínfulas. Es una foto magnífica, pero también muy triste. Esta niña con la cara enterrada en la almohada es todo cuerpo. Un cuerpo sojuzgado, cosificado, maltratado. Es Lolita, sí, pero la Lolita del final de la novela de Nabokov, después de que el maestro nos demuestre con desoladora e implacable lucidez que la tragedia de Humbert Humbert, el monstruo pedófilo, no es nada comparada con la tragedia de la niña a la que él ha destrozado. Sí, eso es lo que yo veo en esta fotografía: el dolor incomparable de la víctima.

Rosa Montero

the

Esta niña es una Lolita. Humbert Humbert, el inolvidable personaje de Nabokov, perdería la cabeza por esas piernas tersas, pero, sobre todo, por esos calcetines arrugados. Para un pedófilo, ¿qué atractivo tienen unas atléticas, jóvenes y hermosas piernas si no van acompañadas de unos calcetines arrugados? Ya les contesto yo: ninguno. Es el contraste lo que les turba y les conmueve. La imposibilidad legal y moral de unir ambas cosas: unos calcetines pueriles y unas piernas sexuales. Me espantan los pederastas, sobre todo aquellos que pasan al acto, que abusan de su poder, de su condición económica, familiar o social, para romper la vida de niños indefensos. Pero, al mismo tiempo, si haces el intento de ver el mundo desde el interior de sus cabezas, como hizo el genial Nabokov, ¡qué inmensa tragedia la suya! El sólo hecho de amar los hace aborrecibles (con razón) ante la Humanidad entera. Siempre me han conmovido los monstruos.

Desisting esistir A single life is not enough. The face is changing too fast in photographs. Children imagine so many things about the world and, later, they perceive that they have not been able to imagine that which was most important. They are still children, though nearly adults, still carried away by mirages and, at the same time, they are absolutely certain that they do not believe in anything, they are surprised at the arms that have grown in the mirror, at the tricks they are capable of doing with eyes shut, at the cigarettes that begin to burn their finger tips and, naïve arrogance, they want the time to pass more quickly, they want the years to pass more quickly. After that, the age does not count. The age does not count but one day they are thirty, they are forty, one day they are fifty. Numbers stop being numbers. By that time they have forgotten so many things but they are absolutely certain that they know everything. Ridiculous creatures. Meanwhile, they have fallen in love and out of love; they have jumped over moments that were like abysses; homes grew; all the objects of the home sprang up and then were divided and arranged into cardboard boxes; the grief surrounded them as if it were the entire world, it wasn’t; people have died alongside them, people who had lived, who seemed to be eternal, slowly or in an instant, were forgotten, easily; others carried on living alongside them, people who received phone calls to be told that their mother had died in hospital; and they have repeated life continues, life continues; and summer and summer and autumn, spring, so good, and summer, autumn and winter and winter. One day, they wake up and the past is not sufficient enough to fill up even the palm of a hand. And convincing themselves of a different lie every morning to force the body to make each movement, they, in spite of that, believe in that lie exactly as if it were the truth, most of the time. And they are tired of their wife, who, also tired, looks at them in

Uma única vida é pouco. O rosto é demasiado rápido a mudar nas fotografias. As crianças imaginam tantas coisas acerca do mundo e, mais tarde, percebem que não conseguiram imaginar aquilo que era mais importante. Ainda crianças e já quase adultos, ainda levados por miragens e, no entanto, com a certeza absoluta de que não acreditam em nada, surpreendem-se com os braços que cresceram no espelho, com os truques que são capazes de fazer de olhos fechados, com os cigarros que começam a arderlhes na ponta dos dedos e, arrogantes ingénuos, desejam que o tempo passe mais depressa, desejam que os anos passem mais depressa. Depois, a idade não conta. A idade não conta, mas um dia têm trinta anos, têm quarenta anos, um dia têm cinquenta anos. Os números deixam de ser números. Então, esqueceram tantas coisas e, no entanto, têm a certeza absoluta de que sabem tudo. Ridículos. Entretanto, apaixonaram-se e desapaixonaram-se; saltaram por cima de momentos que foram como abismos; existiu a casa; existiram todos os objectos da casa, divididos e arrumados em caixas de papelão; existiu a mágoa como se fosse o mundo inteiro, não era; existiram as pessoas que morreram mesmo ao lado, que pareciam eternas e que, devagar ou num instante, foram esquecidas, fácil; existiram as pessoas que estavam mesmo ao lado e que receberam telefonemas para comunicar-lhes que a mãe tinha morrido num hospital; e repetiram a vida continua, a vida continua; e o verão e o verão e o outono, a primavera, tão bom, e o verão, o outono, e o inverno e o inverno. Um dia, acordam e o passado não é suficiente sequer para lhes encher a palma de uma mão. E convencem-se de uma mentira diferente todas as manhãs para obrigarem o corpo a fazer cada movimento e, apesar disso, acreditam nessa mentira exactamente como se fosse verdade, excepto às vezes. E estão cansados da mulher que, cansada, os

the evening and who, in spite of that, makes them grow tender when she bends over the washbasin in the bathroom, with a towel around her shoulders, to dye her hair. There can then be a moment in which the world stops. The age stops. It’s in this instant that it may be thought: I never wanted to be that which I have become. With the world completely at a standstill, with the age at a standstill, it’s not difficult to stop as well, and, surrounded by fragments: an entire existence made up of glass in shards and spread on the ground: the most natural thing is to bend down on the haunches, rest the shoulders on bent knees and, carefully, stretch out the hands for, with the finger tips, carefully, to begin to choose each fragment and to try to understand what we want to keep and what we want to let go. Letting go, like dying, is not always bad. There are times when it can’t be avoided. Everyone tells us continue, continue but it’s the world that desists, in its entirety, around us. A single life is small. For doing that which one knows and one can and one wants and one should do, it is necessary to leave many other things behind. This is the conclusion that one reaches at the end of the adolescence itself. When numbers cease to be numbers. Thirty, forty, fifty years. Generations follow. The steps of an escalator that disappear there on top while we climb, we climb, we look back and we still see the first step, almost like when we had just arrived and, meanwhile we continue to climb and we already see the end. Our dead grandparents, our dead parents, our children, our grandchildren. And, if a horizon exists, we can look at it and perceive, finally, that we are standing still in time and that time, in that definitive present, is at a standstill within us. I look at this horizon, I regret and I don’t regret, I try to understand or remember that which I really want to remember. After that, I think of everything that I can do so that it happens: the gestures and the words. Thereafter, today is a stronger day and, suddenly, immense. Then I think of all that which I will have to let go of to achieve what I want: to be what I want to be. Then I don’t become sad. I accept all that I never did and which I believe I shall have sufficient life to do. One day, warned or without warning, I shall die. These hands will be nothing. This face will be nothing. A single life is small. I accept this certainty without anyone asking me whether I’m willing to accept it. It’s then that I convince myself finally that I never shall be a chess champion, I shall never register a patent, I shall never drive a Harley Davidson, I shall never invade a small country, I shall never sell a stolen watch to the passers-by of rua Augusta, I shall never be the protagonist of a Hollywood film, I shall never climb Mt. Everest, I shall never make a lace bedspread, I shall never present a TV competition, I shall never perform neurosurgery, I shall never win the lottery, I shall never marry a princess, I shall never be the widower of a princess, I shall never move to Detroit, I shall never take an oath of silence, I shall never play the harp, I shall never be the employee of the month, I shall never discover a cure for cancer, I shall never kiss my own lips, I shall never build a cathedral, I shall never sail alone around the world, I shall never learn an encyclopaedia by heart, I shall never ride an avalanche, I shall never present calculations that may prove Einstein wrong, I shall never win an Oscar, I shall never cross the English Channel by swimming, I shall never participate in the Olympic games, I shall never stab anyone, I shall never go to moon, I shall never keep a flock of sheep in the Alps, I shall never meet my greatgreat-grandchildren, I shall never see a plane breaking down, I shall never change my skin, I shall never bombard a city, I shall never be fluent in Finnish, I shall never compose a symphony, I shall never live on a deserted island, I shall never understand Hitler, I shall never exhibit a picture in the Louvre, I shall never rob a bank, I shall never give a mortal jump in the trapezium, I shall never cross Europe on bicycle, I shall never cut a diamond, I shall never do artistic skating, I shall never save the world. Even so, apart from all this, there is an entire universe.

olha ao serão e que, apesar disso, os enternece quando se debruça sobre o lavatório da casa de banho, com toalhas pelos ombros, para pintar o cabelo. Pode então haver um momento em que o mundo pára. A idade pára. É nesse instante que se pode pensar: nunca quis ser aquilo em que me tornei, quis sempre não ser aquilo em que me tornei. Com o mundo completamente parado, com a idade parada, não é difícil parar também e, rodeados de fragmentos: uma existência inteira feita de vidro estilhaçado e espalhado no chão: o mais natural é baixarmo-nos sobre os calcanhares, pousar os cotovelos sobre os joelhos dobrados e, com cuidado, esticar as mãos para, com a ponta dos dedos, com cuidado, se começar a escolher cada fragmento e tentar perceber aquilo que se quer manter e aquilo de que se tem de desistir. Desistir, como morrer, não é sempre mau. Há vezes em que não se pode evitar. Todos nos dizem continua, continua, mas é o mundo que desiste, inteiro, à nossa volta. Uma única vida é pouco. Para se fazer aquilo que se sabe e se pode e se quer e se deve fazer é preciso deixar muitas outras coisas para trás. Essa é a conclusão a que se chega logo no fim da adolescência. Quando os números deixam de ser números. Trinta, quarenta, cinquenta anos. As gerações sucedem-se. Os degraus de uma escada rolante que desaparecem lá em cima enquanto subimos, subimos, olhamos para trás e ainda vemos o primeiro degrau, quase como quando tínhamos acabado de chegar e, no entanto, continuamos a subir e vemos já o fim. Os nossos avós mortos, os nossos pais mortos, nós, os nossos filhos, os nossos netos. E, se existir um horizonte, podemos olhá-lo e perceber finalmente que estamos parados no tempo e que o tempo, nesse presente definitivo, está parado dentro de nós. Eu olho para esse horizonte, arrependo-me e não me arrependo, tento compreender ou lembrar-me daquilo que quero mesmo. Depois, penso em tudo aquilo que posso fazer para que aconteça: os gestos e as palavras. Depois, hoje é um dia mais forte e, de repente, imenso. Depois, penso em tudo aquilo de que terei de desistir para alcançar o que quero: para ser o que desejo ser. Então, não fico triste. Aceito tudo aquilo que nunca fiz e que acredito que nunca terei vida suficiente para fazer. Num dia, avisado ou sem aviso, morrerei. Estas mãos serão nada. Este rosto será nada. Uma única vida é pouco. Aceito essa certeza sem que ninguém me pergunte se estou disposto a aceitá-la. É então que me convenço finalmente que nunca serei campeão de xadrez, nunca registarei uma patente, nunca conduzirei uma Harley Davidson, nunca invadirei um pequeno país, nunca venderei relógios roubados aos transeuntes da rua Augusta, nunca serei protagonista de um filme de Hollywood, nunca escalarei o monte Evarest, nunca farei uma colcha de renda, nunca apresentarei um concurso de televisão, nunca farei uma neurocirurgia, nunca ganharei a lotaria, nunca casarei com uma princesa, nunca ficarei viúvo de uma princesa, nunca me mudarei para Detroit, nunca farei voto de silêncio, nunca tocarei harpa, nunca serei o empregado do mês, nunca descobrirei a cura para o cancro, nunca beijarei os meus próprios lábios, nunca construirei uma catedral, nunca velejarei sozinho à volta do mundo, nunca decorarei uma enciclopédia, nunca despoletarei uma avalanche, nunca apresentarei cálculos que contradigam Einstein, nunca ganharei um óscar, nunca atravessarei o Canal da Mancha a nado, nunca participarei nos jogos olímpicos, nunca esfaquearei alguém, nunca irei à lua, nunca guardarei um rebanho de ovelhas nos Alpes, nunca conhecerei os meus tetranetos, nunca repararei a avaria de um avião, nunca trocarei de pele, nunca bombardearei uma cidade, nunca serei fluente em finlandês, nunca comporei uma sinfonia, nunca viverei numa ilha deserta, nunca compreenderei Hitler, nunca exibirei um quadro no Louvre, nunca assaltarei um banco, nunca darei um salto mortal no trapézio, nunca atravessarei a Europa de bicicleta, nunca lapidarei um diamante, nunca farei patinagem artística, nunca salvarei o mundo. Ainda assim, além de tudo isto, há o universo inteiro.

Jose Luis Peixoto

SNAPSHOTS

bella para dressing up for Photo. Alberto García Alix Irreductibles, los amantes, su hija, 1991 Gelatina de plata, copia actual, 45 x 45 cm © Alberto García Alix / VEGAP Colección Fundació Foto Colectania

Ameen Merchant

SÚS

ESUS

Ameen Merchant

Magdalena wouldn’t hear of it. Nobody could argue with her. And if you did, the Amazon would have to dry up first before she gave in. Change that to: if she gave in. What were the chances? Zero. Zilch. Zip. But Mauro was pig-headed. That was two pigs in one house. You can only imagine all the metaphorical shit that flew around, landing on tables, sticking to the walls, lining the counters, staining the floors, clogging the ears. “It’s a church, my love,” He pleaded. “Not that one, please, not again!” He looked at the dress on the hanger with great hate. It always brought out the worst in him. Well, not always. Just on Sundays. On the clock – ninety minutes before Mass. Her eyes widened, and her eyeliner pencil traced the lower curve perfectly. Like she hadn’t heard him, like he wasn’t even there in the room. “How would you feel if I wore my jockstrap and nothing else?” He started buttoning his shirt, the tip of his cigarette so close to the polyester it could give him a fresh new rose tattoo “Yes, why don’t you?” The eyeliner pencil tracing the contour of the upper lid, she looked at him in the mirror, standing right behind her. “Show them those jewels from Cordoba.” A quick pout and her tongue darted full circle, wetting her lips. “Don’t be a bitch.” “I’ll remember that next time you slap my ass when we’re fucking.” She rose from the dresser and opened the shoes closet. Her hands on her waist, her legs apart, ready to make a decision more crucial than food aid to Africa or Bangladesh or some god forsaken flood/ famine zone. “Please, not those gold pumps, please!” She laughed a throaty, operatic laugh. She loved every minute of it. Sometimes it seemed like he was egging her on, challenging her, daring her to choose those very ones by voicing his opposition. The same gripe, the same day, every week. He knew exactly how it would end. Her index finger turned into a baton -- tick-tack-toe-here-we-gotick-tack-toe... Black and gold-strapped sling-backs it was. That’s what you get for marrying an ex-beauty queen. Actually, Miss Costa Del Sol, Runner-up. She’d never mention the year (a smart, calculated move) as that would give her age away. They’d met in Sevilla, where she was waitressing in one of those outdoor cafes, and he was the guitarist in a touring Andalusian band that was playing sappy love songs in the Plaza. Everybody in the family had heard the story so many, many, times.

Magdalena no cambiaría de opinión. Nadie le podía discutir. Y si lo hacías, antes se secaba el Amazonas que ella darte la razón. Si te la daba. ¿Qué probabilidad había? Ninguna. Nada. Cero. Pero Mauro era cabeza dura. Eso sumaba dos cabezas duras en la misma casa. Sólo es posible imaginarse la cantidad de mierda metafórica a la que se daba rienda suelta en ese sitio, cayendo sobre las mesas, adhiriéndose a las paredes, cubriendo las repisas, ensuciando el piso, tapando los oídos. —Es una iglesia, mi amor —le rogó—. ¡No, ese no, por favor! ¡Otra vez no! Con gran odio, oteó el vestido colgado sobre su gancho. Siempre sacaba lo peor de él. Bueno, no siempre. Sólo los domingos. Como por reloj: noventa minutos antes de misa. Ella abultaba los ojos y se delineaba la curva inferior con maestría. Como si no lo hubiera escuchado, como si no estuviera en el cuarto. —¿Cómo te sentirías si me vistiera con nada más que un suspensorio? Comenzó a abrocharse la camisa, la punta de su cigarrillo tan cerca del poliéster que podría darle un nuevo tatuaje de rosa. —Sí, ¿por qué no lo haces? —El delineador trazaba el contorno de su párpado superior y lo miró a través del espejo. Estaba de pie a sus espaldas—. Enséñales esas joyas cordobesas. —Hizo un puchero veloz y un círculo completo con la lengua para humedecerse los labios. —No seas tan perra. —Lo recordaré la próxima vez que me des una nalgada cuando estamos cogiendo. Magdalena se puso de pie y le dio la espalda al tocador. Abrió el ropero donde guardaba sus zapatos. Con las manos apoyadas en la cintura y los pies apartados, se preparaba para tomar una decisión de mayor envergadura que la de enviar ayuda alimenticia a África o Bangladesh o alguno de esos quintos infiernos asidos por la hambruna. —¡Por favor! ¡Las zapatillas doradas no, te lo ruego! Ella soltó una risa gutural, operística. Saboreaba cada minuto. A veces parecía que él le daba cuerda, que la desafiaba, que al expresar su oposición la estaba retando a que eligiera esos zapatos. La misma discusión, el mismo día de cada semana. Él sabía perfectamente cómo terminaría. El dedo índice de Magdalena se transformó en varita: de-tinmarín-de-do-pingüé Serían las zapatillas sin talón, las negras con tiras doradas. Eso es lo que te mereces por casarte con una reina de los concursos de belleza. De modo más específico, Señorita Costa del Sol, segundo lugar. Ella jamás mencionaba el año (una movida astuta, calculada) puesto que revelaría su edad. Se habían conocido en Sevilla, donde ella trabajaba de mesera en uno de esos cafés al aire libre, y él era el guitarrista del conjunto andaluz que tocaba melosas tonadas en la plaza. La familia entera había escuchado la historia incontables veces. Una noche, justo antes de la hora de cerrar el café, él entró y pidió un Ruso Blanco. Magdalena había aseado la última mesa y se dirigía a la cocina con una charola en cada mano. Él aspiró con tanta fuerza que ella se detuvo y

One night, just about closing time, he walked in and ordered a Black Russian. She was clearing the last table, walking towards the kitchen with a plate held high in each hand. He sucked in his breath so loudly, she turned and looked. “Even Carmen didn’t have such beautiful legs!” He said, raising his glass. “Seriously, that work for you?” She didn’t look impressed. “No.” He grinned. “But worth a shot.” He was twenty-four. She was twenty-one. And the night was younger still. That was four years ago already. “You used to love my legs,” She said, pulling the panty-hose in one smooth, sure move -- a gauzy shield for a work of art. “I do, sugar plum, I love your legs just the way I loved them the first night we met. I really do. I just don’t want the whole parish loving them too!” She looked at him indulgently. It was this oh-I-still-just-don’tget-it-ness about Mauro that drove her mad, and madly in love. “But you know I am not dressing up for the parishioners,” She smiled, holding up the shoes like two, sleek iguanas. “You know I am dressing up for Jesus.” “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!” He pulled up his trousers, tucked in his shirt, and lit another cigarette. They were not opposites. Just spearmint and peppermint, edam and gouda, mezzo and alto. Mauro had no second thoughts about his marriage to Magdalena, and she knew that she loved him just as much as she loved her red dress, her high-heeled shoes, and her need to look good. And those three were part of her life a long time before he had walked into it. In sandalias. And she was serious. On Sundays, she really did dress up for Jesus. It’s what Grandma Alvarez had taught her when she was a little girl of three. Turning Magdalena around after having woven her hair into pigtails, abuela had looked into her eyes and said: All creatures of God are beautiful. And you are His best, and most beautiful, creation. You always have to dress up and look good for Him. Religious flattery, voiced every Sunday, religiously, for as long as abuela lived. How could it not go to anybody’s head? Magdalena had this photo framed. “It captures who we are,” She’d often say, gazing at it for a few minutes, and sounding like a character from a daytime soap on TV. Something with a ludicrous title like, “The Enduring Romance of the Irrepressibles!” A bit over the top, for sure. But in Magdalena’s world what was worth doing was also worth overdoing. The photograph was taken some Sunday in the seventies by a guy called Alberto or Roberto from Madrid. Of course they’d had another pig-headed indulgence of drama and bad dialogue. I doubt it could have been even one decibel different. It was their language of love. That’s her striking a pose. That’s him, uncertain about the dude clicking the photo, while he fumbles for the lighter in his pocket. And that’s me, Salvador, their son, held casually like a potted plant. But you’d guessed that already.

lo volteó a ver. —¡Ni Carmen tenía unas piernas como esas! —dijo, alzando su vaso a modo de brindis. —No me digas que eso te ha dado resultados —No pareció muy convencida. —No —sonrió—, pero no pierdo nada con intentarlo. Él tenía veinticuatro años. Ella, veintiuno. Y la noche era todavía más joven. Ya habían pasado cuatro años desde entonces. —Antes, te encantaban mis piernas —dijo Magdalena, poniéndose las medias con un solo movimiento terso; un escudo transparente para una obra de arte. —Me siguen encantando, bombón, amo tus piernas como las amé cuando nos conocimos. En serio. ¡Es que no quiero que los feligreses las amen también! Lo miró con indulgencia. Era esa cualidad de Mauro, su noacabo-de-entender-idad, que la volvía loca, que la enamoraba con locura. —Pero sabes que no me visto para los feligreses. —Le sonrió, sosteniendo sus zapatillas en el aire como dos iguanas refinadas—. Sabes muy bien que me visto para Jesús. —¡Eso es lo más absurdo que he escuchado en mi vida! — Se puso los pantalones, se metió la camisa y encendió otro cigarrillo. No eran personalidades opuestas. Sólo como la yerbabuena y la menta, el Edam y el Gouda, el mezzo y el alto. Mauro no tenía dudas acerca de su matrimonio con Magdalena, y ella estaba segura de amarlo tanto como amaba a su vestido rojo, sus zapatos de tacón y su necesidad de verse bien. Y esas cosas habían formado parte de su vida desde mucho antes de que él hubiera entrado en ella. Calzando sandalias. En serio. Era verdad que los domingos se vestía para Jesús. Era lo que la abuela Álvarez le había enseñado desde los tres años. Girando a Magdalena hacia ella después de trenzarle el cabello, la abuela la miró a los ojos y le dijo: Todas las creaturas de Dios son hermosas. Y tú eres Su mejor y más hermosa creación. Siempre tienes que vestirte bien y verte bella para complacerlo a Él. Halagos religiosos cada domingo, religiosamente, mientras la abuela estuvo viva. ¿Cómo no se le iban a subir los humos? Magdalena mandó a enmarcar esta foto. —Capta a la perfección lo que somos —solía decir, contemplándola un buen rato, sonando como el personaje de una telenovela. Algo con un título como, por ejemplo, El sempiterno romance de los irreprimibles. Un poco exagerado, en definitiva. Pero en el mundo de Magdalena, lo que valiera la pena hacer, valía la pena hacerlo en grande. Un tipo llamado Alberto o Roberto, de Madrid, había tomado la foto algún domingo de tantos en los años setenta. Desde luego, se habían dado el lujo de otra discusión necia, colmada de dramatismo y diálogos de baja calidad. Dudo que fuera distinto. Era su manera muy personal de expresar el amor que se tenían. Esa es ella, posando. Ese es él, desconfiando del tipo que toma la foto mientras busca a tientas el encendedor en su bolsillo. Y ese soy yo, Salvador, su hijo, cargado con abandono, como se carga una maseta. Pero eso ya lo habías adivinado.

Ameen Merchant

SNAPSHOTS

el vértigo del tiempo

Just imagine: I had always thought that photography was an instantaneous art form, and now I have here in my hands an image in which the protagonist is the passage of time. I had always thought that photographs were meant to freeze a moment, in order to capture it and preserve it for eternity, but everything in this photograph is mobile: the family is moving, its life, its identity, its relationship with the world are all in flux. Balancing itself on a chair that seems fragile (like a house that is about to fall off a cliff), the daughter could not be further away from her parents who have begun to retire from the world and seem more at ease under the shadow of their ancestors than in the unexplored territories of modernity. The best photographs manage to make one feel nostalgic for places which one has never visited. India, of course, has always had a tense and special relationship with the passage of time. In the space of three generations (yes, three generations: like those that have been reflected in the photograph), a family can question its language, its religion and above all its future. Let’s suppose that the photograph was taken in Goa; that the grandparents were Catholic, that they grew up in a colonial world where the spirit of the Portuguese still roamed, hanging from the tears of the crystal lampshade, hidden behind the curtains. The parents have witnessed the annexation of Goa to India, and here they are looking straight ahead with some confusion, while for the daughter the world of confusion has disappeared: the modernity that makes everything equal has eliminated the traces of the colonizer and his beliefs. This is what one sees in the photo: a world in clear transformation, an entire community that is trying to preserve its identity, or rather is resigned to let its identity blur, dissolve in the air and has started to ask itself: What will we be from now onwards? I had always thought of photography as an art of the present moment, but in this image everything is transient, nothing is still. Maybe due to this reason, one feels dizzy when one looks at it. Fíjense ustedes: yo siempre había creído que la fotografía era el arte del momento presente, y he aquí que me cae en las manos una imagen donde el protagonista es el paso del tiempo. Yo siempre había creído que las fotos servían para congelar el instante, para capturarlo y fijarlo en la eternidad, pero todo en esta foto es móvil: esta familia se está moviendo, se está moviendo su vida, su identidad, su relación con el mundo. Balancéandose en una silla que parece frágil (sentada como una casa a punto de caer a un barranco), la hija no podría estar más lejos de sus padres, que ya han comenzado a retirarse del mundo, que se sienten más a gusto bajo el ala de los ancestros que en los territorios inexplorados de la modernidad. Las mejores fotos logran darle a uno nostalgia por sitios en donde nunca ha estado. La India, por supuesto, siempre ha tenido una relación tensa y particular con el paso del tiempo. En el espacio de tres generaciones (sí, tres generaciones: como las que han quedado capturadas en la foto), una familia puede dudar de su lengua, su religión y sobre todo su futuro. Supongamos que la foto ha sido tomada en Goa; supongamos que los abuelos fueron católicos, que crecieron en un mundo colonial donde el espíritu de los portugueses todavía estaba allí, colgando de las lágrimas de cristal de la lámpara, escondido detrás de las cortinas. Los padres han sido testigos de la incorporación de Goa a la India, y ahí están, mirando hacia delante con algo que se parece a la confusión, mientras para la hija ese mundo confuso ya ha desaparecido: la modernidad, que todo lo iguala, ha eliminado los rastros del colonizador y sus creencias. Eso es lo que se ve en esta foto: un mundo en plena transformación, una comunidad entera que trata de preservar su identidad, o más bien está resignada a que esa identidad se difumine, se disuelva en el aire, y ha comenzado a preguntarse: ¿qué seremos de ahora en adelante? Yo siempre había creído que la fotografía era el arte del momento presente, pero en esta imagen todo es tránsito, nada se queda quieto. Será por eso que da vértigo verla.

Juan Gabriel Vásquez

Photo. Prabuddha Dasgupta Sacha and her parents Pamela and Rene Mendes in their living room, Panjim.

SNAPSHOTS

the vertigo of time

SNAPSHOTS

THE Photo. Brígida Mendes S/título 06/2 2006 Gelatina e prata. Cortesia Módulo-Centro Difusor de Arte.

Baba is dead. The cancer took him. He called the cells ‘little bastards’ because they even fooled the doctor into believing he could cure my father. They fooled us too. We had believed the doctor. Then the little bastards had come back to eat my father up from the inside out. He died before we could ask him about Margarida. Ma died four years later. She fell off the first-floor landing and broke open her head. Nobody was home at the time. My sister and I lived away. The neighbours found her. They had come looking when the lights hadn’t come on in the evening. The windows of the small house had been open. Ma never left windows open and the house dark after sunset. My sister and I stood at the crematorium looking at Ma, on two iron rails sliding into the so-hot furnace with more peace than we knew her to have in life; the same man with eyes red from alcohol and smoke of the dead watching over her final journey as had watched over Baba. My sister and I had talked about it, standing there, trying not to cry now that we were orphans. We were grown up, with children of our own. But there is no age to being an orphan. “We won’t know about her, will we? She’s gone now.” She didn’t have to explain; I knew who my sister was talking about. It wasn’t Ma. Baba loved Spanish. I think he loved Spain, and even Mexico and Honduras and Argentina because they spoke Spanish there. He loved all of Central and South America, even Brazil, saying it was fortunate to be surrounded by countries that spoke Spanish,

Papá ha muerto. El cáncer se lo llevó. Llamaba a las células “las pequeñas cabronas” porque incluso engañaron al doctor haciéndole creer que podía curar a mi padre. A nosotros también nos engañaron. Le habíamos creído al doctor. Luego las pequeñas cabronas regresaron a devorar a mi padre desde su interior. Murió antes de que pudiésemos preguntarle por Margarida. Mamá murió cuatro años después. Se cayó desde el rellano del primer piso y se abrió la cabeza. No había nadie en casa. La encontraron los vecinos. Habían venido a ver qué pasaba cuando no se encendieron las luces al anochecer. Las ventanas de la casa estaban abiertas. Mi madre nunca dejaba las ventanas abiertas o la casa a oscuras. Mi hermana y yo estábamos en el crematorio viendo cómo deslizaban a mamá por dos rieles de hierro dentro del horno ardiente, más en paz que lo que la habíamos visto mientras vivió; el mismo hombre con los ojos rojos de alcohol y humo de los muertos vigilando el final de su viaje al igual que lo había hecho con papá. Mi hermana y yo lo comentamos, ahí de pie, tratando de no llorar ahora que nos habíamos quedado huérfanos. Éramos adultos y teníamos nuestros propios hijos. Pero no importa la edad que tengas, sigues quedándote huérfano. ‘Nunca sabremos de ella ¿verdad? Se ha ido ya.” No hizo falta que mi hermana me explicara a quién se refería. Yo lo sabía. No era mamá. Papá adoraba el español. Creo que amaba a España, incluso a México y a Honduras y a Argentina porque ahí hablaban español. Amaba a toda América Central y a Sudamérica, incluso a Brasil,

so she could be forgiven for speaking Portuguese which anyway sounded like Spanish that had been left out in the rain. He forgave Franco and all the other nasty dictators because they spoke Spanish. He loved Hemingway because he spent so much time around people who spoke the language. Father stopped his subscription to Reader’s Digest from Mumbai, instead asking for it from Madrid. He taught us to say Galápagos with the right inflection when we came to ask him about the giant tortoise which live there. We were sometimes irritated, but we tolerated it with the patience of children. If Baba woke up one day and decided he would take to a new language, what business was it of ours? Ma called it a disease. It must have been, because Ma was angry enough to call the disease a ‘she’. No disease had ever had a gender before in our home. Not in Bangla, the language we had known since early childhood. Not in English, the language we were made to learn when we became a little older. So we knew Baba’s mind had been taken by a she-disease. His body the little bastards took many years later. They were probably male. It was as if Baba and Ma began to live in shadows, emerging only to talk to us, to be parents because they could not pretend they had no children. When they both tried hard to be normal, it seemed even more that they lived in shadows. Baba’s life at the university in Kolkata made him many friends. They would write to him, he to them. They would visit his university, and sometimes, our home. They came from all across our country, and sometimes, all over the world; mostly men and

pues decía que tenía la suerte de estar rodeado de países que hablaban español. Por eso se le podía perdonar que hablase portugués, que de todas maneras sonaba como una especie de español que había estado largo rato bajo la lluvia. Perdonaba a Franco y a todos los asquerosos dictadores porque hablaban español. Amaba a Hemingway porque pasó mucho tiempo de su vida rodeado de gente que hablaba ese idioma. Mi padre canceló su suscripción al Reader’s Digest desde Bombay y la renovó desde Madrid. Nos enseñó a decir Galápagos con el acento adecuado cuando fuimos a preguntarle por las tortugas gigantes que viven ahí. Algunas veces llegaba a ser molesto pero lo tolerábamos como buenos hijos. Que papá se despertara un día y adoptara un nuevo idioma no era asunto nuestro. Mamá decía que era una enfermedad. Debía serlo porque mamá se enfurecía tanto que se refería a la enfermedad como “ella”. Antes de eso ninguna enfermedad en casa había tenido género. Ni el bengalí, el idioma que habíamos aprendido desde la infancia. Ni el inglés, el idioma que aprendimos cuando fuimos un poco mayores. Sabíamos que la mente de papá había sido atacada por una enfermedad de género femenino así como muchos años después su cuerpo fue atacado por las pequeñas cabronas. Fue como si papá y mamá empezaran a vivir en la penumbra, y salían sólo para hablar con nosotros, para ser padres porque no podían fingir que no tenían hijos. Cuando trataban de ser normales era aún más evidente que vivían en la penumbra. Papá había hecho muchos amigos cuando estuvo en la

Sudeep Chakravarti

SNAPSHOTS

Sudeep Chakravarti

on a few occasions, women. We saw different colours of skin and languages that people brought with them. The people were tall, medium and short; beautiful, plain and ugly. Like Baba they were all lovers of our history. Some spoke like the Spanish did, my sister and I later realized. After my sister and I returned from a month-long visit at our aunt’s place in the hills, a place of tea and the simple magic of mist and snowy peaks and sunshine, the she-disease had him. It grew slowly, but it had a purpose. Over the years, it took him away from us a lot. Baba explained it as his love for history. It made Baba happy and Ma sad. I had not known that language could come between two people. Ma beat us twice. She had found my sister and me by the record player. Some silly bull-fight music had been on, as loud as the machine would let us. I was brandishing a black and white chequered tablecloth at my sister. She would charge at it, and we ran around the small dining room screaming with all our lungs. It would then be my turn to charge. We changed the music. We stood together sticking out our thin chests, frantically stamping our feet on the ground as we had seen in a movie Baba had taken us to see at New Empire, in which men dressed in tight black suits and frilly shirts stood like air-filled puppets and clapped; while women with large eyes, wearing red and black moved their dresses in a bunch as if to keep them away from spilt water, and kicked about a lot. Ma hit us then. Later, in tears, she told us that she was afraid Baba’s disease would take us too. One day, I had come back from school to see my sister crying. She had been unwell, and had stayed home. The postman had brought a letter from abroad for Baba, and my sister had tried to open it. Ma found out, saw the letter, and slapped my sister. When I stood up for my sister, Ma slapped me as well. I asked my sister about the letter. She said Ma had put it away in her cupboard inside a large tin that once contained biscuits that one of Baba’s lovers of history had gifted him. My sister said the box had been full of letters. There was a photograph in the envelope, my sister told me, but she could not see of what it had been. Ma had snatched the envelope before she was able to turn the photograph around. But she had seen a name written behind it, in glossy blue on the ivory back of the photograph. My sister unlocked the cupboard after we came back from the crematorium, not pausing for a drink of water as I did. She didn’t have to rummage far for the tin. It was at the back on one of the middle shelves, shiny and bronzed above neat folds of Ma’s clothes. I wondered how Margarida would look now. Young and beautiful as in our imagination? Or faded with love and sadness? Even those who speak Spanish must get old sometime.

universidad en Calcuta. Se escribía con ellos. Lo venían a visitar a su universidad y a veces a casa. Venían de todo el país, y algunas veces, de todo el mundo; la mayoría hombres y en pocas ocasiones, mujeres. Veíamos distintos colores de piel e idiomas que la gente traía consigo. Había altos, de mediana estatura y bajos. Había gente bella, otros sin ningún atractivo y otros feos. Al igual que papá, todos eran amantes de nuestra historia. Algunos, como mi hermana y yo después nos dimos cuenta, hablaban como españoles. Al volver mi hermana de una visita de un mes a la casa de mi tía en las montañas, un lugar de plantaciones de té y del simple encanto de picos nevados y sol, él ya había enfermado de ella. Fue avanzando lentamente, pero con un propósito. Con el paso de los años lo alejó mucho de nosotros. Papá lo explicaba como su amor por la historia. Hacía feliz a papá y desgraciada a mamá. Yo no había imaginado que un idioma pudiera interponerse entre dos personas. Mamá nos pegó un par de veces. Nos encontró a mi hermana y a mí al lado del tocadiscos. Sonaba una melodía taurina muy tonta con el volumen al máximo. Yo sostenía un mantel de cuadros negros y blancos y ella embestía, corríamos alrededor de la mesa del comedor gritando como energúmenos. Después me tocaría arremeter a mí. Cambiamos la música. Sacábamos el pecho y zapateábamos frenéticamente como habíamos visto que hacían en una película que papá nos había llevado a ver al New Empire, en la que hombres con trajes negros muy ajustados y camisas de volantes, palmeaban como muñecos hinchables mientras mujeres de grandes ojos vestidas de rojo y negro movían sus faldas como si estuvieran tratando de evitar mojarse con agua que había caído al suelo y no paraban de dar patadas. Fue cuando mamá nos pegó. Después nos dijo llorando que tenía miedo de que la enfermedad de papá nos atacara a nosotros también. Un día que volví de la escuela encontré a mi hermana llorando. Estaba enferma y se había quedado en casa. El cartero había traído una carta del extranjero y mi hermana había tratado de abrirla. Mamá la descubrió, vio la carta y abofeteó a mi hermana. Cuando salí en defensa suya me abofeteó a mí también. Le pregunté a mi hermana por la carta. Me dijo que mamá la había guardado en su armario dentro de una lata de galletas que algún amante de la historia, amigo de mi padre, le había regalado. Mi hermana dijo que la caja estaba llena de cartas. Mi hermana me dijo que había una fotografía en el sobre pero no sabía qué había en la foto. Mamá le arrebató el sobre antes de que pudiera ver la fotografía. Pero había podido ver un nombre escrito en letras azules sobre el marfil del dorso de la fotografía. Mi hermana abrió el armario tan pronto como volvimos del crematorio, sin detenerse como yo a tomar un poco de agua. No tuvo que buscar mucho. Estaba al fondo de una de las repisas, sobre una pila de prendas de mamá. Me pregunté qué aspecto tendría Margarida en estos momentos. ¿Sería joven y bella como la habíamos imaginado? ¿O habría marchitado de amor y tristeza? Incluso los que hablan español deben envejecer tarde o temprano.

La Fundació Foto Colectania es una entidad privada sin ánimo de lucro que se inauguró en Barcelona en el H|V ` J\`H ÄUHSPKHK LZ KPM\UKPY SH MV[VNYHMxH ` LS JVSLJJPVUPZTV H través de exposiciones, actividades (coloquios, seminarios, viajes) y la edición de catálogos. Foto Colectania cuenta además con una colección de fotografía que reúne más de 2.500 obras de autores españoles y portugueses desde 1950 hasta la actualidad. Además, dispone de una biblioteca de consulta libre y de una cámara de conservación donde se N\HYKH LS MVUKV MV[VNYmÄJV LS HYJOP]V de Paco Gómez (donado por su familia en 2001) y el depósito de una parte de la colección de Juan Redón. © Manel Armengol

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Photo. Sohrab Hura Elsa and Ma, 2008

Elsa y Ma

lsa and Ma

Her name, like mine, is Elsa. What would Elsa sound like in India? I ask myself with the kind of excitement that precedes a discovery. I accept the invitation that the image proposes to me, I let my gaze wander from the body of the dog to that of the woman. The soft, black, silky, shining fur of the dog and the flaws, pimples and pores and blemishes on the skin of the woman, each as intense as the other. And this light and aggressive kiss that links one to the other. The two are female, I have no doubts about that, although I don’t know Ma’s gender. Is Ma a name or a short form of Mama? The woman – I decide – is the mother of the one whose gaze mounted the lens. As close as to be only visible to a son, this horrible sweetness, this complacency that aggrandizes defects and exhibits them. I go to the grainy and naked background where the figures are perched and see the photographer. I am what I see, what Sohrab Hura shows me, I am his photo, I am them. I hear a woman’s voice that says to me: “Sohrab brought her home to stay one winter evening. He installed her there without any ado. In spite of her compact presence and exaggerated body, she still looked very helpless, as if she was silently shouting for help. Will I have to look after her? I would have liked to reproach him but I could barely let out a growl, which he muffled with a distracted caress. From day one, Sohrab has done what he has wanted with me. I imagined him picking her up on the street, moved by her defencelessness but then I heard him call her and I was surprised. I had never seen anything like that before and would never have imagined it. I looked at her guardedly. I had to admit the similarities between the two of us: big, dark, heavy, beautiful, strong and delicate. I felt a brief tremor of jealousy: Would she always stay with us? Would I have to compete with her for Sohrab’s love? Where was the need to bring us together? Now, many days and emotions later, I tell you, Elsa, that he brought us together in order to be able to take this photo and this is reflected in this image of our intimacy. Indifferent and yet in love with us, he wanted to show us off to the world, who knows why? But I am not complaining, neither is she, because we have each other and we haven’t lost Sohrab Hura either. The first thing that established a bond between us was food. Although we were from different places: this warm delicious repast that was always on time became something between us, like it had been with Sohrab in days gone by. And this radiant vibration in his caresses, that were timid at first, that I soon learned to enjoy, we learned because she also enjoyed them. And this limitless joy that we felt whenever we chanced on each other, each time she appeared in the house. There was already a mutual fondness when Sohrab had to make that long journey and leave us alone for some time. He entrusted us to each other to look after. Those were happy days: we played guilelessly in the house in which Sohrab had grown up, the mornings and nights belonged to us, we crouched beside each to protect ourselves, we celebrated life unfettered by anything. A slender though strong web of affection was being woven each day between us. I feared that Sohrab would be unable to perceive this on his return and would impose a distance. But that did not happen. He docilely accepted it. He took her in his arms, he bid adieu to me without murmur and went home. Alone. He would visit us, he said. There was no sign of anger when he asked us to lose all inhibitions as if we were alone, as if he were not watching us in order to photograph us. A kind of provocation, as if he were telling the world: ‘It’s them, Elsa and Ma, and I am going to photograph them like this. Look at them, they are mine, they are my life.’” “He is proud of us. He loves us,” she says, moved, as she observes the photograph that portrays us. I don’t really know if I like being portrayed like this, so close, without any defenses, my skin full of flaws, pores as big as craters, pimples, dark and small eyelashes, a double chin, dishevelled hair, and kissing a bitch however beautiful. But I am not his mother, I am only Elsa, the bitch.

Como yo, ella se llama Elsa. ¿Cómo será Elsa en India?, me pregunto con esa excitación que precede a los descubrimientos. Acepto la invitación que me propone la imagen, deslizo mi mirada del cuerpo de la perra, al de la mujer. Pelaje suave, negro, liso, brillante, la perra, poros, impurezas, granos y huecos en la piel de la mujer, tan intensa una como la otra. Y ese beso leve y feroz que las cose una a la otra. Hembras las dos, de eso no dudo, aunque desconozco el género de Ma. ¿ Ma es un nombre o apócope de mamá? La mujer –decido- es la mamá de quein tomó la foto. Tan cerca como sólo la puede ver un hijo, esa dulzura atroz, esa complacencia en agigantar los defectos y exhibirlos. Voy al fondo granulado y desnudo donde se apoyan las figuras y de ahí al fotógrafo. Soy lo que miro, lo que Sohrab Hura me muestra, soy su foto, ellas. Escucho una voz, femenina, que me cuenta: La trajo Sohrab una tarde cualquiera de invierno y la instaló en casa. Me la impuso sin más. Pese a su compacta presencia, su corpachón exagerado, había en ella un aire profundamente desvalido, como si, en su silencio, pidiera socorro a gritos. ¿Voy a tener que cuidarla? me hubiera gustado reprocharle, pero apenas si emití un gruñido sordo que él aplacó con una caricia distraída. Sohrab hace lo que quiere conmigo, desde el primer día. Supuse que la habría recogido por la calle, apiadado de su indefensión, pero entonces lo escuché llamarla y me sorprendí, yo nunca la había visto y jamás podía sospecharla así. La miré con reticencia. Tuve que reconocer que ella y yo nos parecíamos: inmensas, oscuras, torpes, bellas, fuertes y delicadas. Un leve temblor de celos me sacudió: ¿se quedaría para siempre con nosotros? ¿Tendría que disputar el amor de Sohrab con ella? ¿Qué necesidad tenía de juntarnos? Ahora, muchos días y emociones más tarde, desde esta imagen que nos refleja como somos en nuestra intimidad, te digo, Elsa, que nos juntó para llegar a esta foto. Así, indiferentes y tan queriéndonos, quiso él exponernos al mundo, quién sabe por qué. Pero no me quejo, tampoco ella, porque nos tenemos una a la otra y a Sohrab Hura no lo hemos perdido. Lo primero que nos unió fue la comida, ese platito tibio, sabroso, siempre a tiempo, pasó a ser algo entre las dos, como en otros tiempos lo fue con Sohrab, aunque desde lugares diferentes. Y esa radiante vibración en las caricias, tímidas al principio, que muy pronto aprendí a gozar, aprendimos, porque ella también las disfrutaba. Y esa alegría sin recovecos que nos daba al rencontrarnos, cada vez que ella aparecía por casa. Ya existía una mutua predilección cuando Sohrab tuvo que hacer aquel largo viaje y nos dejó a solas. Nos encomendó a cada una que cuidáramos de la otra. Fueron días felices: jugábamos sin disimulo y sin cortes en la casa donde Sohrab creció, las mañanas y las noches eran nuestras, nos acurrucábamos la una contra la otra para protegernos, celebrábamos la vida sin aspavientos. Una tenue y poderosa malla de afectos se fue tejiendo día a día entre nosotras. Temí que Sohrab lo percibiera al volver de su viaje y nos impusiera una distancia. Pero no fue así. Lo aceptó mansamente. La abrazó a ella, se despidió de mí sin un reproche, y se fue a su casa. Solo. Nos vendría a visitar, dijo. No había atisbo de rencor cuando nos pidió que nos abandonáramos a nosotras mismas, como cuando estamos a solas, como si él no estuviera mirándonos, para retratarnos. Una suerte de provocación, un decirle al mundo: “Son ellas, Elsa y Ma, y así las retrato. Míralas, son lo mío, son mi vida.” Está orgulloso de nosotras. Nos ama, dice ella, conmovida, mientras observa la foto que nos refleja. A mí no sé si me hubiera gustado que me exhibiera así, tan cerca, sin pudor, la piel poblada de defectos, poros abiertos como cráteres, granos, párpados bajos y sombríos, papada, el pelo desalineado, y besándose con una perra, por más bella que sea. Pero yo no soy su madre, soy sólo Elsa, la perra.

Elsa Osorio

SNAPSHOTS

res hree

breves conversaciones acerca de los desaparecidos

short conversations about the disappeared

Photo. Adriana Lestido Madre e hija Plaza Mayo,1982

I I am embarrassed to say this but I stole it, from a friend’s house - does that qualify as stealing? Anyway, I took it. I told him I admired it and he said I could have it, as people sometimes say, you know, when you admire something they own. I think that most of the time it’s just politeness. He said: You can have it… But he didn’t give it to me. He didn’t take it off the wall. I didn’t leave with it. No? No, I took it the next time. Everyone was at his house but he wasn’t there, I can’t remember why. Someone had the keys, and he said it was alright for us to be there. I suppose we’re all friends… So, I saw it again, up on the wall along the stairs, and as I was leaving I took it. I remember thinking about it on the way down, thinking with every step: Should I? Should I really? He said I could… And then it was under my arm, the cold black frame. No-one said anything but my palms were sweating and so it felt like a theft. I mean, what if he was being polite? You felt like you just had to have it then? I had to, you know? I thought about leaving a note: In case you were wondering, I’ve taken the picture … Like that poem about the plums, but I didn’t. I left very quickly. And it felt like a theft. The plums? There was a poem. Never mind. Did he say anything? No. I’ve seen him a few times since then, once on a train, we had a long conversation. He didn’t mention it. I was afraid he would say something to someone else - which would be worse but no-one has mentioned it to me. People visit and it’s there on my wall, they know where it’s from, and they walk right past it.

I Me da vergüenza decirlo pero me la robé de casa de un amigo –¿eso califica como robo? En fin, la tomé. Le dije que la admiraba y me dijo que me la podía llevar, ¿sabes? eso que a veces suele decir la gente cuando expresas admiración por algo que poseen. Creo que la mayoría de las veces lo dicen por amabilidad. Dijo: Te la puedes llevar…Pero no me la dio. No la descolgó de la pared. No me fui con ella. ¿No? No. Me la llevé la siguiente vez. Estábamos todos en su casa pero él no estaba. No recuerdo por qué. Alguien tenía las llaves y dijo que podíamos ir a su casa. Creo que éramos todos amigos… Entonces la volví a ver, ahí en la pared al lado de las escaleras, y cuando me iba la cogí. Recuerdo haber pensado al bajar, con cada paso que daba: ¿La cojo? ¿Debería hacerlo? Me dijo que podía llevármela…Y de repente la tuve debajo del brazo, el marco frío y negro. Nadie dijo nada pero me sudaban las manos y sentí como si la estuviera robando. Es decir: ¿Y si lo había dicho sólo por amabilidad? ¿Sentiste que tenías que llevártela? Sí, sentí que tenía que hacerlo ¿sabes? Pensé dejar una nota: Por si te lo preguntabas. Me he llevado la foto…Como ese poema acerca de las ciruelas, Pero no lo hice. Me fui precipitadamente. Sentí como si la estuviese robando. ¿Las ciruelas? Había un poema. No importa. ¿Dijo algo? No. Lo he visto unas cuantas veces desde entonces, una vez en un tren, conversamos durante largo rato, no lo mencionó. Yo tenía miedo de se que lo dijera a alguien más – lo cual hubiera sido peor aún – pero nadie me ha dicho nada. Viene gente a visitarme y la ven ahí en la pared, saben de dónde proviene y la pasan por alto.

I’m staring because there is something strange about it. Strange? Yes, the still, silent image of shouting is strange. It isn’t silent. They are at the Plaza del Mayo, shouting for their children, screaming: You took them alive, we want them alive. Who is screaming? The women in the scarves, the white scarves. The Mothers of the Disappeared. In Chile? In Buenos Aires. Yes, in Chile. In Lebanon. In Israel and Algeria. … But this is the Plaza del Mayo in Buenos Aires. You can tell because of the white scarves. Do you remember that concert? Years ago, you’ve seen the video. It was Sting, singing … singing in Spanish: Dancing with the missing/dancing with the dead/dancing with the invisible ones … And they were there, the women in scarves holding up pictures. Don’t you remember, my mother had the video and she used to cry when he started dancing with them. With the Mothers, yes. With each one of them, he made sure, and my mother used to cry every time.

III But what can she possibly know, at her age, can she really know what to scream out? She knows what it means to scream. Didn’t you, as a child, just shout out loud what everyone else was saying, in a group, in a game? In a song? In a protest? Children have loud voices, the loudest voices. And here they are shouting for the disappeared, and so this girl is like a ghost. A mother with a child in her arms, screaming for the child snatched from her arms, taken without her knowledge and then missing, never returned. That’s too much! It isn’t all symbols and stories, fill in the blanks and make it up as you go along. Sometimes it’s very simple if you look at it, just look at it: Madre e hija, mother and child … shouting … This is what you stole it for? To have people look. To stare at it in silence, to pass it by without noticing it, or to look and admire it and wonder what it is about and where you got it, or to have a theory: the presence of the child in a protest on the absence of child? Look. Please, just look. Don’t study. Alright, one last question. When was it taken? When? … On a Thursday.

II La miro tanto porque tiene algo extraño. Sí, la imagen inmóvil y silenciosa del grito resulta extraña. No es silenciosa. Están en la Plaza de Mayo, gritando por sus hijos, están gritando: Ustedes se los llevaron vivos, los queremos vivos. ¿Quiénes gritan? Las mujeres con pañuelos en la cabeza, pañuelos blancos. Las Madres de los Desaparecidos. ¿En Chile? En Buenos Aires. Sí, en Chile. En Líbano. En Israel y Argelia. … Pero ésta es la Plaza de Mayo en Buenos Aires. Lo sabemos por los pañuelos blancos. ¿Recuerdas ese concierto? Lo viste hace años en vídeo. Era Sting cantando, cantando en español: Bailando con los desaparecidos/ bailando con los muertos/ bailando con los invisibles…Y ahí estaban, las mujeres con pañuelos levantando las fotos. ¿No recuerdas? Mi madre tenía el vídeo y lloraba cuando Sting empezaba a bailar con ellas. Con las madres, sí. Bailaba con todas y cada una de ellas, y mi madre lloraba cada vez que lo veía.

III ¿Pero, qué puede saber esa niña a su edad,? ¿Puede realmente saber qué gritar? Sabe lo que significa gritar. ¿Acaso tú no lo hacías de niño? ¿No gritabas lo que el resto gritaba, en un grupo, en un juego, en una canción,? ¿Como protesta? Los niños tienen voces muy altas, las más altas. Y aquí están gritando por los desaparecidos, o sea que esta niña es como un fantasma. Una madre con su hija en brazos, gritando por el hijo que le fue arrancado, el hijo que se llevaron sin que ella se enterara, que desapareció y no volvió nunca más. ¡Es tremendo! ! No se trata de símbolos e historias solamente, o de llenar los espacios en blanco, e inventar la historia en el camino. Si te fijas, algunas veces es muy simple. Si sólo la miras: Madre e hija. Madre e hija …gritando… ¿Por eso la robaste? ¿Para que la gente la vea?, ¿La mire en silencio?, ¿Pase al lado de ella sin notarla?, ¿O la vea y la admire y se pregunte de qué se trata o de dónde la sacaste?, ¿O para formular tu teoría personal: la presencia de un hijo como protesta por la ausencia de hijo? Mírala. Por favor sólo mira. No analices. Está bien, una última pregunta. ¿Cuándo fue tomada? ¿Cuándo?...un jueves.

Neel Chaudhuri

SNAPSHOTS

Photo. Sudharak Olwe

7KH RQO\ GHÀQLWLYH ancestral gesture: Looking towards the light

La certeza del único gesto ancestral: mirar hacia la luz

“What can a blind man see even if he has a lamp in his hand?” asks an Indian proverb. And the answer is simple: “Nothing.” Although Hindu lore could possibly provide another more exact answer: “The blind man sees the light of his own dreams...” In another ancient Hindu story we read that gazing at intense light (the magical light of the sun for example) can blind one, but even so, men keep looking towards it through the ages, only because it is preferable to focus on the light (the future, hope, the dreams that have yet to become reality) instead of wallowing in the absurd contemplation of shadows that have always threatened to envelop human beings since the beginning of time. Light radiates from the carefully made-up faces of these ladies gathered around the cake. The clapping of their hands enjoins the light with music. And also with their smiles. As well as with the innocent joy of the little girl with spectacles who applauds and observes the scene. And the men in the background who gaze in on this kind of proscenium where the women act out a role in keeping with their true essence, or rather they do not act … they live, although for the eyes of this modernity that contemplates them, captured in the photograph, they are posing for the camera, a continuously conquering object in search of the exotic. This accounts for the dresses (that give these women a mythical air of happiness, wealth, romanticism, sobriety, sophistication and innocence); or the tikkas, that sensuously adorn their foreheads, where

¿Qué ve el ciego, aunque se le ponga una lámpara en la mano?, dice un proverbio hindú. Y la respuesta más simple es: “nada”. Aunque otra respuesta posible podría ser, también según la sabiduría hindú: “el ciego ve la luz de sus propios sueños”, lo cual sería más justo. Otra antiquísima historia hindú asegura que mirar una luz intensa (la mágica luz del sol, por ejemplo) enceguece, pero que aún así el hombre sigue intentando mirarlo, siglo tras siglo, por la única razón de que es preferible concentrarse en la luz (es decir, el futuro, la esperanza, los sueños por construir) antes que zambullirse en la absurda contemplación de esas sombras que siempre, desde los tiempos iniciáticos del mundo, han perseguido al hombre pretendiendo engullirlo. La luz, por ello, salta desde los rostros minuciosamente maquillados de esas hermosas damas ante la tarta. El aplauso de sus manos pone música a la luz. Y a sus sonrisas. Y a la inocente alegría de la niña que aplaude y observa la escena tras sus espejuelos. Y a los hombres que, al fondo, observan esa especie de proscenio donde ellas actúan sumergidas dentro de su verdadera esencia, o lo que es igual, no actúan… viven, aunque ante los ojos de esa modernidad que las contempla detenidas en la foto ellas posan para la cámara, siempre conquistadora, siempre en busca de lo exótico. De ahí que esos atuendos (que dotan a estas mujeres de un hálito mítico de alegría, riqueza, romanticismo, sobriedad, sofisticación e inocencia); o la tika, tan sensualmente visible en sus frentes, allí, donde la leyenda dice que está el legendario tercer ojo, la

according to legend the third eye lies, the metaphysical fount of concentration, intuition, knowledge, power and the knowledge of Shiva; and even this raised curtain which makes the photograph curiously similar to a scene from a play (as if we were witnessing a folklore spectacle, the kind one saw in old Hollywood films about millenarian India). It is an integral work with exotic ingredients and even a certain tribal savagery, and one forgets that the lens has captured a magical moment, an ancestral rite, one more trace of humankind in the history of the world. It is often forgotten that this is a trace that is reiterated in thousands of historical spaces ever since man began walking upright towards the highest point in the chain of species (it’s a moot point whether we are truly at the peak of this chain, something quite disputable in these times). Because if the women in this photograph were dressed in the tarascas of Michoacán or in the yukatas of Okinawa or in the hereros of Botswana or in the German tracht, it would seem an image copied from another that had, in turn, been taken from an earlier one, regressive and infinite, in a world where the coming closer of cultures has shown that the essence of human beings continues intact, as if very little had changed since the days we passed the stage of being animals, which we still are, despite everything. There is an ancient legend of the Indo-Americans on the island of Cuba that says that a beautiful tribal girl fell in love with the sun, who she believed was a prince who visited her every night in her dreams. But not the whole sun: she longed to kiss the sun that sank in the sea every evening, on the faraway horizon, and for this reason she paused day after day on a knoll in front of the ocean and sang to it a sweet love song in her lovely melodious voice that seemed to emanate from nature itself. “Are you blind?” Her friends asked her. “If you ever reach it you will burn. In that place the water boils and devours all life.” But she paid no heed and one afternoon she came down from the knoll to the beach and entered the waters of the sea and walked and walked till the waters covered her. Her gaze remained steadfast on the light of her beloved sun. The legend has it that for this reason, every evening, from the seacoast when the sun sets on the ocean waters at the horizon, one can hear a song of love, a sweet melodious voice that seems to come from nature. The gesture is important. To look towards the light, towards one’s most intimate dreams. To have the light in one’s gaze like that of the women in the photograph. Let fly the sparks of joy while looking at the cake and clapping with the thought that there is a new journey that has to begin, as another Hindu proverb puts it, with the first step.

fuente metafísica de la concentración, la intuición, el conocimiento, la fuerza y la sabiduría de Shiva; e incluso ese telón alzado que otorga a la foto una curiosa semejanza a un escenario teatral (otra vez, como si asistiéramos a una puesta en escena folclórica, tan propia de los viejos filmes de Hollywood sobre la milenaria India), sean observados ante todo como eso: una obra preparada con ingredientes de exotismo y, también, cierto salvajismo tribal, y se olvida que el lente ha capturado un momento mágico, un rito ancestral, una marca humana más en la historia del mundo. Como también se olvida que puede ser una marca repetida en miles de espacios históricos desde que el hombre se alzó sobre sus pies y echó a andar hacia la cima de la cadena de las especies (si es que realmente estamos en lo más alto de esa cima, cosa muy discutible según los tiempos que corren). Porque esa foto, si en vez de saris se vistiera a las mujeres con tarascas de Michoacán o con yukatas de Okinawa o con los hereros de Bostwana o con el tracht alemán, pareciera una imagen calcada de otra imagen que ha sido copiada de una imagen anterior, regresiva e infinitamente, en un mundo donde el proceso de acercamiento intercultural va demostrando que la esencia del ser humano sigue intacta, como si muy poco hubiera cambiado desde aquel día en que le dimos la espalda al animal que, pese a todo, seguimos siendo. Una vieja leyenda de los indoamericanos que habitaron la isla de Cuba cuenta que una hermosa joven indígena se había enamorado del sol, a quien creía un príncipe que la visitaba en sus sueños cada noche. Pero no de todo el sol: ella anhelaba besar a ese sol que se bañaba en el mar cada tarde, allá en el lejanísimo horizonte y por eso día a día se paraba sobre un otero frente al océano y le cantaba una hermosa tonada de amor con su voz sonora, dulce, que parecía nacer del propio oleaje. “¿Estás ciega?”, le dijeron sus amigas, “si llegas allá te quemarás. En ese lugar el agua hierve y consume todo lo vivo”. Pero ella no escuchó y una de aquellas tardes bajó desde el otero hasta la playa, se metió en las aguas del mar y caminó y caminó hasta que las aguas la cubrieron, la mirada puesta siempre en la luz de su amado sol. Cuenta la leyenda que por eso, cada tarde, desde las costas de la isla, cuando el sol se pone en el horizonte, sobre las aguas del océano, se escucha un cántico de amor, una voz sonora, dulce, que parece nacer del propio oleaje. Importa el gesto. Mirar hacia la luz, es decir, a sus más íntimos sueños. Llevar la luz en la mirada, como esas mujeres de la foto. Dejar que las chispas de la alegría salten cuando se mira a la tarta y se aplaude y se está pensando que hay un camino que empezar, como diría otro proverbio hindú, siempre por el primer paso.

Amir Valle

SNAPSHOTS

We seem to know everything these days. Having savoured a few books by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Mario Vargas Llosa and Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatistas makes Latin America seem not so far away. And there is always Octavio Paz, whose poetry in India carries within it the undercurrent of some other spices, fulfilling his role as the Ambassador to India long after he left the shores of this country. A few words and suddenly everybody is an expert on cultures not their own; on languages, religions, even the innards of the minds of men with whom we have never spoken, whom we will never meet. There is something to be said for ignorance. I will never know this man, or at least I cannot imagine the circumstances that would allow me to do so. Even if, by some odd chance, we did meet, I do not know how I would learn what he thought that day. How would I begin the conversation? “Sir, I have seen you looking serious on the Day of the Dead. You were staring at the man who took that picture, and the dark of your eyes was almost black. There were two other men with you, one whose face was hidden, another who was looking somewhere else. But you were looking straight at the camera. There was something there, back there behind your gaze, a thought that made you hostile to being photographed. No, not hostile. Wrong word. Indifferent or disinterested, but you let yourself be photographed anyway. Can you tell me today about the person you were on that day, and what made

You See a Man

Photo. Sebastião Salgado / Amazonas images Day of the Dead in San Vicente Nautec-Ecuador

Ves un hombre. Ves sus ojos y no tienes idea qué esté mirando, aunque parecen perforar los tuyos. El pie de foto dice que se trata del Día de Muertos en Ecuador. El impulso de hacer una investigación sucia y veloz en Internet es enorme, pero lo reprimo. Nada de lo que encuentre ahí me dirá lo que quiero saber, nada me revelará los pensamientos del hombre que me mira desde aquella fotografía. Pareciera que hoy día lo sabemos todo. Habiendo saboreado un par de libros de Gabriel García Márquez, Mario Vargas Llosa y el Subcomandante Marcos, América Latina no se siente tan lejana. Y siempre está Octavio Paz, cuya poesía, en India, contiene un trasfondo de otras especias, cumpliendo con su papel de Embajador en India mucho después de que se alejara de la costa de este país. Unas cuantas palabras y de pronto todos son expertos en culturas ajenas a las suyas; en idiomas, religiones, hasta en las entrañas de las mentes de hombres con quienes nunca hemos hablado, a quienes jamás conoceremos. La ignorancia tiene su encanto. Jamás conoceré a este hombre, o al menos soy incapaz de imaginarme las circunstancias que me permitirían hacerlo. Aún si por azares remotos llegáramos a encontrarnos, no tendría forma de saber en qué pensaba aquel día. ¿Cómo iniciaría una conversación con él? “Señor, lo he visto con una expresión seria un Día de Muertos. Usted miraba fijamente al hombre que le tomó una foto, y lo oscuro de sus ojos era casi negro. Había dos hombres más con usted, uno tenía tapado el rostro y otro volteaba hacia otra parte. Pero usted fijaba la mirada en la cámara. Había algo ahí, algo detrás de su mirada, un pensamiento que le producía hostilidad ante el hecho de ser fotografiado. No, hostilidad no. Palabra equivocada. Indiferencia o desinterés. Pero se dejó fotografiar de todas maneras. ¿Me puede hablar hoy de la persona que fue aquel día, y de lo que hizo que su mirada fuera la que fue en ese instante? ¿Se puede convertir

your gaze into what it was in that moment? Can you become yourself, once again, as you were back then, just for one little moment, so that I can probe your mind?” If I had that chance would I be able to say all of that? I wonder what his response would be. Possibly he would ask me which year, which Day of the Dead I was referring to. I would mumble that I had forgotten, I didn’t know, that the photograph did not carry a date. It was a black and white photograph and revealed nothing about the day or year. But didn’t he recall that day when people were standing there with him looking over the cloth at the camera and there was this photographer, all geared up like an alien on the day of the festival, and he stared at him, neither giving nor denying him the right; that day when his face was a shield which kept his thoughts locked away from the photographer and everybody else who would see that photograph? Perhaps, then, he would remember and tell me that his wife had been ill, that he had had difficulty buying medicine. Times had been hard, but he had a job even if it did not allow him to do what he wanted, and did not give him what he deserved. The world was fake; flawed and broken at the edges. On the Day of the Dead, amidst the singing and shouting, among the great skulls made of papier-maché, he was remembering his father. The old man had loved him, had worked his whole life in one pathetic job or another to feed his children, had never complained. Now so many years later here he was, a son of that uncomplaining father, seeing the world as flawed and broken and unfair. What should he do? Even if things were difficult who was he to complain when his father never had? This was a day of celebration after all, he should celebrate his father. Suddenly somebody had made a sound and he had turned to see a man down on his knee, his camera obscuring his face. There had been a click. That was all he remembered, and then he had looked away and never thought about it again. Maybe that is what he would say. I do not know. I am ignorant.

de nuevo en el que fue en aquel momento, sólo por un instante, para que yo pueda adentrarme en su mente?” Si tuviera la oportunidad, ¿sería capaz de decir todo eso? Me pregunto cuál sería su respuesta. Es probable que me pregunte a qué año, a qué Día de Muertos me refiero. Yo balbucearía que se me olvidó, que no sé, que la fotografía no estaba fechada. Era una foto en blanco y negro y no revelaba nada acerca del día o del año. Pero, ¿acaso no se acordaba del día en que hubo gente de pie junto a él, mirando por encima de la manta hacia la cámara y había un fotógrafo completamente equipado como un alienígena el día del festival, y usted lo miraba, sin aceptar ni negarle el derecho a tomar la foto; el día en que su rostro era un escudo que mantenía sus pensamientos fuera de la vista del fotógrafo y de cualquier persona que llegaría a ver esa fotografía? Quizá entonces el hombre lo recordaría y me diría que su esposa había estado enferma, que había tenido problemas para comprar su medicina. Era una época difícil, pero tenía un trabajo pese a que no le permitía hacer lo que él quería y pese a que no le daba lo que él merecía. El mundo era una farsa; defectuoso y roto en las esquinas. El Día de Muertos, entre los cantos y los gritos, entre las enormes calaveras de papier maché, le recordaba a su padre. El viejo lo había querido, trabajó su vida entera ocupando algún cargo patético u otro para darle de comer a sus hijos y jamás se quejó. Ahora, tantos años después, ahí estaba él, hijo de ese padre que no se quejaba, pensando en que el mundo es una farsa y que está roto y defectuoso. ¿Qué debe hacer? Aunque las cosas estuvieran difíciles, ¿quién era él para quejarse cuando su padre jamás lo había hecho? Al final de cuentas, era un día de celebraciones, debía de homenajear a su padre. De pronto alguien había producido un ruido y él había volteado para ver a un hombre descansando sobre una rodilla, con el rostro oculto tras una cámara. Hubo un clic. Eso es lo único que recordaba, y luego volteó hacia otra parte y jamás había vuelto a pensar en ello. Quizá eso es lo que diría. No lo sé. Soy ignorante.

Omair Ahmad

You see a man. You see his eyes and have no idea of what he is looking at, although from the photograph they seem to bore into yours. The caption at the bottom of the picture says that this is from the “Day of the Dead” in Ecuador. The urge to do some quick and dirty research on the internet is immense, but I fight it down. There is nothing that I can find there that will tell me what I need to know, that will illume the thoughts of the man that is looking out of that photo.

Ves un hombre

LABYRINTHS

Photo. Ketaki Sheth Yesha & Niddhi, on the swing in their porch, Piplav Gujarat, 1998 from Twinspotting, by Ketaki Sheth, Dewi Lewis Publishing, UK, 1999

LABERINTOS

There is nothing as moving as a girl’s smile, observed Dead Swan. He had been a prince in Culiacan and had roamed the world on a raft, interpreting the meanings of dreams with an acoustic guitar. It’s like a light on the window, skin the colour of gold or a wall of memories. It’s as sudden as the path that swallows up the traveller. There is nothing as provocative as observing how you write certainties that have neither a date nor validity, the other swan answered. He had been a Professor of Comparative Literature and a gesture was enough for him to decide if it was Shakespeare or Lope or viceversa. And as far as this smile is concerned, one is talking of a beauty that reveals and conceals. The friends spent hours talking without the young girls noticing them. For the eighty-eighth time I was about to make them human and make them shed their feathers and fleas and get ready for a waltz with a languid gaze, or long conversation with the girls convincing them not to be frightened. The swans had come back to life thanks to the efforts of a famous Mexican wizard and, if they were so beautiful, it was because their race was like that. The Dead Swan would convince them of this and would tell them about their city and of the three rivers and how one day he toured the world on a raft of sugar looking for the possible. And his friend would recite them poems of love and the girls would correct him and start smiling again with the charm of those who have it all. But it was of no use. I only know the hymn that reveals the minute in the day when the dream is named without a language. I am the ghost in the ship. The breath of the solitary cactus. The animal that flees. How many times my teachers warned me not to waste my life in studying idiocies, to leave matters of the genome and genetic heredity to others to conclude. But I am stubborn, I plough in the sea, in the desert and in the snow, I visit nonexistent places and waste time like a crazy person. I found the treasure of the rainbow: I took from there the jewels that I now wear. The swans called me on the cell phone. They begged, threatened and pleaded. I told them of my efforts and urged them not to lose hope nor fear the passage of time, I was sure that they would soon become rich handsome young men, experts in amatory affairs; I even took a long journey to talk with the girls and I was received in a joy-filled room; on the walls there were photographs of men with their hands busy, musicians looking for a unique tune; there was a television for entertainment, a fan made of feathers and they were sitting beside the light, the lovers, as stiff as linen under an iron. The guitar in its place. The delicate-featured, long-haired girls approved the project with fascination, and resolutely imagined themselves married to these fearless men who had become swans just to look for them. Years later they would pester me. Their hands would lose their softness after caressing the petrified birds for so long and they feared they would lose their lushness. It was then that they hired a specialist who was an expert in girls; but the disgraceful man fell in love with the youngest and used all his powers to get rid of the Prince of Culiacán. We faced each other behind the curtain of flowers so that the women would not get scared. After three days of night-time attacks, I transformed him into a horse that I placed on one of the walls near the fan of feathers. I couldn’t wipe the surprise off their faces. They insisted on having a photograph to hang with the others. Forty days later, I ordered the swans to be taken to their bedrooms, that they dance with them, strip them naked and kiss them. It was night. Minutes later I perceived the silent noises of love, the clamor of labyrinths being discovered. I listened, fascinated, for a few minutes. The remedy had undoubtedly worked because they never came back and I was left stranded in the photograph that tomorrow I will present them with. I know that they will place it near the place where they wait for the swans and they will hang a rosary around it. I know that, later, I will become a rock and everything will be eternal.

Nada más arrebatador que la sonrisa de una chica, expresó el Cisne Muerto que había sido príncipe en Culiacán y recorrido el mundo en balsa interpretando los sueños que despiertan, con una guitarra acústica. Es luz en la ventana, piel dorada o muro del recuerdo. Fulminante como el camino que traga a los viajeros. Nada más provocador que observar cómo escribe certidumbres que no tienen edad ni compromiso, respondió el otro cisne, que había sido profesor de literatura comparada y le bastaba un gesto para decretar si era Shakespeare o Lope o viceversa. Y en cuanto a esa sonrisa, se trata de una belleza que devela y desvela. Pasaban horas los amigos charlando sin que las jóvenes los advirtieran. Ochenta y ocho veces estuve a punto de convertirlos en humanos, que surgieran de pronto de las plumas sacudiéndose las pulgas dispuestos para un vals, una mirada lánguida o una larga conversación para persuadir a las muchachas de que no estuvieran aterradas, que eran los cisnes que habían vuelto a la vida gracias a un famoso hechicero mexicano y que si resultaron tan guapos es que así era su estirpe. El Cisne Muerto las convencería y les contaría de su ciudad, de los tres ríos y de cómo un día recorrió el mar en una balsa de azúcar buscando lo posible. Y su amigo les recitaría poemas de amor y ellas corregirían y volverían a sonreír con el encanto de las personas que lo tienen todo. Pero fue inútil. Sólo sé el himno que revela el minuto del día en que el sueño se nombra sin idioma. Soy el fantasma del barco. El aliento del cactus solitario. El animal que huye. Cuántas veces mis maestros me amonestaron para que no dilapidara mi vida estudiando tonterías, que dejara esos asuntos del genoma y la herencia genética, que ya vendrían otros a concluirlo. Sin embargo soy terco, aro en el mar, en el desierto y en la nieve, visito lugares que no existen y trago tiempo como loco. Encontré el tesoro del arcoíris: las joyas que ostento las elegí de él. Los cisnes me llamaban al celular. Suplicaban, amenazaban, prometían. Les contaba de mis esfuerzos y les instaba a que no perdieran la esperanza, que no temieran el paso de los años, que estaba seguro que ellos se transformarían en jóvenes apuestos, ricos y expertos en artes amatorias; hasta hice un largo viaje para platicar con las chicas que me recibieron en una habitación llena de alegría; las paredes exhibían fotos de hombres con brazos ocupados, músicos buscando la melodía única; había una tele para refrescar, un abanico de plumas y al lado de la luz se encontraban ellos: los enamorados, tenaces como el lino ante la plancha. La guitarra en su sitio. Las jóvenes de rostros finos y pelo largo aprobaron fascinadas el proyecto y resueltas se imaginaron casadas con esos hombres temerarios que se habían convertido en cisnes para ir a encontrarlas. Años después eran las que me asediaban. Sus manos perdían tersura de tanto acariciar a los pájaros petrificados y temían perder su lozanía. Fue cuando contrataron a un especialista que conocieron de niñas; pero el infeliz se enamoró de la más joven y empleó todo su poder en eliminar al príncipe de Culiacán. Nos enfrentamos tras la cortina de flores para que las féminas no se impresionaran. Después de tres días con sus noches de acometidas, lo convertí en caballo que coloqué en una de las paredes cerca del abanico de plumas. Lo que no pude borrar de sus rostros fue el asombro. Insistieron en que les diera una foto para colgar junto a las otras. Cuarenta días después, ordené que llevaran los cisnes a sus aposentos, que les bailaran, se desnudaran y los besaran. Era de noche. Minutos después percibí los ruidos silenciosos del amor, el fragor de los laberintos descubiertos. Durante minutos escuché fascinado. Sin duda funcionó el remedio por que jamás volvieron, y yo quedé varado en la fotografía que mañana les obsequiaré. Sé que la situarán cerca de donde esperaban los cisnes y le pondrán un rosario. Sé que después me convertiré en acantilado y todo será eterno.

Élmer Mendoza

SNAPSHOTS

GUARDIA

SNAPSHOTS

Don’t blame it on Linnaeus: the limits of language Are always breached by any choice, his or ours; Tell me, how was he to know that “the nearly round Cactus covered with ovate, bearded tubercles” Would, in a world still undiscovered, branch Into families of giants marching across the desert, Their hands reaching out to empty blue sky? Let no-one appoint you guard on meanings: Behind your back they will change and grow Into something angelic and monstrous Like a thorn-crowned cactus crucified Against, yes, what else? An empty blue sky. And yet there is much to guard in the wasted Vastness of our vestigial meanings: Look at what happened to cacti, how they Were defined out of existence as a word. Consult your botany books, and notice They do not exist now, dead as the dodo By definition, dead like a million Other species of flora and fauna, dead Like entire families, because no-one hugged That trunk of wood, that child of three, Because no-one stood guard against, No, no, no, an empty blue sky.

UARD

No culpes a Linneo: cualquier elección suya o nuestra, transgrede siempre los límites del lenguaje; Dime, ¿Cómo iba él a saber que “el cactus casi redondo cubierto con tubérculos aovados y barbudos” se ramificaría, en un mundo aún por descubrir, en familias de gigantes en marcha por el desierto, sus manos alzadas hacia el cielo azul vacío?

Y sin embargo, hay mucho que custodiar en la desperdiciada inmensidad de vestigios de nuestros significados: Mira lo que les pasó a los cactus, palabra cuya definición quedó fuera de la existencia. Consulta tus libros de botánica, y date cuenta de que ya no existen, muertos como de hecho lo está el dodo, muertos como millones. De otras especies de flora y fauna, muertos como familias enteras porque nadie abrazó ese tronco de madera, a ese niño de tres años. Porque nadie lo resguardó, no, no, no, del cielo azul vacío.

Photo. Graciela Iturbide Desierto de Sonora México, 1979.Galería López Quiroga, México D.F.

Tabish Khair

No dejes que te nombren guardián de significados: Crecerán a tus espaldas y se transformarán en algo angelical y monstruoso. Como un cactus con corona de espinas, crucificado sobre, qué si no, un cielo azul vacío.

Photo. Gauri Gil Hanuman Nath with his daughter and Hem Nath, on Holi day, Lunkaransar from the series ‘Notes from the Desert’

I am attracted by the classicism of the photograph: the contrast between the atmosphere of poverty and the strict symmetry of volumes, similar to the idea of harmony established by European Renaissance painting. Visually, the stage design is stark. On the one hand, the extreme absence of ornamentation, walls shorn of decorations, paintings or images; on the other, the way the extraordinary intensity of the gaze of the threesome is highlighted. This last feature is powerfully captivating. Three sets of eyes of great expressiveness. Those of the father are full of desperation and a thinly-veiled protest. In keeping with this, those of the younger son who is sitting in his arms, show a childlike seriousness bordering on fury. The pupils of the teenage boy have a different orientation, they communicate a soulful melancholy, a feeling that is sad and at the same time disillusioned and poetic. The room seems lit up by the light that emanates from these three sets of eyes.

Me llama la atención el clasicismo de la fotografía: el contraste entre la atmósfera de pobreza y la estricta simetría de volúmenes, parecida en todo a la idea de armonía establecida por la pintura del Renacimiento europeo. Visualmente la escenografía es muy estricta. De un lado, la extrema desnudez de la ornamentación, en la que los muros están desprovistos de adornos, cuadros o imágenes; de otro,sin embargo, sobresale la extraordinaria intensidad de las miradas. Esto último llama poderosamente la atención. Son tres pares de ojos de una expresividad enorme. Los del padre contienen una desesperación y una protesta apenas veladas. En concordancia con esto los del hijo menor, sentado entre sus brazos, exteriorizan una seriedad infantil rayana en la furia. Con una orientación distinta, las pupilas del muchacho púber comunican una melancolía llena de sentido, un sentimiento a la vez triste, desilusionado y poético. La habitación parece iluminada por la luz que emanan esos tres pares de ojos.

And what they illuminate is hard and merciless. The solitary shoe that is lying on the floor on the right breaks the appearance of harmony and introduces the element that dominates the entire scene: absence. The absence of the woman, of the mother. The violent emptiness, the sign of being orphaned, the expulsion of sweetness desolately conjures up before the spectator the spectre of a holy family from whom the feminine has been extirpated. There is not enough room for these three lives, invariably pushed towards a formidable future.

Y lo que iluminan es duro y desamparado. El solitario zapato que emerge en el suelo, a la derecha, rompe la apariencia de armonía e introduce al factor que domina toda la escena: la ausencia. La ausencia de la mujer, de la madre.El violento vacío, la evidencia de la orfandad, la expulsión de la dulzura conforma ante el espectador, desoladoramente, el espectro de una sagrada familia en la que lo femenino ha sido extirpado. No hay cuartel para estas tres existencias, inevitablemente volcadas hacia un futuro abrumador.

And yet, as they pose for the photograph, they seem to feel possessed of an energy that we can admire and which gives an air of nobility and dignity to the fragile human condition.

Y, no obstante, en el momento de posar para la fotografía se sienten poseedores de una fuerza que nos admira e insufla nobleza y dignidad a la frágil condición humana.

Our Ganesha Doesn’t Drink Milk, the temple sign proclaimed, though everyone knew it was a lie. For six days, Ganeshas all over the world had been drinking milk, pictures and statues alike. This Ganesha in Bombay was no exception. My great aunt tipped me off, saying she had been to that particular temple and had witnessed the miracle herself. The day I visited, I brought Ganesha ice cream, because the milk vendors were sold out. My great aunt hadn’t warned me about the lines, or that I’d have to wait in the hot sun, though I should have anticipated both. The ice cream started to melt, dripping through the paper cup, coating my wrist and forearm in sticky syrup. Eventually, I threw it away. Two hours later, when I finally made my way into the great hall, I had nothing to offer. Others had elaborate silver thalis with coconuts and pineapples and assortments of sweets: burfis, ladoos, sticky jelabis, homemade halwa. At the center of each thali was a deep bowl of creamy milk, sometimes topped with rose petals. I watched as a woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd and fed Ganesha milk with a silver spoon, as though he were a small child and she were his mother. I spotted my great aunt, whom I wasn’t expecting to see. I pulled at her purse to get her attention. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asked. I was skeptical. I wasn’t sure I believed in miracles. True, the milk from the spoon did seem to disappear, though it was difficult to see exactly what was happening behind Ganesha’s trunk. My great aunt pointed to a woman in the corner of the room, the loose end of her green saree covering her head. She bowed repeatedly, praying and sobbing. “That woman has been here all day for the past two days.” It occurred to me that my great aunt must also have been here all day both days, otherwise how else could she have known? I looked around. So many people were crying. I noticed a man wearing a white shirt with a collar, neatly pressed, but dingy and yellowed. His eyes were red. I remembered that Ganesha is the destroyer of obstacles. People here had brought him those they couldn’t bear. The hall was heavy and full of burdens. Ganesha is also the creator of new beginnings, which was why my father, when he left Bombay and came to America, built a Ganesha shrine in our small house in the small southern town where he had made his life, which hadn’t turned out exactly as he had hoped. Decades later, I was standing in front of Ganesha in the city from which my father had emigrated. I had been living the last eight years in Atlanta. My boyfriend of twelve years had ended things, after I’d made three attempts at rehab and after he’d given me more just-one-last-chances than either of us could count. He’d come home one evening to find me passed out, vomit staining the front of my shirt. He cleaned me up, took me to the ER, and then called my mother. Two days later she arrived, and he left. I was thirty. Empty-handed, I bowed to Ganesha, and asked for a new beginning of my own.

Nuestro Ganesha no bebe leche, decía un letrero en el templo, aunque todos sabían que no era cierto. A lo largo de seis días, los Ganeshas del mundo entero bebían leche, fueran imágenes o estatuillas. Este Ganesha de Bombay no era la excepción. Mi tía abuela me había pasado el dato, dijo que había ido al tempo y visto el milagro con sus propios ojos. El día que fui, le compré un helado a Ganesha porque la leche de los puestos se había agotado. Mi tía abuela no me había advertido acerca de las filas ni me había dicho que tendría que esperar bajo el sol ardiente, aunque debí de haber imaginado ambas cosas. El helado comenzó a derretirse, chorreando el vasito de papel y bañándome la muñeca y antebrazo con el pegajoso jarabe. Terminé deshaciéndome del helado. Dos horas más tarde, cuando al fin logré entrar al vestíbulo, no tenía nada que ofrecer. Otras personas tenían thalis elaborados, con coco y piña y dulces de todo tipo: birfis, ladoos, jelabis, halwa casero. En el centro de cada thali había un tazón de leche cremosa, adornada a veces con pétalos de rosa. Observé cómo una mujer empujaba a los demás para llegar hasta Ganesha y darle de beber leche con una cuchara de plata, como lo haría una madre con un hijo pequeño. Advertí a mi tía abuela, a quien no había esperado encontrar. Tiré de su bolsa para llamar su atención. —¿Habías visto algo parecido?— preguntó. Me sentía escéptico. No estaba seguro de creer en los milagros. Cierto, la leche parecía desaparecer de la cuchara, pero era difícil discernir qué sucedía detrás de la trompa de Ganesha. Mi tía abuela señaló a una mujer ubicada en una esquina del cuarto. Tenía la cabeza tapada con la punta suelta de su sari. Hacía reverencias una y otra vez, orando y sollozando. —Esa mujer leva dos días enteros aquí. Se me ocurrió que mi tía abuela también debió de haber pasado los dos últimos días en el templo, de otro modo, ¿cómo lo podría asegurar? Miré a mi alrededor. Muchos lloraban. Observé a un hombre que vestía con una camisa de cuello blanco, bien planchada pero percudida y amarillenta. Tenía los ojos enrojecidos. Recordé que Ganesha es el destructor de obstáculos. La gente le había traído los obstáculos que no podía soportar. La sala se sentía pesada con los problemas de los devotos. Ganesha también es el creador de nuevos comienzos, razón por la que mi padre, al abandonar Bombay para irse a Estados Unidos, construyó un santuario en la pequeña casa de un pequeño pueblo sureño donde había hecho su vida, misma que no resultó precisamente como él había esperado. Varias décadas después, me encontraba frente a Ganesha en la ciudad de la que mi padre había emigrado. Yo había vivido en Atlanta los últimos ocho años. Mi novio de doce años había puesto fin a nuestra relación después de tres intentos de rehabilitarme y después de tantas últimas oportunidades que ambos habíamos perdido la cuenta. Volvió a casa una noche para encontrarme desmayado, con la camisa chorreada de vómito. Me aseó, me llevó a una sala de emergencias y telefoneó a mi madre. A los dos días, ella llegó y él se fue. Yo tenía treinta años. Con las manos vacías, le hice reverencias a Ganesha y le pedí un nuevo principio. De niño, adoraba a Ganesha. Me recordaba a Babar y a Dumbo. Dormía con su imagen junto a mi cama. Cuando tenía ocho años, mi padre me regaló un libro para ilustrar que había comprado en uno de sus viajes a India. Se titulaba Ganesha va… Tenía dibujos con pies de ilustración que decían cosas como “Ganesha va a bailar disco” y “Ganesha va de paseo en un globo aerostático.” Uno de los pies decía “Ganesha va a ponerse a dieta.” La imagen lo mostraba rodando una hoja de lechuga con la trompa mientras que ojeaba con envidia a su compañero, la rata, quien mordisqueaba un mantecoso ladoo. En Halloween de ese año, mi padre me ayudó a fabricar un

Rahul Mehta

Rafael Argullol

ELMILAGRO IRACLE

SNAPSHOTS

As a child, I had loved Ganesha. He reminded me of Babar and Dumbo. I slept with his picture by my bed. When I was eight, my father, returning from one of his trips to India, brought me a colouring book called “Ganesha Goes…” It had pictures with captions like “Ganesha goes disco dancing” and “Ganesha goes in a hot air balloon.” One caption was, “Ganesha goes on a diet.” The picture showed him pushing around a lettuce leaf with his trunk, while looking jealously at his companion, the rat, who was nibbling on a buttery ladoo. That Halloween, my father helped me construct a Ganesha costume. We made the head and trunk out of papier-mâché and two extra arms out of cardboard. My father tied a pillow around my waist. He went to the pet store and bought me a rubber rat that squeaked when I squeezed it. Halloween night, my father wanted to escort me. My mother, smelling his breath, said she thought she should do it instead. But my father insisted, raising his voice in a way that we both recognized, and that scared us. I didn’t want either of them to come; I thought I was too old. My father promised to wait at the end of the driveways and not to accompany me to the front doors. Neighbours asked me what I was supposed to be. When I told them “Lord Ganesha,” they smiled uncomfortably. We lived in the Bible Belt. One asked me why I had an elephant’s head. “My father cut off my human head, because I wouldn’t let him into the bathroom to watch my mother bathe.” “Oh,” she said. She looked around me at my father, lurking in the shadows at the end of the driveway, leaning on a mailbox. She giggled nervously, and dropped a single Hershey’s Kiss into my candy sack. I felt slighted when I noticed how she oohed and aahed over my friend Mike’s costume–a Rubik’s Cube–and how she gave him a whole handful of Hershey’s Kisses. At the end of the driveway, I told my father what had happened. “Fuck them,” he said, sputtering. “Fuck them all!” I said, “I should have been Superman.” Now, in Bombay, Ganesha didn’t have to beg for Kisses; he had more sweets than he could possibly eat and all the milk in the city. He drank and drank and drank. I did, too. Eventually, the miracle ended. People started wondering what it had all meant. Surely it meant something. Everybody had their own ideas. A swami on TV claimed ours had become a godless society, and Ganesha was reminding us of divine presence. An editorial in a left-leaning newspaper suggested it was a politically-motivated conspiracy somehow engineered by the religious right. A physicist said the miracle was a hoax. It could all be explained, he said, by surface tension, capillary action, and siphoning. But my great aunt insisted it was a true miracle. Back in the US, over the phone, my father agreed. I said, “You’re a molecular biologist. Do you really believe this?” He said, “I’m telling you, it’s a sign.” “A sign saying what?” I asked. He said, his voice blurry, “It’s never too late.” Remembering the sign at the temple, I said, “Sometimes signs lie.”

Photo. Paco Gómez Familia Luengo Serie Los Modlin Valverde de la Vera. 2006

The following September, during the Ganesh Chaturthi festival, crowds thronged the streets, carrying wax statues of Ganesha painted in bright colors. They marched toward Chowpatty Beach. It had been almost exactly a year since the miracle. I had been living in Bombay for a year-and-a-half. Nothing much had changed. My miracle hadn’t come. All the same, I had brought a small statue, and I set it in the sea along with everyone else. Hundreds of Ganeshas bobbed in the water, bashed about. Some were destroyed quickly. But some were more resilient, and I watched as the waves carried them away.

disfraz de Ganesha. Hicimos la cabeza y el tronco de papier-mâché y utilizamos cartulina para los dos brazos adicionales. Mi padre me amarró una almohada a la cintura. Me compró una rata de hule en la tienda para mascotas que chillaba cuando la apretaba. Al caer la noche, mi padre quiso acompañarme a pedir dulces. Mi madre, al oler su aliento, dijo que sería mejor que lo hiciera ella. Pero mi padre insistió, alzando la voz de una forma que ambos reconocíamos y que nos asustaba. Yo no quería que me acompañara ninguno de ellos; sentía que ya era demasiado adulto. Mi padre prometió que me esperaría en los caminos de entrada de las casas sin acompañarme hasta las puertas. Los vecinos me preguntaban de qué se trataba mi disfraz. Cuando les respondía el dios Ganesha sonreían incómodamente. Vivíamos en el Cinturón de la Biblia. Una vecina me preguntó por qué tenía cabeza de elefante. —Mi padre me cortó mi cabeza humana porque no permití que entrara al baño para ver cómo se bañaba mi madre. —Ya veo —respondió. Miró a mi padre, quien, recargado en el buzón, se escondía tras las sombras donde comenzaba el camino de entrada de la casa. La mujer soltó una risita nerviosa y depositó un solitario kiss de Hershey’s en mi bolsa de dulces. Me sentí desairado cuando vi cómo le festejaba el disfraz a mi amigo Mike—un cubo de Rubric y le daba un puñado entero de kisses de Hershey’s. Al encontrarme con mi papá junto al buzón, le conté lo sucedido. —Que se jodan —dijo, tosiendo. —Que se jodan todos. Debí haberme disfrazado de Superman. Ahora, en Bombay, Ganesha no tenía que rogar para que le regalaran kisses de Hershey’s; tenía más dulces de lo que pudiera ingerir y la leche de la ciudad entera. Bebía y bebía sin parar. Y yo también. Al cabo del tiempo, el milagro llegó a su fin. La gente comenzó a preguntarse por el sentido de todo aquello. Tenía que haber algún sentido. Todos tenían sus propias ideas al respecto. Un swami de la tele dijo que la nuestra se había convertido en una sociedad sin dios y que Ganesha nos había recordado que existe la presencia divina. El artículo de opinión de un periódico izquierdista dijo que se trataba de una conspiración con motivos políticos orquestada por la ultra derecha religiosa. Un físico dijo que el milagro había sido un engaño. El fenómeno entero se podía explicar por medio de la tensión superficial, la acción capilar y el sifoneo. Pero mi tía abuela insistía en que se trataba de un verdadero milagro. Desde Estados Unidos, por teléfono, mi padre expresaba su acuerdo. —Eres un biólogo molecular. ¿De verdad crees en eso —le dije. —Te lo estoy diciendo. Es una señal. —¿Una señal de qué? —Nunca es demasiado tarde —respondió con voz borrosa. —A veces las señales mienten —le dije, recordando el señalamiento del templo. En septiembre de ese mismo año, durante el festival de Ganesh Chaturthi, las hordas se volcaban a las calles cargando estatuillas de cera de Ganesha, pintadas con colores brillantes. Marchaban rumbo a la playa de Chowapatty. Había pasado un año desde aquel milagro. Yo llevaba un año y medio viviendo en Bombay. Nada había cambiado. Mi milagro no había llegado. Aún así, había comprado una pequeña estatua y la había sumergido en el mar, al igual que los demás. Cientos de Ganeshas cabeceaban en el agua, azotando con el movimiento del mar. Algunos se deshicieron rápidamente. Pero otros eran más resistentes, y observe cómo las olas se los llevaban.

Rahul Mehta

SNAPSHOTS

Una fotografía es un fragmento que apela a su contexto. Lo que muestra el fragmento forma parte de la realidad ausente a la que apela y de la que es señal, y que se hace presente en él. Contemplo la fotografía tomada por Vinay Mahidhar en 2001. Los personajes, una mujer y un chico de unos doce o trece años, aislados de su contexto, resaltan sobre el fondo oscuro, con la mirada fija hacia el frente, como era costumbre en los retratos del XIX. No puedo dejar de preguntarme por esa realidad de la que han sido tan hábilmente extraídos. No lo han sido tan sólo del paisaje, sino también de su tiempo, y se respira en ellos esa eternidad que sólo puede hallarse en los objetos, esos lugares donde el fragmento se vuelve, en sí mismo, totalidad. Sin embargo, desde aquí, desde mi realidad, 2010 en los confines de Europa, me parece de repente una aberración considerar esta imagen como un retrato-objeto que no me incumbe más de lo que cualquier objeto de mi interés o, si se quiere, como obra artística. A estas alturas sé que una obra de arte, si lo es de verdad, es mucho más que una obra de arte, que el “arte” no acaba en sí mismo sino más allá de sí, en aquello que muestra. Y el fotógrafo cumple aquí su cometido al proyectarme fuera su obra. A photograph is a fragment that refers to its context. What the fragment shows is a part of the absent reality to which it refers, of which it is a sign and which makes it alive. I gaze contemplatively at the photograph taken by Vinay Mahidhar in 2001. The protagonists, a woman and a boy of twelve or thirteen years stand isolated from their context and are highlighted against a dark background. They look straight ahead as was the custom in the portraits of the XIXth Century. I can’t help asking myself about the reality from which they have been so well removed. Not just transplanted from their habitat but also from their age and through them one breathes a kind of eternity that is only found in objects, from where the fragment becomes totality by itself. But still, from my vantage point and my reality, 2010 in the margins of Europe, it seems to me an aberration to consider this image as a portrait-object that doesn’t behove me more than any other object of my interest, or artistic object, if you like. At this stage, I know that a work of art, if it is really one, is much more than a work of art, that “art” is not an end in itself, it transcends itself through what it reveals. And the photographer carries out what he set out to do when he projects me out of his work.

Chantal Maillard

ABER DE OTROS

Photo. Vinay Mahidhar from the series “My People” 2001

NOWING OTHERS

SNAPSHOTS

El fragmento pertenece a su contexto como la parte al todo. Hablar de fragmento es aludir a la totalidad de la que se ha desprendido, de la que es residuo o, en el caso de la fotografía, de la que se ha extraído. Averiguar los márgenes de un fragmento es labor de detective o de historiadores, según el caso. La información que poseo en un primer momento, al acercarme al retrato, me permite suponer que los personajes proceden de una zona rural, que son de casta baja y, por el tamborcillo que lleva la mujer y el atuendo del chico, que viven de algún tipo de representación callejera. El fotógrafo Vinay Mahidar me confirma que son itinerantes y me informa amablemente que se trata de potraj. A partir de allí, la investigación me lleva, hilo a hilo, a formarme el paisaje mental necesario para dibujar el otro, más real, que me falta en el retrato. Literalmente potraj significa “rey del animal sacrificial”; probablemente fuese antiguamente la casta que se encargaba del sacrificio, con lo que, más tarde, vino a designar al danzante sagrado. Tradicionalmente, el potraj se traslada de pueblo en pueblo. Danza al son del tambor que toca la mujer que le acompaña, al tiempo que se flagela con un látigo. El sonido insistente, frenético y los latigazos hacen que el danzante entre en trance, momento a partir del cual la diosa hablará por su boca. Mari, o Mariamma (la Madre Mari) es como se le llama a la diosa en el estado de Karnataka, Marai o Maribai, en Maharastra o, como en la región de Nagpur, Mata o, simplemente, Gramdevi (Diosa del poblado) como en Gujarat. No ha de extrañar el sincretismo en zonas de influencia cristiana como el Oeste de la península, por lo que el nombre de Mari correspondería, en el hinduísmo, a ciertos aspectos de la gran Diosa: Laxmi, la de la buena fortuna, o Durga, la vencedora de los demonios, aunque también recuerda a Kali, por su largo cabello despeinado y su furor. Algunas piedras pintadas de color rojo la representan en las estribaciones de la aldea. Los habitantes esperaban la llegada del potraj anualmente con ofrendas para obtener las bendiciones de la diosa, evitar su ira, erradicar enfermedades, hacerle preguntas o ruegos. La información que obtengo es de carácter general. Insisto. Un cortometraje dirigido por Tuhar Gaware me impresiona, en este caso no tanto por el cuestionamiento del ritual, como por la manera en que consigue situarlo en un contexto ya desacostumbrado: un sol implacable, los pies pateando rítmicamente un suelo que no es de tierra sino de asfalto, la circulación, las figuras ajenas. Sobre este fondo actual, el potraj, ciertamente, parece desplazado. Su función, como la de tantas otras figuras sociales de la India rural (el pintor que escribe en las paredes de la choza la historia del difunto, etc.) ha quedado sin sentido en la ciudad. Sin tiempo propio. Sobre la oscuridad atemporal de la fotografía, me detengo en el sari de algodón ajado, en los rasgos oscuros. Los potrajs pertenecen a esos subgrupos sociales denominados backward classes (clases “retrasadas”), una de esas etiquetas discriminativas cuyo lastre se procuró paliar mediante medidas políticas (las cuotas de reserva) que facilitan a estas clases la intervención en el gobierno. No puedo saber qué incidencia tendrán tales medidas o si la tendrán en la vida de este chico, de la mujer y el niño que lleva recogido en la tela del sari. No lo sabré nunca. Ellos, en la fotografía, son un fragmento de India; el instante en el que fueron retratados es un fragmento de su vida, y mi percepción de ellos, en este momento, es un fragmento de la mía. Trayectorias que convergen en esa otra oscuridad, el telón de fondo de nuestro mutuo desconocimiento: el mío, respecto de lo que su existencia pueda ser en este momento y el suyo, respecto de alguien que observa su imagen en blanco y negro, forzando la desconocida realidad a ser poco más que imaginada.

Rites of Passage

The fragment belongs to its context like the part to the whole. To speak of the fragment is to refer to the totality from which it has been taken, of which it is a residue or, in the case of the photograph, from which it has been extracted. Investigating the margins of a fragment is the work of a detective or of an historian as the case may be. When I look at the portrait, the information that I have at this juncture allows me the assumption that the protagonists are from a rural area, they are of a lower caste, and I gather, from the drum the woman holds in her hands and the dress of the boy, that they live on what they earn through street performances. Vinay Mahidar, the photographer, has kindly confirmed to me that they are itinerants and they are Potraj. With this beginning, my research leads me, one strand at a time, to compose the necessary mental landscape to draw out the more real Other that I cannot find in the portrait. Potraj literally means the “King of Sacrificial Animals”; perhaps in another age it was the caste that was delegated to sacrifice, and thus later on, this was how the sacred dance was called. The Potraj traditionally goes from village to village. A dance to the beat of the drum that the woman plays, while she beats herself all the while with a whip. The insistent frenetic sound, and the whip lashes make the dancer enter a trance, from which moment onwards the goddess begins to speak. Mari, or Mariamma (Mother Mari Mari) is how the goddess is called in Karnataka, Marai or Maribai, in Maharastra or in the Nagpur area, or Mata or just Gramdevi (the Goddess of the Village) as in Gujarat. The syncretism in areas of Christian influence like the west of the peninsula, would be the reason why the name Mari would correspond in Hinduism to certain aspects of the great Goddess: to Laxmi of good fortune or to Durga, the demon slayer, although it also reminds one of Kali, the angry one, with her long unkempt hair. A few stones painted red represent her in the foothills outside the hamlet. The village people waited for the yearly arrival of the Potraj with offerings, to obtain the blessings of the goddess, escape her wrath, eradicate illness and ask her questions or favours. The information that I get is of a general nature. I am insistent. A short film directed by Tuhar Gaware impresses me, not so much, in this case, because of the way in which the ritual is questioned, but rather in the way it manages to situate it in an unlikely context: a fierce sun, feet rythmically tapping on a floor made not of earth but of asphalt, the traffic, the alien figures. With all this as background, the Potraj seem quite out of place. Their function, like that of so many social persona in rural India (the painter who writes about the story of a dead man on the walls of his hut etc.) has no meaning now, in a city. It is of another time. Through the atemporal darkness of the photograph, I pause over the rumpled cotton sari, the black features. The Potrajs belong to those social sub-groups denominated backward classes, one of those discriminatory labels whose lacerating effects were sought to be attenuated through political measures (reservation quotas) through which these classes can participate in governance. I am not aware if these measures are effective or if they will affect the life of this boy, of this woman and the baby she carries wrapped in the folds of her sari. I will never know. In the photograph they are a fragment of India; the instant in which they were photographed is a little bit of their lives, and my perception of them at this precise moment is a fragment of mine. Trajectories that converge in this other darkness, the backdrop of our mutual ignorance of each other: mine, with respect to what their existence is at this moment and theirs in relation to someone who observes their image in black and white, forcing an unknown reality to be a little more than just merely imagined.

Ritos de iniciación There is an old Indian proverb that likens children to cash deposits and grandchildren to the interest! The implication being that grandchildren are far more sweet and enjoyable than one’s children. The role of grandparents can never be adequately sketched by any pen. Bastions of tradition, catalysts of change, sculptors of future citizens and so much more besides.., the list of their qualities could just go on. In an age where parents are too busy handling the material aspects of life and living, very often it is left to the senior generation to mould the character of the growing child. Gazing at Aitor Lara’s exquisite photograph of a man and his grandson watching a bullfight intently, one can’t help pondering over the special bond that exists between a grandfather and a grandson. Grandfathers, over the ages, have been notorious for giving a free hand to youngsters when parents have chosen to draw in the reins rather tightly. The surreptitious passing of additional pocket money, permission to take the girlfriend out, assistance in sneaking in late at night, moral support in matters of bad report cards at school and college, intervention when parents take a heavy stand on career choices…a friend, companion and confidante rolled into one, on stand-by at all times! Grandfathers have been known to hold ladders tightly while the son of the house has attempted a nocturnal polevault into the safety of his bedroom and to mediate and counsel in matters of romantic tiffs. It’s another matter that a certain grandfather I know of, walked into the sunset with his grandson’s girlfriend on his arm! Such incidences are rare and far between, the majority of the world’s granddads being committed to the cause of making grandsons happy.

Hay un viejo proverbio indio que compara a los hijos con depósitos en efectivo y a los nietos con los intereses. Lo que esto sugiere es que los nietos son mucho más dulces y se puede disfrutar mucho más de ellos que de los propios hijos. El papel de los abuelos no puede ser descrito con exactitud en palabras: bastiones de la tradición, catalizadores del cambio, escultores de ciudadanos futuros y mucho más. De hecho la lista de sus cualidades podría continuar. En estos tiempos en que los padres están muy ocupados con los asuntos materiales de la vida y la subsistencia, es muy común que se deje a los adultos mayores que se hagan cargo de moldear el carácter del niño durante su desarrollo. Al ver la exquisita fotografía de Aitor Lara de un hombre y su nieto viendo intensamente una corrida de toros, no podemos evitar reflexionar sobre el particular vínculo que existe entre un abuelo y su nieto. Los abuelos, a través de los tiempos, se han caracterizado por ser liberales con los jóvenes cuando sus padres suelen ser demasiado estrictos. Por ejemplo, dándole algún dinero extra a hurtadillas, o dejándole salir con la novia, o ayudándolo a escabullirse a su habitación cuando llega tarde por la noche, o brindándole apoyo moral cuando ha sacado malas notas en la escuela o en la universidad, o interviniendo cuando los padres tienen una postura intransigente respecto a lo que el hijo debería estudiar: es decir, un amigo, un compañero, un confidente, todo eso junto ¡de guardia todo el tiempo! No es raro que los abuelos les sujeten la escalera al nieto cuando, a altas horas de la noche intenta entrar a su habitación sin ser visto o que actúen de mediadores y consejeros en asuntos del corazón. Aunque sé de cierto abuelo que un atardecer se fue con la novia de su hijo del brazo. Estos episodios son raros y esporádicos, ya que la mayoría de los abuelos del mundo están comprometidos con la causa de hacer felices a sus nietos.

Kankana Basu

Chantal Maillard

SNAPSHOTS

Kankana Basu

Photo. Aitor Lara Abuelo y nieto 2005

The Spanish women in the picture, taken from Aitor Lara’s bull-fighting series, are fabulous in their fine mantillas but the gaze comes back repeatedly from the last row to rest on the primary subjects. The burly man has a macho air about him while his attractive little grandson looks on importantly at witnessing such a manly sport. There are so many hidden nuances weaving through the picture. The man’s eyes are on the bullfight but there is a lot going on in his mind, obviously. Beneath the macho air, is a senior citizen worried about the passing of tradition, the rich Spanish heritage and the legacy of dreams onto future generations. While sports like football and cricket may reign supreme, while hip hop, jive and ball-room dancing may continue to enthrall youngsters, the question that probably lurks in his mind is whether youngsters of tomorrow will make time and space for the age-old trends of bull-fighting and flamenco dancing. Like every other traditional grandparent, he is probably apprehensive about the march of Westernization that could steamroller Spanish society into a flatland of clones, where everybody is so like the other and sports

Las españolas de la fotografía de Aitor Lara, perteneciente a su serie de fotografías de corridas de toros, están fabulosas con sus mantillas pero no podemos evitar volver la mirada una y otra vez hacia los personajes principales. El tipo fornido tiene un aire de macho mientras que es evidente que su encantador nieto se toma muy en serio estar presenciando un deporte tan masculino. Hay muchos matices entretejidos en la fotografía. La mirada del hombre está puesta en la corrida pero es obvio que pasan muchas otras cosas por su cabeza. Debajo del aire de macho, está un señor mayor preocupado por la desaparición de la tradición, la rica herencia española y el legado de sueños a las generaciones futuras. Mientras los deportes como el fútbol y el cricket tengan la supremacía, mientras el hip hop, el swing y el baile de salón continúen atrayendo a los jóvenes, la pregunta que probablemente le está rondando por la cabeza es si las generaciones futuras tendrán tiempo y espacio para tradiciones tan antiguas como las corridas de toros y el baile flamenco. Como cualquier otro abuelo tradicional, probablemente sienta aprehensión respecto a

involving danger, risk, blood and expertise are relegated to the history books. Will fiesta brava, the sport symbolizing nobility, valor and artistry survive the test of time..? I am reminded of the thread ceremony of the Brahmins in India, an elaborate ritual-filled event which marks the crossing over of a boy from adolescence to manhood. With enough fanfare, guests and revelry to match any wedding, the thread ceremony, paradoxically, is a lesson in austerity for the candidate going through it. The ceremony ends with the tonsuring of the head, and the piercing of the ear lobe by a priest. The newly initiated adult then steps into a room and lives in isolation for three whole days where he is expected to cook his own food and make his own bed (unimaginable for Indian youngsters who are used to having domestic servants do all this for him!). Dressed in unstitched saffron robes, he wears wooden clogs on his feet (the kind worn by Gautama Buddha) and accepts all gifts as bhiksha (offerings) in the spirit of a beggar. He holds up the ends of his stole as a begging bowl. For an entire year after the ceremony, he is expected to chant special mantras at dawn and dusk and refrain from talking at meal times. Modern young men preferring to skip the nasty bits of the ritual (while adhering to the profitable ones!) resort to having a lock of hair snipped off and a needle touched to the earlobe as token gestures. Silence at meal times has long been done away with. When it was my brother’s turn to go through this rite of passage, it was expected that the ceremony would be put into fast forward mode to enable the guests to make a bee-line for the banquet table loaded with food. My brother would probably have preferred it that way too had my grandfather not intervened and whispered into his ear. Nobody heard the hushed conversation that transpired between them but my brother suddenly stood up and announced that he would follow the rituals to the last shred of authenticity. His announcement left relatives, friends and my parents unanimously astonished. True to his promise, he followed every single rule set by religion. At the end of a year of austere adherence to tradition, my brother announced that he had emerged feeling enlightened, cleansed and truly alive. He knew what it was to function under crippling self-discipline and he felt like a true-blue Indian. The person happiest at the announcement was my grandfather. As we sit down to analyze tradition, we are likely to find citadels of rituals resting on sturdy scientific facts. While indigenous sports like bull-fighting keep the legacy of the matadors alive and teach a boy to be a man, the thread ceremony prepares an adolescent for the hardships of manhood. Never has tradition and cultural heritage been as threatened as now. There is an exquisite male bonding happening in Aitor Lara’s picture as well as a silent passing on of the baton. There is poignance, sensitivity and movement and a million soft resonances whispering from within the stillness of the picture. And a picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words...

la occidentalización de la sociedad española que avanza a toda marcha y puede desembocar en una planicie de clones, en donde todos se parezcan mucho a todos y los deportes de riesgo que conllevan peligro, sangre y pericia, sean relegados a los libros de historia. ¿La fiesta brava, el deporte que simboliza nobleza, valor y maestría, sobrevivirá al paso del tiempo? Esto me hace recordar la ceremonia del hilo de los brahmanes en la India, un acontecimiento con una gran carga ritual que marca el paso de un niño de la adolescencia a la edad madura. Con una buena dosis de fanfarria, invitados y juerga, comparable a la de una boda, la ceremonia del hilo paradójicamente es una lección de austeridad para el candidato. Al terminar la ceremonia se le rasura la cabeza al iniciado y un sacerdote le perfora el lóbulo de la oreja. El recién iniciado pasa luego a una habitación en donde se le aísla completamente durante tres días completos en los que tendrá que cocinarse y hacer su cama (impensable para los jóvenes hindúes acostumbrados a tener sirvientes domésticos que les hacen todo). Tiene que vestir con un traje de color azafrán sin costuras y suecos de madera (como los que usaba el Buda Gautama) y recibir los regalos como si fueran bhiksha (ofrendas) al igual que hacen los mendigos. Sostiene en alto los extremos de su capa formando una especie de cuenco imitando a un mendigo. Durante todo un año después de la ceremonia tiene que cantar mantras especiales al amanecer y al anochecer y no puede hablar durante las comidas. Los jóvenes modernos que prefieren saltarse la parte desagradable del ritual (y quedarse con lo placentero) optan por dejar que les corten un mechón de pelo y les rocen el lóbulo de la oreja con una aguja como gestos simbólicos. El silencio durante las comidas se ha eliminado. Cuando mi hermano tuvo que pasar por este ritual de iniciación todos esperaban que la ceremonia transcurriese de prisa para que los invitados pudieran disfrutar del opíparo banquete. Probablemente mi hermano lo hubiera querido así también si mi abuelo no hubiese intervenido y dicho algo al oído. Nadie escuchó la conversación que tuvieron entre susurros pero de repente mi hermano se levantó y anunció que cumpliría al milímetro con todos los rituales. Su declaración dejó a familiares y amigos igual de sorprendidos que a mis padres Fiel a su promesa cumplió con todos los mandatos establecidos por la religión. Al final de un año de cumplimiento austero con la tradición, mi hermano anunció que había salido sintiéndose iluminado, limpio y realmente vivo. Había experimentado lo que era funcionar bajo una disciplina severa y rigurosa y realmente se sintió un indio de sangre azul. Al que más feliz hizo esta declaración fue a mi abuelo. Si nos detenemos a analizar la tradición, es muy probable que encontremos que una gran cantidad de rituales se apoyan en sólidas teorías científicas. Mientras los deportes populares como las corridas de toros mantienen vivo el legado de los matadores, la ceremonia del hilo prepara al adolescente para las privaciones de la edad adulta. Nunca antes la tradición y la herencia cultural habían estado tan amenazados como ahora. En la fotografía de Aitor Lara se puede apreciar un exquisito vínculo afectivo entre abuelo y nieto así como la silenciosa transmisión de la batuta. Hay emoción, sensibilidad y movimiento y un millón de sutiles resonancias susurrando desde la quietud de la fotografía. Y una imagen. como dicen, vale más que mil palabras.

SNAPSHOTS

S., minutes before going to the local railway station for a long journey towards Delhi.

S., minutos antes de se dirigir à estação ferroviária local para uma longa viagem em direção a Délhi.

A photograph that somebody might take, fixing that exact instant in which I get prepared to leave in search of my destiny, without knowing whether I shall be able to return one day to see my kinsmen again, to pay homage to the dead, to greet the living. Already anticipating the obstacles that I am going to meet till perhaps reaching a higher point where I shall become visible, making my family proud. Would it capture the sadness in my clouded eyes, but not the lightning that lights up my head? Is this really life? That feeling of never belonging to any place, that necessary detachment of landscape, of people, of animals and stones that make up the scenery of our memory, the certainty that any attempt to rebel is useless, since things are what they are, and tomorrow, when I wake up, I shall be in a strange city, among strange people, learning, at each rising of the sun, to undo the threads with which I went weaving the history of what I am going to be, solitarily entangled in recollections that keep my feet buried in the past when my arms deal with the shipwrecked in front; but the serpent hypnotises time and cruel, enquires, “Where will you be a few years from now, when suddenly that moment emerges from the depth of darkness?” I, seated, turban rolled up on my head, new shoes, new shirt, whilst my sister sits by my side, sewing silently, tucked up in the comfort of permanence, assessing the shelves at her back, relieved to know that the objects that were there yesterday, will still be there tomorrow, I ask myself, wrapped up in the doleful anguish, if I shall remember this scene as the first step of a long and victorious journey when, as an old man, assisted by the family, I shall distribute the fortune to my loved sons, preparing myself for the beginning of a new cycle. Or, on the contrary, will the bitter seeds of the failure be sown by that occasion in which, ignorant, thinking of scaling a mountain, I shall only have provoked an avalanche of bad forebodings...? I look at my sister, calm, and envy her, envy her destiny, envy her serene happiness.

uma fotografia que alguém tirasse fixando esse exato instante em que me preparo para partir em busca do meu destino, sem saber se um dia conseguirei voltar para rever meus parentes, reverenciar os mortos, saudar os vivos, já antevendo os obstáculos com que vou me deparar até talvez alcançar um ponto elevado em que me torne visível, motivando o orgulho da minha família, captaria a tristeza dos meus olhos nublados, mas não os relâmpagos que incendeiam minha cabeça: será a vida isto?, essa sensação de nunca pertencermos a lugar algum, esse necessário desprendimento da paisagem, das pessoas, dos bichos e das pedras que compõem o cenário da nossa memória, a certeza de ser inútil qualquer esforço em rebelarmo-nos, pois as coisas são o que são, e amanhã, quando acordar, estarei numa cidade estranha, entre gente estranha, aprendendo, a cada nascer do sol, a desmanchar os fios do que fui e a tecer a história do que vou ser, solitariamente emaranhado em lembranças que mantêm meus pés enterrados no passado quando meus braços se arremetem náufragos à frente; mas a serpente hipnotiza o tempo e, cruel, indaga, onde estarás daqui a alguns anos, quando súbito esse momento emergir do fundo da escuridão?, eu, sentado, turbante enrolado na cabeça, calça nova, camisa nova, minha irmã ao lado, costurando calada, aconchegada no conforto da permanência, adivinhando as prateleiras às suas costas, aliviada por saber que os objetos que ali se encontravam ontem, ainda amanhã ali se acharão, enquanto envolto numa dolorida ansiedade me pergunto se essa cena a recordarei como o primeiro passo de uma longa e vitoriosa caminhada, quando, ancião, amparado pela família, distribuirei a fortuna aos filhos amados, preparando-me para o início de um novo ciclo, ou, ao contrário, as sementes amargas do fracasso me remeterão a essa ocasião em que, ignorante, pensando escalar uma montanha, apenas terei provocado uma avalanche de maus presságios... Miro minha irmã, calma, e a invejo, invejo seu destino, invejo sua serena felicidade.

T., minutes before S. going to the local railway station for a journey towards Delhi.

T., minutos antes de S. se dirigir à estação ferroviária local para uma longa viagem em direção a Délhi.

A photograph that someone might take, fixing that exact moment in which S. prepares to leave in search of his destiny, would capture his brief anxiety, the placid eyes of one who peeps confidently through the opening of the door that leads to the future, enjoying the anticipation of the forthcoming happiness, and perhaps also might include my sadness, silent and submissive, caused by the future absence of my favourite brother who is setting out for the unknown, but certainly would not grasp my disconsolation, my solitude, in knowing myself to be a woman, whom time, patient, hunts in the liquid hours in sewing rooms, in endless conversations in the kitchen, in unending nights of anguish and affliction. A spider weaving the web that will embroil me forever in thin arms, chosen by default, a man whom I do not know and who, in the meantime, will possess me, will beget his lineage of me, determining my fortune, mixing our fate, and the role of a spouse will fall to my lot, faithful, docile, respectful, and he will be affectionate or irascible, kind-hearted or vicious, receptive or coarse, without ever guessing my craving for independence, to experience another life, to take the train and to discover foreign landscapes, to explore the vast world that I think remains beyond the mountains which suffocate our village, to confront barriers and to overpower challenges, to imprint, in short, tracks that can identify me as the one who dared to set forth, to throw herself into the void, carrying out the trajectory of the leap, to the extent in which she accomplishes it, so that one day, finally returning, head held high, triumphant or hapless, but satisfied, showing the scars of fight on the body, proud to have dethroned the certainties. And then, emotional, honouring my parents and embracing my brothers and sisters, praising my kinsmen, and contemplating the blue peaks that surround us, to rejoice in knowing that they are immutable, they will reach the end of times, but that I have transformed myself at each second of my long cycle, and, being still myself, I shall now be another; but the serpent hypnotises time and cruel, enquires, “Where will you be a few years from now, when suddenly that moment emerges from the depth of darkness?” Then, I look at my brother, calm, and I envy him, envy his destiny, envy his future happiness.

uma fotografia que alguém tirasse fixando esse exato instante em que S. se prepara para partir em busca do seu destino, captaria sua breve ansiedade, os olhos plácidos de quem espia confiante pela fresta da porta que se abre para o futuro, antegozando a felicidade vindoura, e talvez também abrangesse minha tristeza, calada e submissa, causada pela próxima ausência do irmão preferido que ruma ao desconhecido, mas com certeza não abarcaria meu desconsolo, minha solidão, por saber-me mulher, a quem o tempo, paciente, tocaia nas líquidas horas em salas de costuras, em infindáveis conversas na cozinha, em intermináveis noites de angústia e aflição, aranha urdindo a teia que me enredará para sempre em braços magros eleitos à minha revelia, um homem que ignoro e que no entanto me possuirá, me engendrará sua descendência, determinando minha sorte embaralhando nosso fado, e a mim caberá o papel de esposa, fiel, dócil, respeitosa, e ele será carinhoso ou irascível, bondoso ou perverso, receptivo ou grosseiro, sem nunca adivinhar meus anseios de liberdade, experimentar uma outra vida, tomar o trem e desvendar alheias paisagens, explorar o vasto mundo que penso subsistir além das montanhas que sufocam nossa aldeia, confrontar barreiras e subjugar desafios, imprimir, enfim, rastros que possam identificar-me como aquela que ousou se lançar, se projetar no vazio, construindo a trajetória do salto à medida em que o efetua, para um dia, finalmente, regressar, a cabeça erguida, triunfante ou desgraçada, mas satisfeita, no corpo exibindo as cicatrizes da luta, orgulhosa por haver destronado as certezas, e então emocionada venerar meus pais e abraçar meus irmãos e irmãs, louvar meus parentes, e, contemplando os picos azuis que nos circundam, alegrar-me por saber que eles são imutáveis, alcançarão os fins dos tempos, mas que eu modifiquei-me a cada segundo deste meu longo ciclo, e, sendo ainda eu mesma, serei já outra; mas a serpente hipnotiza o tempo e, cruel, indaga, onde estarás daqui a alguns anos, quando súbito esse momento emergir do fundo da escuridão? Então, miro meu irmão, calmo, e o invejo, invejo seu destino, invejo sua próxima felicidade.

Luiz Ruffato

Photo. Prashant Panjiar Tonk, rajasthan, 2009: Anita and Anjesh Dhakkar, newly wed, in their family home in Theekrya village. Son of a farmer, Anjesh is still in school studying in class 10

Photo. Humberto Rivas Violeta la Burra y su madre 1979 Gelatina de plata, copia de época, 26 x 26 cm © Humberto Rivas / VEGAP Colección Fundació Foto Colectania

He unfastened his breasts and placed them on the dresser. Out of respect for his mother, he never wore the prosthetics in her presence. He pulled out a plain black shirt, gray pants and a woollen vest from his closet stuffed with flirty dresses. Standing in front of the mirror, he dressed slowly, rehearsing what he was going to say to his mother. But when he reached the short, sturdy house an hour away in Poble Sec, his resolve began to crumble. Four knuckle raps on the front door and after a stentorian, ‘Entre,’ from within, he let himself in and followed the smell of butter and cinnamon into the kitchen. Later, with a happy stomach digesting paella, tortilla de patatas and crema catalana, he spent the afternoon exchanging small talk with his mother in the hallway, while she arranged the red roses he had brought her in the vase next to a bust of Christ. For as long as he could remember, soul-searching discussions took place there with Jesus Christ as the head of the family. Noone knew the origin of the sculpture, but it had always been a part of their special talks. The way the eyes of Jesus looked up at the twin light bulbs above freaked him out, so he would sit sideways, studying his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite him, and in the process, also avoided his mother’s nosey eyes. This was where they had sat in funereal silence for long hours after the death of his father. This was where he had sobbed and

Se quitó los pechos y los guardó en la cómoda. Por respeto a su madre nunca usaba las prótesis en su presencia. De su armario, repleto de coquetos vestidos, sacó una camisa negra, pantalones grises y un chaleco de lana. Se vistió despacio frente al espejo mientras ensayaba lo que le iba a decir a su madre. Cuando llegó, sin embargo, a la casa de construcción sólida y poca altura su resolución empezó a flaquear. Dio cuatro golpes en la puerta con los nudillos y después de un estentóreo “Entre” que salió del interior, cruzó la puerta y siguió el olor de mantequilla y canela que venía de la cocina. Después, con el estómago lleno digiriendo la paella, la tortilla de patatas y la crema catalana, pasó la tarde charlando con su madre en el vestíbulo, mientras ella colocaba las rosas rojas que él le había traído en un jarrón al lado de un busto de Cristo. Desde tiempos inmemoriales, las conversaciones importantes siempre habían tenido lugar ahí con Jesucristo como cabeza de familia. Nadie conocía el origen de la escultura, pero siempre había formado parte de sus charlas privadas. Le inquietaba la forma en que los ojos de Cristo miraban los dos focos en el techo, por eso se sentaba a un lado del busto desde donde observaba su reflejo en el espejo de la pared frente a él, y de paso evitaba la mirada indagadora de su madre. En ese mismo sitio habían pasado largas horas en fúnebre silencio después de la muerte de su padre. Era donde había llorado desconsolado cuando volvió a casa trayendo un pajarito muerto, esperando que aleteara de nuevo y reviviera en la presencia de Cristo. Era el lugar donde se había enterado de quién era quién en el árbol familiar hojeando un grueso álbum repleto de fotos. Allí

sobbed when he came home with a dead baby bird and expected it to flap its wings and come alive in the presence of Jesus. This was where he had learnt who-was-who in the family tree from a big fat album bursting with photographs. This was where he had first told an untruth, that the football his mother had bought him burst upon landing on a pin. In reality, a gang of boys had kicked the ball away and he had been too cowardly to fight. His mother had taken a wooden ladle and whacked him three times, never, tell, lies. For years now he had been holding off from her his secret life, making elaborate excuses whenever she wanted to come see him. How was he to tell her that he hated being a man, that he liked wearing women’s clothes, that he desired the embrace of a man? He had made his very first dress from one of her cast off gowns, adding a belt to it so it hugged his slender waist. Now it struck him that she rarely wore her more alluring clothes and mostly dressed in black and wore thick black stockings even in the heat of summer. He could not remember when she had ever bared her legs, or arms, or even her ankles. Following his gaze, his mother admitted to being far too traditional to wear anything but her widow’s clothes, they were practical and made her less vulnerable to gossip, she said, flexing her arthritic wrists from time to time. How was he going to tell his conventional mother about his own flamboyant taste in clothing? Would she be revolted if she saw him in a skimpy dress, his hair pinned up, his cheeks rouged pink? He thought it unfair that modern women could openly wear pants and shirts, cut their hair short as a boy’s and keep their face free of any make-up. But in this macho society there was no such thing as the modern-day man who could boldly wear skirts and makeup and look like a woman without inviting revulsion or hate crimes. Nervously, he combed his shoulder-length hair with his fingers and began hesitantly, “Ma…you remember how I used to play with your bracelets as a child?” She frowned. “Yes, of course. Your dear father bought them for me.” Her eyes grew distant, pained. He remembered that day well, it had begun with such joyousness, his mother whirling about in her skirts, bracelets clinking around her wrists and his father sitting on a stool and admiring her. And then his unforeseen death ended her gaiety and had her begin a life of piety. Images and statuettes of Jesus Christ sprung up everywhere in their house. Religion was the décor. His mother shook her head, as if to let go of the memory and said. “And my rings and necklaces too. Oh you were such a pretty boy.” At this, he tilted his head and looked at himself in the mirror with an air of arrogance, he still was very pretty, he thought. He had high cheek bones, a straight nose and sensuous lips. His eyes had both men and women swooning. If only she could see him all made-up, with his lips colored red. “Ma, remember how I used to love playing with your lipstick?” “You got it all smeared on your face and you looked like a little clown,” she said. And then her face, lined with every escapade of his, grew sober. “Son, sometimes I felt that if your father had been alive, he would have taught you to play football. But you were always with me, you only wanted to play with my jewellry. I always wondered where I had gone wrong.” He took his eyes off the mirror and planted them on her. “Ma, you did not go wrong. I just… I just am not like other boys, that’s all.” He paused, took a deep breath and said, “Ma, I like being a woman.” His mother showed no anger or reproach but only sighed and said softly, “I knew, I always knew.” And as he sat there looking at her open-mouthed, she slid out a hairpin from above her left ear. “This was in your hair the night you crept in, ten years ago, and slept with your make-up still on. You looked so beautiful, my angel.” Pinning back her silvery hair once more she said, “I wear it always, for your happiness.”

también había dicho su primera mentira, que la pelota de fútbol que su madre le había comprado se había pinchado cuando cayó en un alfiler. En realidad, una banda de chicos se la había quitado y él había sido demasiado cobarde para pelear con ellos. Su madre había cogido un cucharón de madera y le había aporreado con él tres veces, nunca, digas, mentiras. Durante años le había había ocultado su vida secreta, inventando excusas elaboradas siempre que ella quería visitarlo. ¿Cómo decirle que odiaba ser un hombre, que le gustaba usar ropa de mujer, que deseaba que un hombre lo abrazara? Se había hecho su primer vestido de uno de tantos que ella había desechado, agregándole un cinturón para ceñirlo a su esbelta cintura. Apenas ahora caía en la cuenta de que ya su madre rara vez se ponía alguno de esos coquetos vestidos. La mayoría de las veces vestía de negro y llevaba gruesas medias negras, incluso durante los meses de verano. No recordaba la última vez que la había visto descubrirse las piernas, o los brazos, o incluso los tobillos. Al ver lo que estaba pensando, su madre admitió que era demasiado tradicional para ponerse otra cosa que no fuese su ropa de viuda. Dijo que era lo más práctico, y así evitaba dar de qué hablar, y mientras decía esto flexionaba sus artríticas muñecas de tanto en tanto. ¿Cómo explicarle a su convencional madre acerca de su extravagante gusto por la ropa? ¿Se escandalizaría si lo viese con un vestido corto, el pelo recogido y colorete en las mejillas? Pensaba que era injusto que las mujeres modernas pudiesen usar pantalones y camisas, llevar el pelo corto como un niño y la cara lavada. Pero en esta sociedad machista un hombre no podía llevar faldas, ni usar maquillaje, o tener el aspecto de una mujer, sin provocar rechazo y reacciones de odio. Nervioso, se pasó los dedos por la mata de pelo que le llegaba a los hombros y empezó titubeante, “Ma…¿Recuerdas cómo solía jugar con tus pulseras cuando era niño?” Frunció el ceño. ‘”Sí, claro. Tu querido padre me las regaló”. Su mirada se volvió distante. Afligida. Se acordaba muy bien de ese día, había empezado con tal regocijo, su madre haciendo girar sus faldas y las pulseras tintineando en sus muñecas mientras su padre la admiraba desde el banco donde se sentaba. Y luego su repentina muerte que terminó con su felicidad y la sumió en una vida piadosa. Empezaron a surgir imágenes de Jesucristo por toda la casa. La religión se convirtió en el motivo de decoración. Su madre sacudió la cabeza, como para ahuyentar ciertos recuerdos y dijo: “Y mis anillos y collares también. ¡Eras tan bonito!”. En ese momento inclinó la cabeza y se miró al espejo con un aire arrogante. Seguía siendo muy bonito, pensó. Tenía las mejillas altas, la nariz recta y labios sensuales. Sus ojos hacían desvanecer tanto a hombres como a mujeres. Si lo pudiese ver con maquillaje, con los labios pintados de rojo. “Mamá, ¿recuerdas cómo me gustaba jugar con tu pintalabios?” “Te lo embadurnabas en toda la cara, parecías un payaso”, dijo. Y luego su cara llena de arrugas se puso seria. “Hijo, algunas veces he pensado que si tu padre hubiese vivido te habría enseñado a jugar fútbol. Pero estabas siempre conmigo y sólo querías jugar con mis joyas. Siempre me he preguntado en qué me equivoqué”. Dejó de verse en el espejo y la miró fijamente. “Mamá, no te equivocaste. Lo que pasa….lo que pasa es que no soy como los otros chicos, eso es todo”. Hizo una pausa, tomó aire y dijo: “Mamá, lo que me gusta es ser mujer”. Su madre no dio muestras de enfado o de reproche, sólo suspiró y dijo en voz baja. “Lo sabía, siempre lo supe”. Ahí sentado mientras él la miraba boquiabierto ella se sacó el pasador que llevaba en el pelo por encima de su oreja izquierda. “Llevabas esto en el pelo la noche que entraste a hurtadillas, hace diez años, y te fuiste a la cama sin siquiera quitarte el maquillaje. ¡Te veías tan bello, mi ángel!”. Y volviéndoselo a poner en su blanca cabellera dijo: “Lo llevo siempre puesto por tu felicidad”-

Anu Jayanth

evelación

SNAPSHOTS

Revelation

it to the old woman. - “Can you hold this portrait?” - “What?” - “Can you hold this picture..., no, turn it around so that it faces the camera.” - “Like this?” - “Good, Look at me, stay in this pose. There we are.” But the wall stays as it is, like a recently discovered hieroglyph written in a languge we don’t completely understand. But it talks to us, even more than the wrinkles and grey hair of the old woman, of a past wracked by poverty, when there was no money for paint nor was it even considered necessary because there were other pressing concerns. We know that life in a house like this has not been easy, maybe the closeness of a large family made it just about bearable. The wall also talks about a future of disappearances. The old woman will soon die, if she hasn’t done so already. The young adults will leave this colony where traditional family structures still exist, large families made up not only of fathers and sons, but also of grandfathers, uncles and cousins; they will go to live in apartment blocks that might be tiny but are fitted with lifts and hot water where everything will smell new and be surrounded with paved roads. And they will be proud of their social mobility but will also feel a nostalgia for this house where the entire family lived, where the children all shared one room. For a few years they will come back to visit it, they will smile with a hint of sadness when they see it, till they slowly start to forget it or go to stay somewhere far away and soon the wall, the house and the colony will disappear. Because this wall of peeling plaster lets us know that its days are numbered; the houses of which they are a part will wither away after being abandoned, or they will be levelled to the ground by the excavator cranes to make way for the construction of more modern buildings. Walls such as this one will only survive in photographs. un desconocido?— hasta que el fotógrafo, que estaba buscando un motivo, se fijó en ella, la descolgó y se la dio a la anciana. —¿Puedu sujetar este retrato? —¿Qué? —Que si puede sujetar el retrato..., no, dele la vuelta, para que mire hacia la cámara. —¿Así? —Muy bien, míreme, quédese en esa postura. Eso es. La pared, sin embargo, se queda tal cual, como un jeroglífico recién descubierto en un lenguaje que aún no entendemos del todo. Pero nos habla, aún más que las canas y las arrugas de la anciana, de un pasado de pobreza, en el que no hay dinero para pintura o ni siquiera se considera una necesidad, porque hay otras más acuciantes. Sabemos que en una casa así vivir no ha sido fácil, quizá sólo soportable por la cercanía de una familia numerosa. La pared habla también de un futuro de desapariciones. La anciana morirá pronto, si no lo ha hecho ya. Los adultos jóvenes se marcharán de ese barrio en el que aún sobreviven las estructuras tradicionales, las familias amplias compuestas no sólo de padres e hijos, también de abuelos, tíos y primos; irán a instalarse en bloques de apartamentos, quizá diminutos, pero con ascensor y agua caliente, en los que todo olerá a nuevo, rodeados de calles asfaltadas. Y estarán orgullosos del ascenso social pero también sentirán nostalgia de esa casa en la que vivía la familia entera, donde todos los niños compartían un dormitorio. Los primeros años regresarán a ella, sonreirán al verla con un dejo de tristeza, hasta que la vayan olvidando, o se muden a vivir demasiado lejos, o hasta que la pared, la casa, el barrio, hayan desaparecido. Porque esa pared cubierta de desconchones nos revela que sus días están contados; las casas como esa a la que pertenece irán desmoronándose tras quedar abandonadas, o serán derribadas por las excavadoras que aplanan el terreno para que se puedan construir allí más edificios modernos. Paredes así, dentro de poco, sólo sobrevivirán en fotos como esta.

José Ovejero

Photo. Kushal Ray Family matters Shibani, popularly known as Muni was the matriarch of the 10-member Chatterjee joint family of Kalighat, Kolkata. I took the photo in 1999 when I began my 10-year long project on the extended family. Muni (87) was then the oldest member and the youngest being Teesta (6), her great grand daughter. Muni passed away two years later but I continued with my project till 2009. By the time [OL MHTPS` ^HZ YLK\JLK [V VUS` Ä]L TLTILYZ ^P[O [OL WHZZPUN away of Muni’s son Amiyo and daughter Manju. Teesta and her mother left India and settled in the US. In the photograph Muni is holding her late husband Ramapada Chatterjee’s photo

Retrato de pared con anciana delante

La protagonista de esta foto es la pared. Probablemente tiene tantos años como la mujer sentada delante, o más. Ante ella han tenido lugar dramas grandes y pequeños, historias de amor, rencillas, reconciliaciones, silencios, el bullicio de las celebraciones. El tiempo y la humedad han ido desgastando el revoque; los muebles han dejado en ella refregones y arañazos. Los habitantes de la casa le clavaron alcayatas para colgar fotografías de parientes y las imágenes de los dioses que no han sabido protegerla del deterioro. Imagino que algún niño habrá ensayado sobre la irregular superficie sus primeros dibujos y que, distraído, habrá hecho saltar pequeñas costras del enlucido con la uña. Los objetos que nos rodean cuentan nuestra historia mejor que nosotros; quien narra no muestra la realidad, tampoco el fotógrafo que decide qué enfoca y qué deja fuera del encuadre, sino que la transforma para dotarla de significado. Incluso quien escribe sobre sí mismo hace una selección interesada de acontecimientos. Los diarios, las autobiografías siempre mienten. No mienten sobre nosotros, sin embargo, los libros que leemos y que quedan en nuestras estanterías cuando morimos; ni la ropa que cuelga en nuestros armarios, ni los cuadros, ni las fotografías, ni los muebles que han decorado nuestra vida. Los accesorios de nuestra existencia son más reveladores que las palabras. En una novela que publiqué hace años, uno de los protagonistas se dedica a reconstruir vidas ajenas a partir de los restos que han dejado al morir, como si se tratase de residuos arqueológicos. Al mirar esta foto yo me fío más de la pared que del personaje central. Porque esa anciana no es un vestigio que debo interpretar, como la pared, sino que es parte de la narración que ha ideado el fotógrafo; cuando él empieza a montar la escena, ella deja de ser mujer para convertirse en personaje. La mujer no duerme normalmente con la foto cerca de sí, ni siquiera suele tenerla a mano para mirarla de cerca. ¿Cómo lo sé? Porque habitualmente el retrato está colgado en la parte superior de la pared de la izquierda, entre la ventana de la que podemos ver una esquina y otra que no se ve. Es posible que esa anciana incluso se hubiera olvidado de la fotografía —¿el marido, un hijo,

Picture of a Wall with an Old Woman in front

The wall is the protagonist of this photograph. It is probably as old or older than the woman sitting in front of it. It has been witness to dramas big and small, love stories, quarrels, reconciliations, silences, noisy celebrations. Time and humidity have made its plaster peel; the furniture has scratched and marked it. The people of the house have hammered in nails to hang the photographs of relatives and the pictures of gods who have not managed to protect it from decay. I imagine a child trying to draw his first pictures on its irregular surface, distractedly picking at bits of plaster with his nails. The objects that surround us tell our story better than we do; the narrator does not show us what is real, neither does the photographer who decides who to focus on and what to leave out of the frame, instead they transform and imbue with meaning. Even the one who writes about himself makes a selection of events. Diaries and autobiographies all tell lies. However, the books that we read and that remain on our bookshelves when we die, the clothes that hang in our cupboards, the pictures and photographs and the furniture that has filled our lives do not lie. The accesories of our existence are more revealing than words. One of the protagonists in a novel that I published years ago spends his time reconstructing others’ lives on the basis of the things they left behind when they died, as if they were archaeological remains. When I look at this photograph I have more faith in the wall than in the central figure. Because this old woman is not a vestige that I should interpret, like the wall, it is a part of the narrative that the photographer has imagined; when he starts to put together the scene, she stops being a mere woman and becomes an actor. The woman does not usually sleep next to the photograph, she doesn’t even have it nearby to look at it closely. How do I know this? Because the painting is usually hung up high on the left side of the wall, between the window through which we can see a square and another that is not visible. It’s quite possible that this old woman might have even forgotten about the photograph - of the husband, a son, someone unknown? - till the photographer, who was looking for a motif, noticed it and took it down and gave

SNAPSHOTS

Foto. Joan Colom Gente de la calle, ca. 1958 Gelatina de plata, copia de época, 17.2 x 23 cm. © Joan ColomColección Fundació Foto Colectania

The roads not taken aminos que ya no se transitan

I look at the photograph from half a world away and half a century ago. It is an image of a woman with a baby in her arms, her head held high, looking ahead into the distance and perhaps, the future. Behind her is a man whose eyes are on the baby. He has curly hair and a moustache, and reminds me of my maternal grandfather. I never met my maternal grandfather. He died much before I was born. The only photo of him we had was a black and white one of a man with curly hair and a thin moustache. This man had married my grandmother when she was 12 or 13. They had not met before their marriage. That was how it happened back then, in the early years of the previous century in India. The country was still being ruled by the British; it was part of a seemingly unshakeable empire on which, it was said, the sun never set. My grandparents, both from Bengal, moved to Jabalpur in central India a few years after their marriage. It was the time of the Second World War. My grandfather found a job with a factory making guns and ammunition. They remained there after the war, and thus were lucky to escape the riots that accompanied the Partition of India in 1947. A million people died in those riots, and there is still no good estimate of how many people lost their lands and livelihoods. All my grandparents were in the list of those whose family lands and homes were suddenly gone forever. My mother was born and grew up in Jabalpur. Her life was far removed from her mother’s. She studied in an English medium convent school and was set for a career in medicine when my grandfather suddenly died after a brief illness. She was forced to drop out of medical college. The family relocated to Ishapore, an hour’s train ride away from Calcutta. As the eldest child, it became her responsibility to start earning as soon as possible. This she did by giving private tuition to schoolchildren alongside completing her degree in science. After her graduation, she found a job as a schoolteacher, and was married off to my father, who she saw once before her wedding. The meeting was arranged by the two families, and took place in the presence of assorted relatives from both sides. They did not have a proper conversation with each other before marriage. Their marriage has endured these past 37 years. They are now growing old together. I look at them, and at myself, and my relationships that never seem to last beyond two years, and I wonder what will become of me. I have surely met a larger number of interesting women than my father or grandfather did in their lifetimes. I have had exciting conversations and flirtations with many. On two occasions I have come close to marriage. Once I lived with someone. Another time I proposed marriage to a girl I had a relationship with. Both times it didn’t work out. There was a third occasion, too, when a girl I was seeing had wanted to marry me, but that time I was not inclined to marry her. And so my life lurches from relationship to relationship. The women I meet and date are so beautiful and attractive, so intelligent, articulate, well-read and well-travelled. There are many among them who are wonderful companions with captivating conversation. Like me, they live highly unstable lives. I know for a fact that many among them, so outwardly successful and confident, are in fact deeply insecure. Their expectations of themselves and their prospective partners are frightening even to them. I don’t see many of them with babies in their arms, looking with visionary eyes into the future. They are more likely to bear Macbook Pros in their arms. To each their own, whatever brings them joy. Except I don’t think we, who live in the age of freedom and plentiful choice, really know what brings joy any more.

Observo la fotografía a medio mundo de distancia y de hace medio siglo. Es una imagen de una mujer con un bebé en sus brazos, la cabeza alta, mirando al horizonte y tal vez hacia el futuro. Detrás de ella hay un hombre que mira al bebé. Tiene el pelo rizado y un bigote que me recuerda a mi abuelo materno. No conocí a mi abuelo materno. Murió mucho antes de que yo naciera. La única imagen que teníamos de él era una foto en blanco y negro de un hombre con pelo rizado y un bigote fino. Este hombre se había casado con mi abuela cuando ella tenía 12 o 13 años. No se conocieron antes de casarse. Así se acostumbraba en esa época, a principios del siglo pasado en la India. El país entonces estaba gobernado por los británicos; pertenecía a un imperio al parecer inalterable y sobre el que se decía que el sol nunca se ponía. Mis abuelos, los dos de Bengala, se trasladaron a Jabalpur en el centro de la India pocos años después de su matrimonio. Fue durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Mi abuelo encontró trabajo en una fábrica de pistolas y municiones. Permanecieron ahí después de la guerra con lo cual tuvieron la fortuna de escapar de los disturbios que ocurrieron durante la Partición de la India en 1947. Murieron un millón de personas durante esos disturbios y aún no existe un cálculo de cuánta gente perdió sus tierras y sus medios de sustento. Todos mis abuelos pasaron a engrosar la lista de aquellos cuyas tierras y casas familiares desaparecieron para siempre. Mi madre nació y creció en Jabalpur. Su vida fue muy diferente a la de su madre. Estudió en una escuela de monjas inglesa y empezó la carrera de medicina cuando de repente mi abuelo murió después de una breve enfermedad. Se vio obligada a dejar la escuela de medicina. La familia se trasladó a Ishapore, a una hora de tren de Calcuta. Al ser la hija mayor tenía la responsabilidad de empezar a ganar dinero cuanto antes. Empezó a dar clases particulares a niños mientras estudiaba ciencias. Después de su graduación encontró trabajo como maestra de escuela y se casó con mi padre a quien sólo vio una vez antes de casarse. El encuentro fue arreglado por las dos familias y en presencia de parientes de ambos lados. No tuvieron una conversación propiamente dicha antes de la boda. Su matrimonio ha durado 37 años. Ahora están envejeciendo juntos. Los veo y me veo a mí mismo y mis relaciones que nunca duran más allá de dos años y me pregunto qué será de mí. En definitiva he conocido a un mayor número de mujeres interesantes que las que mi padre o abuelo conocieron durante sus vidas. He mantenido conversaciones estimulantes y he coqueteado con muchas de ellas. En dos ocasiones he estado a punto de casarme. En la primera vivía con mi pareja. En la segunda, le propuse matrimonio a la chica con la que mantenía relaciones. Ninguna de las dos veces funcionó. Hubo una tercera ocasión, cuando una chica con la que salía quería casarse conmigo pero esa vez fui yo el que no quise. Y así me paso la vida saltando de una relación a otra. Las mujeres que conozco e invito a salir son bellas y atractivas, inteligentes y cultas. Se expresan bien y han viajado mucho. Muchas de ellas son acompañantes estupendas que saben cautivar con su charla. Como yo, viven vidas altamente inestables. Sé a ciencia cierta que muchas de ellas, tan exitosas y seguras en apariencia, son de hecho profundamente inseguras. Las expectativas que tienen de sí mismas y de sus eventuales parejas resultan aterradoras, incluso para ellas mismas. A muchas de ellas no puedo imaginarlas con un bebé en los brazos mirando al horizonte y pensando en el futuro. Es más probable imaginarlas con Macbook Pros en los brazos. A cada uno lo suyo, lo que le haga feliz . Excepto que creo que los que vivimos esta época de libertad y múltiples oportunidades ya no sabemos lo que realmente nos hace felices.

Samrat Choudhury

SNAPSHOTS

Tenía nueve años cuando murieron y durante años, durante décadas, para mi no fueron más que un suceso insignificante escondido en alguna parte de mi biografía. Y luego la semana pasada, recostada en la cama, incapaz de comer nada –sentía palpitaciones sólo de ver la salchicha como si fuese un mal recuerdo, incluso el olor del café recién hecho me hizo volverme hacia la pared– de repente pensé en Teresa. Entre los continuos viajes al lavabo a vomitar lo poco que me quedaba en la tripa me acordé de Teresa cuando estuvo postrada en cama, el rostro vuelto hacia la pared y sin comer nada, no porque no pudiese sino porque no quería. Yo gemía de dolor, los espasmos en el estómago me hablaban con su voz. ¿No es eso lo que me enseñaste, Teresa? ¿Que Dios nos hace sufrir para que nos acordemos del sufrimiento ajeno? A pesar de los retortijones saqué las carpetas y empecé a buscar desesperadamente aquella fotografía que finalmente encontré ahí donde la había guardado cuando se la enseñé a mi marido, justo después de casarnos. Mira, mis abuelos. Y detrás de ellos está la oficina de transporte donde Luis acaba de comprar el billete de autobús que lo llevará de Madrid a Frankfurt. En ese momento no añadí como debí haberlo hecho: esta fotografía es un cuchillo que divide sus vidas en dos partes. Volví a la cama y me quedé mirándola durante horas, tratando de recordarlo todo. Estaba segura de que, al igual que Teresa, yo tampoco volvería a comer. Sólo entonces me di cuenta de que aquello que de niña yo daba por sentado, era de hecho esa cosa elusiva llamada felicidad. Mi padre era subdirector de una empresa de automóviles. Mi madre trabajaba en la biblioteca de la universidad. Teresa y Luis vivían con nosotros, ella cocinando todo el día, la cocina siempre encendida con sus asados y guisos excepto durante esas tres horas después de comer cuando hacía la siesta o regaba las plantas.

Anjum Hasan

Photo. Paz Errazúriz From the essay “El infarto del Alma” with Diamela Eltit

Photo. Paz Errazúriz

Teresa

I was nine years old when they died and for years, for decades, I didn’t really think of them except as a small, sad fact hidden somewhere in my biography. And then last week, lying in bed, unable to eat a thing, my heart pounding at the sight of a sausage, as if it were a bad memory, and even the smell of fresh coffee making me turn my face towards the wall, I suddenly thought of Teresa. Between trips to the bathroom to vomit out every last scrap of my guts, I thought of Teresa lying in bed like this with her face to the wall and eating nothing, not because she couldn’t, but because she no longer wanted to. I lay moaning, the pain in my stomach speaking to me in her voice. Isn’t that what you taught me, Teresa? That God makes us suffer to remind us of the suffering of others. Through the cramps, I started pulling out files, desperate for the photograph, finding it at last exactly where I had put it away after showing it to my husband just after we’d got married. Look, my grandparents. And behind them is the transport office from where Luis has just bought a bus ticket that will take him from Madrid to Frankfurt. I didn’t add then, as I should have: this photograph is a knife dividing their lives into two parts. I went back to bed and stared at them for hours, trying to remember everything, sure that like Teresa I would never eat again. I realised only then that what I had, as a child, mistaken for the ordinary was actually that elusive thing called happiness. My father was an assistant manager in an automobile company. My mother worked in the university library. Teresa and Luis lived with us, she cooking all day, the kitchen always warm from her roasting and stewing except for those three hours after lunch

SNAPSHOTS

when she took a nap or watered the plants. To go into the kitchen then was to find everything asleep, the water dripping softly from the drying plates and the leftovers cooling under their lids. And Luis walking in the park with his three old friends, or fishing in the Tormes river, sometimes bringing back an enormous hucho hucho, shouting in pleasure from the bottom of the steps and Teresa running out excitedly as if Luis was a rare guest who had brought an unexpected gift. I accepted in a child’s way her love for Luis. “Luis,” she would say, when we sat down to dinner and she put the first portion of stew on his plate. There was nothing to it. She was just expressing her love for him through the food she cooked. “Sí, Teresa,” he would say and there was nothing to that too except a simple acknowledgment. I thought that’s how it would always be. Teresa and Luis were orphaned siblings, close as twins. When he was eighteen and got tuberculosis, she nursed him back to health. When he married, she stayed with them, the younger sister who would never marry. When Luis’s wife – my father’s mother – died, the year my father turned seven, the household became what the household was all through my early childhood: Teresa and Luis the basis of it and everything else a later addition. You look back at the past and you think, at any moment that whole life could have turned upside down. How did you not realise it then? My father was offered the post of general manager in the Madrid office of the car company. We were going to leave Salamanca. I thought that our world would just be transplanted onto a bigger and more exciting place called Madrid, that outside everything would be different but when I came back from school, the kitchen would smell the same and Teresa’s voice would be calling to me from somewhere in the house. But the company was giving my father a small flat and Teresa and Luis would not come with us. They’d stay behind in our house in Salamanca and we would visit during the summers. My father sent them money every month but Madrid was expensive and it could not have been very much. Luis phoned one Sunday afternoon and said he was going to Germany. He was going to work in a factory and send back money to Teresa. “What for?” asked my father, but there was no answer. Then Teresa called and said his three friends from the park were going and he wanted to go. It was one of those three friends who took that picture just after Luis had bought his ticket. After seeing him off, Teresa came to visit us for a month. I can hear their voices. Teresa is saying, “Luis, you can’t go in that coat, there’s a button missing, I forgot to stitch it back.” And Luis is just saying, “Sí, Teresa” and digging his hands into his pockets, for he loved the deep pockets of that coat. He notices nothing about her. Not the way that one of the shoelaces of her moccasins is off to the side, hastily tied. Not the sadness concealed in those down-turned lips. My grandfather never returned from Germany. In the Northern European cold, the tuberculosis of his adolescence returned instantly to consume him. Teresa was still with us when she heard the news; she took to her bed, refusing to eat. My mother would sit by her with a cup of soup, trying to talk to her of other things so that she would misplace her grief for a few moments and allow hunger to overcome her. But she never forgot her grief. She died in hospital, her lips sewn together so that no food could go in and no words come out. Many years later, I read in a newspaper article about Spain’s economic history that between 1959 and 1974 more than three million Spaniards left the country, mostly to work as unskilled labourers in West Germany, France and Switzerland. After a week in bed, I was well enough to want a sandwich. My husband whistled as he sliced a tomato in the kitchen, pleased to see that I was better. I ate slowly, taking time over each morsel. I ate feeling as if, from then on, every time I put food in my mouth, I would think of Teresa.

Si entrabas entonces a la cocina encontrabas que todo se había detenido salvo algunas gotas de agua que escurrían de los platos y las sobras se enfriaban en recipientes tapados. Y Luis se iba a pasear al parque con sus tres viejos amigos o iba a pescar al río Tormes. Algunas veces volvía con un enorme hucho hucho, gritando de placer desde los primeros peldaños y Teresa corría emocionada como si Luis fuese un invitado que hubiese traído un regalo inesperado. De niña, su amor por Luis me parecía natural. “Luis”, decía, cuando nos sentábamos a la mesa y era al primero que le servía el estofado. A través de la comida ella simplemente expresaba su amor por él. “Sí, Teresa”, contestaba él, simplemente su forma discreta de asentir. Yo pensaba que siempre sería así. Teresa y Luis eran hermanos. Se habían quedado huérfanos y estaban tan unidos como si fueran gemelos. Cuando él tenía dieciocho años le dio tuberculosis. Ello lo cuidó hasta que se alivió. Ella era la menor y como nunca se casó, se quedó a vivir con ellos al casarse él. El año que mi padre cumplió siete años, murió la esposa de Luis –la madre de mi padre– con lo cual la casa volvió a ser lo que había sido durante toda mi infancia: Teresa y Luis en el centro y todo lo demás alrededor de ellos. Cuando miras atrás piensas, aquella vida corría el riesgo de cambiar de la noche a la mañana. ¿Cómo es que no me daba cuenta entonces? A mi padre le ofrecieron el puesto de gerente general en la oficina de Madrid de la empresa de automóviles. Nos íbamos a marchar de Salamanca. Pensé que nuestro mundo se trasladaría a un lugar más grande y estimulante llamado Madrid, que aunque fuera de casa todo sería diferente, cuando llegara de la escuela, la cocina seguiría oliendo igual y la voz de Teresa estaría llamándome desde alguna parte de la casa. Pero la empresa le dio un piso muy pequeño a mi padre y Teresa y Luis no vinieron con nosotros. Se quedaron en nuestra casa de Salamanca donde íbamos a pasar el verano. Mi padre les enviaba dinero cada mes pero Madrid era caro y no les podía enviar mucho. Luis llamó un domingo por la tarde diciendo que se iba a Alemania. Iba a trabajar en una fábrica y enviarle dinero a Teresa. “¿Para qué?” Le preguntó mi padre pero no hubo respuesta. Luego Teresa llamó y dijo “sus tres amigos del parque se van y él quiere irse con ellos”. Uno de esos tres amigos fue el que tomó la foto justo después de que Luis comparó su billete de autobús. Cuando Luis se marchara Teresa vendría a quedarse con nosotros un mes. Puedo escuchar sus voces. Teresa diciendo: “Luis, no puedes llevar ese abrigo. Le falta un botón. Me olvidé de cosértelo”..’ Y a Luis diciendo, “Sí, Teresa” metiendo las manos en los bolsillos, porque le encantaban los grandes bolsillos de ese abrigo. No notó nada en Teresa. No se percató de que los cordones de sus mocasines estaban mal atados, ni de la tristeza que esos labios caídos escondían. Mi abuelo nunca volvió de Alemania. El frío del norte de Europa hizo que la tuberculosis de su adolescencia aflorara y lo consumiera. Teresa aún estaba con nosotros cuando escuchó la noticia; se metió en cama y rehusó comer. Mi madre se sentaba al lado suyo con un tazón de sopa intentando hablar de otras cosas para que ella se olvidara de su pena unos instantes y le ganase el hambre. Pero nunca olvidó su dolor. Murió en el hospital, sus labios sellados impidiendo que entrara alimento y salieran palabras. Muchos años después, leí un artículo en el periódico sobre la historia económica de España que decía que entre 1959 y 1974 salieron del país más de tres millones de españoles, la mayoría de ellos como trabajadores no cøalificados a Alemania Occidental, Francia y Suiza. Después de una semana en cama mejoré lo suficiente como para que me apeteciera un sándwich. Mi esposo, contento de verme mejor, silbaba mientras cortaba el tomate en la cocina. Comí despacio, masticando cada bocado durante un rato. Tuve la sensación de que a partir de ese momento me acordaría de Teresa cada vez que me llevara algo a la boca.

viaje de su padre

His Father’s

I was mad for music when I was ten. Without a thought to where I was going or the lateness of the hour and my bed at home, I followed the sound of a flute one night. A turn or two later I came upon the flute player. His playing advertised the flutes, strung from a pole hefted onto his shoulder. He walked the lanes long after his last sale was made, and I stayed behind him, chasing music in the labyrinth of the old town, panicked and intoxicated, foolish and invincible. Balconies crowded over my head, replacing the distant sky. And the little lights, strung from the balconies, for it was a festival night, were stars hung within reach. He walked on, his pole caught in and dragging a strand of lights with him. A door overhead opened, and abuse was flung at him. Flutes rattled atop the flute player’s pole, a dry rattle like seeds in the dried brown pod of a tree whose name I never learnt. As if the woman who screamed invective had commanded it, the balconies ahead of us and behind us snuffed themselves dark. It was late. Even his silhouette disappeared in a swim of ink. I groped after his sound. When he stopped playing, it was all of a sudden. I had a sense of myself as a toy a foolish child had reached for too quickly and toppled from the shelf. One of those clay toys, painted on the outside and mud within. The flute seller now turned in, and in, toward some obscure destination. His feet scraped loose a stone that came rattling down the inclined lane. I might have whimpered. I, who lived on the periphery where town left off and fields swept in, knew nothing of town people, their customs of night, the ways of their paved streets. When there were no more streets, the sound of his footsteps folded into a wall. I felt with my hands to find the door there. I slept on the stone slab propped over the gutter that flowed past the door. It kept me dry and the smell was bearable. When it was just barely light, I rubbed my eyes and began my

ourney Cuando tenía diez años estaba loco por la música. Una noche, sin pensar a dónde iba o en lo tarde que era, o en lo bien que estaría en mi cama, seguí el sonido de la flauta. Después de girar un par de veces me encontré al flautista. Tocaba para anunciar las flautas que colgaban de un palo que llevaba sobre el hombro. Siguió recorriendo las calles hasta mucho después de haber hecho su última venta y yo lo seguí, persiguiendo la música a través del laberinto del casco antiguo, muerto de miedo, intoxicado, tonto e invencible. Los balcones se agolpaban sobre mi cabeza, sustituyendo el cielo en la lejanía. Y las lucecitas que colgaban de los balcones, pues era fiesta esa noche, eran estrellas que colgaban al alcance de mi mano. Siguió caminando, su palo quedó enganchado a una hilera de luces llevándoselas por delante. Se abrió una puerta y le lanzaron insultos. Las flautas repiquetearon encima del palo. Era un repiqueteo seco como el sonido de las semillas en la vaina seca y marrón de un árbol cuyo nombre nunca he sabido. Como si la mujer que salió a gritar hubiese dado la orden, los balcones delante y detrás de nosotros apagaron sus luces. Era tarde. Incluso su silueta desapareció en un mar de tinta. Me guié por el sonido de su flauta. Cuando de repente dejó de tocar me sentí como el juguete sobre el que un niño tonto se había lanzado haciendo que se cayera de la repisa. Uno de esos juguetes de barro por dentro y pintado por fuera. El vendedor de flautas giró y volvió a girar hacia un destino en la penumbra. Su pie levantó una piedra que salió rodando calle abajo. Creo que gemí. Yo, que vivía en la periferia de la ciudad, ahí donde empiezan los campos, no sabía nada de la

Mridula Koshy

Anjum Hasan

search for a way out of the maze. The bread seller calling from the distant market guided me and later the muezzin’s call found me the mosque at the edge of town. It was fully morning when I reached home. My grandmothers met me at the gate, first slapping me and then embracing me and then slapping me. They kept me locked in the loft above the kitchen. I grew pale, straining my ear at the floorboards. A week may have gone by. When they let me out it was to wear a shirt as purely white as the clouds that hurried overhead. They had stitched it, their old hands estimating accurately the contours of what they embraced daily. The left sleeve and the right sleeve held me; the cuffs stiff-circled my wrist. The buttons down the front met and slipped one by one into their buttonholes. They buttoned me to the top, and their hands lifted my chin for my lips to receive their moist lips. They stood back then, in the dark. The door was open in front of me. I was to go, they said, where my father had gone, and return once I had found him. I was the last one they sent out thus. The loft would now be empty. I was afraid when I thought of forsaking the toys I kept buried under the straw of my bed. And my pet hen, would they feed her? How was I to tell them that it was not my father I searched for the night I followed the flute player? In my mind, I carry the picture of our parting. It is the picture of all that I saw in front of me through that door. The lane leading to town, and the town at the end of the world. And beyond. I saw beyond. How was I to reply to the open door other than by leaving? Yet I flee in the night every bed I have slept in since that first bed. I fall to the floor through which I again hear their old steps gathering the rhythms of our house. I hear again the animals sheltered next to the kitchen, hear the coals breaking apart in the hearth, the ashes settling, and the sound of the path winding me away into the fields and across the sea and from there spooling me tighter and tighter into the lanes of larger and larger cities. But though I strain, I do not hear the flute player’s tune. How then did I arrive here? I am a driver. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. My skin and eyes give me away as a foreigner. People who hail me for their brief travels around the city ask me how it is I have come so far. Before I am forced to undertake in daylight that journey I inhabit at night, before I might be stripped in front of strangers and made intimate with them, I smile and tell them the whole truth: I have drunk the water and felt the wind here. This is my home.

Photo. Toni Catany Nim, 1967 Gelatina de plata, copia actual, 50,5 x 40,5 cm. © Toni Catany Colección Fundació Foto Colectania

gente de la ciudad, de sus costumbres nocturnas, ni de sus calles pavimentadas. Cuando ya no hubo más calles el sonido de sus pasos atravesó un muro. Con mis manos palpé la puerta que había ahí. Dormí sobre el escalón de piedra que había sobre el canal de desagüe en frente de la puerta. Así evitaba mojarme y el olor era soportable. Cuando empezó a amanecer, me froté los ojos y empecé a buscar la salida del laberinto. Me guié por el panadero que llamaba desde el mercado y más tarde por la llamada del muecín que me hizo encontrar la mezquita a las afueras de la ciudad. Ya era de mañana cuando llegué a casa. Mis abuelas me esperaban en la reja. Lo primero que hicieron fue abofetearme, luego me abrazaron, luego me volvieron a abofetear. Me encerraron en el altillo de la cocina. Palidecí y me pasaba el tiempo pegando la oreja a los tablones del suelo. Debió haber pasado una semana. Cuando me dejaron salir fue para que me pusiera una camisa tan blanca como las nubes que pasaban en lo alto. La habían cocido ellas, sus ancianas manos calculando los contornos del cuerpo que abrazaban cada día. Metí los brazos en la manga izquierda y la manga derecha: los puños se ajustaban a mis muñecas. Los botones en la parte de enfrente empezaron a deslizarse en sus ojales. Me abotonaron hasta arriba, y sus manos levantaron mi barbilla para que mis labios recibieran sus húmedos labios. Se quedaron ahí mirándome en la oscuridad. La puerta frente a mí estaba abierta. Me tenía que marchar, dijeron, a donde había ido mi padre y volver cuando lo hubiese encontrado. Fui el último en marcharme así. El altillo quedaría vacío. Me dio miedo cuando pensé que estaba traicionando los juguetes que guardaba escondidos debajo de la paja de mi cama. ¿Y mi gallina? ¿Le darían de comer? ¿Cómo decirles que no era a mi padre a quien buscaba la noche que seguí al flautista? En mi mente llevo la imagen de nuestra despedida. Es la imagen de todo lo que vi a través de la puerta. El camino que llevaba a la ciudad, y la ciudad allá en el fin del mundo. Y más allá. Vi más allá. ¿De qué otra manera que no fuese marchándome podía reaccionar ante esa puerta que se abría frente a mí? Y sin embargo, por la noche huyo de todas las camas en las que he dormido desde esa primera cama de la que huí. Caigo al suelo y a través de él vuelvo a escuchar esas pisadas que conformaban los ritmos de nuestro hogar. Escucho a los animales refugiándose al lado de la cocina, el ruido de los carbones en la chimenea, las cenizas que caen y el sonido del camino que me lleva hacia los campos, a través del mar y de ahí enrollándome cada vez con más fuerza alrededor de caminos de ciudades cada vez más grandes. Pero aunque lo intento no puedo escuchar la melodía del flautista. ¿Cómo entonces llegué hasta aquí? Soy taxista. Tengo veintisiete o veintiocho años. Mi piel y mis ojos delatan que soy extranjero. La gente que me hace señas para hacer sus breves trayectos en la ciudad me pregunta cómo es que he llegado tan lejos. Antes que verme obligado a hacer de día el viaje en el que me embarco cada noche, antes de tener que desnudarme frente a extraños e intimar con ellos, sonrío y les digo toda la verdad: He bebido el agua y sentido el viento de este lugar. Esta es mi casa.

Mridula Koshy

SNAPSHOTS

de Família

portraits

Family

Retrat s

Photo. Hergy family (Gujarati Ismaili Muslims settled in Mozambique since the 19th century) during a visit to Mumbai circa 1949. Safdar Bachir’s collection

e as circulações do Império

and the circulations of Empire

“The only grandeur of imperialism lies in the nation’s losing battle against it”. – Hannah Arendt

“A única grandeza do imperialismo está na batalha que a nação, contra ele, vai perdendo.” – Hannah Arendt

Inviting us to juxtapose family photographs from two different spaces, the concept note to this section informed us that “the family album/photograph is a document compiled to record a rite of passage, details of rituals, family hierarchies, the presence of relatives and friends and often, to record the scale at which celebrations are held, or gatherings may occur from time to time.” The note might have added that these documents ‘freeze’ for us these various details; suggesting a way, perhaps insisting on, the manner in which these events and families may and should be remembered. There will be no space in the official record, of the resistances and negotiations vis-à-vis the hierarchy that has been captured. All of the family portraits that this essay draws inspiration from suggest a rootedness in space and time. This is definitely true for the family album of the Bettencourt family, pictured amidst the rewards drawn from their sugarcane plantations in Madeira; the Goan Viegas family with their African slave (servant?) girl, and the Gujarati-speaking Shia-Ismaili Alimamade Hergy family staring fixedly into the camera. Their ‘traditional’ garb suggest an immobility not just in time and space, but in culture as well.

Ao convidarem-nos a justapor fotografias de família de dois diferente lugares, a nota conceptual indicava-nos que “O álbum fotográfico de família é compilado para registar ritos de passagem, detalhes de rituais, hierarquias familiares, a presença de parentes e amigos e – com frequência- a dimensão que atingem as celebrações ou as reuniões familiares que ocorrem de vez em quando”. A nota deveria acrescentar que tal documento « cristaliza » esses elementos, sugerindo um caminho - porventura insistindo na maneira como estas famílias e estes eventos podem e devem ser lembrados. Neste registo oficial não haverá lugar para as resistências e as negociações relativas às hierarquias captadas pela objectiva.

It is not necessarily the image that conveys to us this fixity, however. The frame of the nation-state, that insinuates itself so quietly into our lives, encourages us to read the images for their difference, their inertia in time and space, and ideally for their cultural difference as well. If, when taken individually, these images are read to convey fixity and the rigidity of hierarchy, wouldn’t the juxtaposition of these various images in fact only compound this tendency, marking the radical difference between these groups? I argue that this condition would dominate, only if we exclude the context that allows for this juxtaposition, the location of all of these families within the space of the former Portuguese empire. Include this often unspoken context for these images, and one could change the frame to obtain alternate readings from these images. I suggest, therefore, a remembrance of the time of Empire, and the fluidities that it allowed, that stand in sharp contrast to the fixed perceptions of the present. Invoking the memory of the Empire, we are able to see the forgetting of the stories that are engendered through the

Todos os retratos familiares, nos quais este ensaio se inspira, sugerem um enraizamento no espaço e tempo. Isto é definitivamente verdade no álbum de família Bettencourt, retratada na sua plantação de açúcar na Madeira no meio das recompensas recebidas, no da família Goesa Viegas fotografada com a sua escrava (criada ?) e ainda no da família xiita-ismaelita Alimamede Hergy de fala Gujarati perscrutando fixamente a objectiva. O seu garbo “tradicional” sugere um imobilismo não apenas espaciotemporal mas também cultural. Contudo, não será necessariamente a imagem que nos comunica esse imobilismo. O contexto do Estado-Nação que se insinua tão discretamente nas nossas vidas, incita-nos a interpretar as imagens pela sua diferença, pela sua inércia no tempo e no espaço e idealmente também pela sua diversidade cultural. Se, quando consideradas individualmente, estas imagens comunicam a cristalização e a rigidez da hierarquia, a sua justaposição não confirmará, de facto, esta tendência, marcando uma diferença radical entre estes grupos? O meu argumento é que esta condição só prevaleceria se excluíssemos o contexto que permite esta justaposição : a existência destas famílias dentro do espaço do antigo império português. Inclua-se este contexto, tantas vezes não mencionado, e poderemos alterar a perspectiva, obtendo leituras alternativas destas imagens. Sugiro, por conseguinte, a evocação do período imperial e a fluidez que este permitiu, que se encontra em marcado contraste com a percepções fixas do presente.

Jason Keith Fernandes

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Photo courtesy. Savia Viegas Family Photos Archive. Carmona, Goa, 1920. Unknown photographer

particularly Shia. The Shia ritually mourn every year, throughout the month of Muharram, the tragic slaying of the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, on the burning plains of Karbala. The Estado Novo that used of the cult of the Virgin of Fatima to buttress the notion of nationhood is reported to have, in what can only be an act of Empire, sought to twine this Islamic remembrance with the national cult of Fatima. While this double use of Fatima is still a contested assertion, the Estado Novo did insist that those Muslims whose trips to Mecca were subsidized by the State, travel to mainland Portugal to gain familiarity with the metropole, and this included Fatima.

constructions of the nation-state. As part of the Portuguese empire, and the seat for its Eastern possessions, Goa developed a market for African slaves. As the portrait of the Viegas family in this collection of images so clearly demonstrates, this demand for the ‘African’ continued long after the glory days of the Eastern possessions had passed. As the story of the national family is written however, the stories and indeed presence of these corporeal additions to Goan society through the agency of Empire, in this case so tellingly incorporated into the hierarchy of the family, are conveniently forgotten. The forgetting of the African in Goa is, however, not the only forgetting imposed on Goan history. The presence and the history of the Gujarati-speaking merchant communities in Goa, is similarly erased from the telling of Goan history. Privileging the histories of groups rooted in land, the story of Goa becomes that of its Konkani-speaking Hindus, and its Catholics with purportedly Hindu pasts. The Gujarati-speaking Muslim merchant communities encompassed Goa as but one of their many spaces of business. Strung out across the Indian Ocean, they linked both shores of the Arabian Sea via a network of trade and familial connections. The Alimamade Hergy family featured in the group portrait was largely based in Mozambique. The image however was captured in Bombay, where in addition to visiting, they were also possibly reuniting family. Somewhat at odds with the fixing tendencies of latter-day nation-states seems to be the efforts of the Estado Novo of Portugal. These merchant communities were not just Muslim but more

A evocação da memória do império permite-nos revelar o esquecimento a que foram votadas as histórias engendradas através da construção do Estado-Nação. Enquanto parte do Império Português e capital do seu Império Oriental, Goa desenvolveu um mercado de escravos. Como o retrato da família Viegas demonstra claramente a demanda pelo “Africano “ permaneceu muito depois dos gloriosos dias do Império do Oriente terem passado. No entanto, à medida que a história da família nacional é escrita, as histórias e a adição mesmo desta presença física na sociedade goesa, através da intervenção estruturante do império, neste caso tão expressamente integrada na hierarquia da família, é - por conveniência – esquecida. O esquecimento a que foi votado o “Africano” não é o único que se impôs na história goesa, A presença e a história da comunidade de comerciantes de fala gujarati foi igualmente apagada da sua narrativa histórica. Previligiando a história dos grupos autóctones enraizados no seu território, a história de Goa converte-se na dos Hindus falantes de concani e dos “seus” católicos com os seus passados ostensivamente Hindus. As comunidades de mercadores muçulmanos de fala gujarati incluíram Goa como parte integrante das suas diversas áreas de negócio. Estendendose através do Oceano Índico ligavam as duas margens do Mar Arábico por via de uma rede de ligações comerciais e familiares. A família Alimamede Hergy, fotografada no retrato de grupo, estava largamente enraizada em Moçambique. Porém a imagem foi capturada em Bombaim onde, para além da visita, reuniam provavelmente a família.

In her very perceptive book on the Ottoman empire, Karen Barkey suggests that despite the unequal treatment of person within empires, what sustained these polities was the negotiations that incorporated groups across the empire into the body of the empire. Much vitriol is poured on the Estado Novo for the cynical manner in which it sought to extend the era of colonialism. Faced with anti-colonial pressure in its territories and from the international community, the Estado Novo argued that it possessed not colonies, but overseas territories, that were an integral part of continental Portugal. And yet, could this not be seen, despite its obviously unequal treatment of persons (and we cannot afford to forget the racism that was institutionally present within the Portuguese empire), as one more attempt to suture its peoples scattered across diverse territory into one family? Subsequent to the passing of its empire, Portugal has looked toward Europe, while reinventing itself. Forgotten are the radical (even if marginal) imaginings of Empire. Thus rather than see all of this essay’s images as representative of Portugal (and not just its past), one is faced with the, within national terms, logical tendency to see only those of the Bettencourt family within such terms. In such a case, what are the imaginings open to Farida, the little girl from the Alimamade Hergy family portrait, now married and a grandmother in Lisbon? Is she Portuguese? Or not quite? Remembering the empire and its fluidity, would help to challenge the fixities that we today seek to impose on a world that seems to allow capital alone to move, while populations are expected to remain static. This could possibly have been condoned, were it not for the fact that those whose beings stem from more fluid pasts seem destined to fall between the cracks. 9LMLYLUJLZ Barkey, Karen. 2008. Empire of Difference: The Ottomans in Comparative Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reiter, Bernd. 2008. The Perils of Empire: Nationhood and citizenship in Portugal. Citizenship Studies 12, no. 4: 397 - 412. Janoski, Thomas. 2009. The Difference that Empire Makes: Institutions and politics of citizenship in Germany and Austria. Citizenship Studies 13, no. 4: 381 - 411. Hacohen, Malachi Haim. 1999. Dilemmas of Cosmopolitanism: Karl Popper, Jewish Identity, and “Central European Culture.” The Journal of Modern History 7, No. 1 (March): 105-149.

Um tanto em contradição com a tendência “cristalizadora” dos Estados-Nação de surgimento mais tardio, encontra-se o Estado Novo português. Estas comunidades de comerciantes não eram apenas muçulmanos mas, especificamente, xiitas. Os xiitas entregam-se ao luto, durante todo o mês de Muharram, pelo sacrifício do neto do profeta Maomé nas planícies escaldantes de Carbala. O Estado Novo, que utilizou o culto da Virgem Maria para consolidar o conceito de Nação, estabeleceu alegadamente, num acto que apenas se poderá considerar « imperial », a sobreposição da remeniscência Xiita com o culto mariano. Embora esta dupla utilização do culto de Fátima seja ainda contestada, o Estado Novo insistia para que esses muçulmanos - cujas viagens a Meca eram subsidiadas pelo Estado – viajassem até Portugal para se familiarizarem com a Metrópole e, inclusivamente, com o culto de Fátima. No seu livro incisivo sobre o Império Otomano, Karen Barken sugere que apesar do tratamento desigual de pessoas pelos impérios, esta politica era sustentada pelas negociações através das quais os grupos no seio do império eram nele incorporados. O Estado Novo foi corrosivamente criticado pelo cinismo com que procurou prolongar a era do colonialismo. Face à agitação anti-colonial nos territórios que administrava e à pressão da comunidade internacional, o Estado Novo argumentava que não possuía colónias, mas territórios-ultramarinos que deveriam ser considerados parte integrante de Portugal. Isto não poderá deixar de ser considerado, apesar do tratamento desigual dado às pessoas (e não poderá ser esquecido o racismo institucionalmente presente no Império Português), como mais uma tentativa para unir, numa só família, a « manta de retalhos » de povos dispersos por diversos territórios. Após o fim da era imperial, Portugal contemplou a Europa à medida que se reinventava. Esquecido está o imaginário radical (ainda que marginal) do Império. Assim em vez de olhar para todas as imagens deste ensaio como representativas de Portugal (e não apenas do seu passado) temos de encarar os “parâmetros” nacionais e a tendência lógica de ver apenas a Família Bettencourt a partir de tais parâmetros. Neste caso, qual o imaginário possível para Farida a rapariga fotografado no retrato da família Alimamede Hergy, hoje casada e avó em Lisboa. Será ela Portuguesa? ou talvez não inteiramente Relembrar o império, o seu carácter fluido incitar-nos-á a desafiar o imobilismo que hoje procuramos impor a um mundo que parece permitir que apenas o capital circule, enquanto as pessoas devem, supostamente, permanecer estáticas. Isto poderia ser, possivelmente, redimido não fora o facto de aqueles, cujas existências tem origem em passados mais fluidos, parecem condenados a cair nas vazios históricos existentes entra a dimensão nacional e imperial.

Jason Keith Fernandes

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Lourdes Â Castro

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I lowered my head. My eyes stared at my new dress. It was white, with little flowers and tiny black spots. I must have been very young when my grandfather, Jacinto, died. After that, I only remember the self-portrait and all the photographs he took. I enjoyed it specially when grandmother Laura showed them to me, commenting: your uncle Luiz, when he was young; your mother as a baby sitting on my lap in the garden; here she was older, with some friends who came to spend the afternoon playing, and some pensioners from grandmother’s school who came to spend the summer, like Berta, Irene and Isaura, three sisters from São Tomé and Príncipe. The farm, the grape harvest, the sugar-cane harvest and the garden. I would comment: how the palm tree has grown! There was a strawberry guava tree; lots of mango trees, a whole hillock of them, a vibrant red hibiscus and another one with hanging flowers, of fringed petals1; an apple-guava tree; a tree which grew pink flowers2 that I loved to put in my mouth, they tasted like silk paper… A custard-apple tree as a big as a house; moon-flowers3 in the shade in the path to the hayloft, attracting the night-butterflies4 in the evening; a chinese privet near the wall; myoporums which gave protection from the southwest wind; the fig tree – long white figs with honey in their tips – near the pigeonry, the carob tree near the entrance gate, black surinam cherries, a jacaranda, jasmine, flamevines5 covering the trellis which filled themselves with orange-coloured flowers at Christmas time. And the camphor tree! It was huge, and Uncle Luiz had planted it. To take a bath we would come down the rocks and the gravel path. We would avoid the prickly pears6. In the path there was wild fennel, rock wallflowers, white scents. Down below, we would cross the banana trees and then arrive at the beach, so wide, so broad. It was beautiful, because it was empty! At home, in days of rough sea, we would hear the sound of the ocean draggling through the pebbles. It rolled them day and night, for years and centuries, until pieces of basalt turned smooth and soft. A pebble is a masterpiece! Who has never walked barefoot on the pebbles, now jumping, now balancing oneself on the bigger ones? Today, like a room choked up by furniture, the Formosa Beach is full of buildings. I thank you, grandfather, for leaving your gaze on the beauty of this place. And I thank the sky and the earth for having started to breathe here. Lourdes Castro 2006

Baixei a cabeça, os meus olhos ficaram presos no meu vestido novo, era branco com florezinhas e pintinhas pretas. Devia ser muito pequenina quando o Avô Jacinto morreu. Depois só me lembro do auto-retrato, das fotografias todas que ele tirou. Gostava quando especialmente a Avó Laura mas mostrava, comentando : o Tio Luiz era pequeno, a Mãe bebé no jardim da Praia ao meu colo, aqui já crescida com as amigas que vinham passar a tarde para brincar e algumas pensionistas do Colégio da Avó, que aqui passavam o Verão, como a Berta, a Irene, e a Isaura três irmãs que tinham vindo de São Tomé. A fazenda, a vindima, a apanha da cana-de-açucar, o jardim. Eu acrescentava : como a palmeira cresceu ! Havia um araçaleiro, muitos muitos mangueiros, um poio inteiro, um cardeal vermelho vivo e outro com as pétalas bem recortadas1 da flor que pendia, uma goiabeira, uma árvore que dava flores cor-de-rosa2, adorava metê-as na boca, sabiam a papel de seda… Uma anoneira tão grande como uma casa, boninas à sombra no caminho até o palheiro atraindo os besouros ao fim da tarde, um ligustro ao pé do muro, mioporos para proteger do vento de sudoeste ; a figueira – bêberas brancas com mel no bico – perto do pombal, a alfarrobeira ao pé do portão da entrada, pitangas das pretas, um jacarandá, jasmim, gaitinhas3 no xadrez, que se enchiam de flores alaranjadas pelo Natal. E a canforeira ! Enorme, plantada pelo Tio Luiz. Para ir ao banho desciamos pela rocha e pelo areão, desviávamonos das tabaibeiras4, pelo caminho funcho bravo, goivos da rocha, aromas brancos. Atravessávamos as bananeiras já lá em baixo e estávamos na praia, tão vasta, tão larga. Formosa porque vazia ! Em dias de levadia, ouvíamos em casa o barulho do mar a arrastar pelos calhaus. Rolava-os dia e noite, anos, séculos, até que bocados de basalto ficassem assim tão lisos e macios. Um calhau é uma obra-prima ! Quem não conseguiu andar descalço por cima dos calhaus, ora saltando ora equilibrando-se nos calhaus maiores. Hoje, como um quarto atravancado de móveis, a Praia Formosa encheu-se de imóveis. Agradeço ao Avô ter deixado o seu olhar na beleza deste sítio. E grata ao céu e à terra eu ter começado a respirar aqui. Lourdes Castro 2006

3V\YKLZ *HZ[YV ¸( 7YHPH -VYTVZH¹ WOV[VNYHÄHZ KV TL\ H] 1HJPU[V ( 4VUPa de Bettencourt, ilha da madeira Edição Museu de Serralves, Porto e Assírio & Alvim, Lisboa, 2008 Cortesia: Porta 33, Funchal

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Hibiscus skisopetalus Lagerestromia indica Pyrostegia venusta Opuntia tuna (piteira)

Lourdes Castro

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Lourdes Â Castro

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xpuesto a la mirada

Photo. Unknown photographer Tilakayat Govardhanlalji, head priest of the Srinathaji Temple, Nathdwara ; Ghasiram Hardev Sharma (1868-1930) Gelatin silver print, watercolour, 1890s-1900s

Presences

Presencias

Stepping into the life of an image is like being born.

Adentrarse en la vida de una imagen es como nacer de nuevo.

The Mewari family of Maharanas ruled the Rajasthani town of Udaipur for generations. A family of skilled artisans comprised their atelier. They settled in the region from the 17th Century onwards, paying tribute to the ruler who commissioned Pahari paintings of themselves and their dear ones. The artisans were from a caste of craftsmen known as the adi gaur, traditionally carpenters from Jaipur, who came to the site of Nathdwara in 1672, when a temple, dedicated to Shri Nathji or Krishna was established. In the Udaipur court, artists were assigned by the mukhiya or director of the temple from the adi gaur caste, or the other artisan sub-castes, the jangir or mewara, each distinct by virtue of its distance from the temple of Shri Nathji. Each year, the temple and even the houses around the divine shrine are repainted, and so each year, the town is washed in cerulean, a colour that may permit the imagination to believe that it actually dwells in the sky. Pannalal was a master artist, who headed the royal painting workshop under the pioneering ruler with long, commanding whiskers, Maharana Fateh Singh (1849–1929). He still held this position in 1935 when Bhupal Singh (1884-1955), Fateh Singh’s adopted son, summoned the artist to the palace in Udaipur, where Pannalal oversaw the overall design program of the royal palace, Raj Mahal. The families of artists, at times in the year, took their own respective families to the shrine of Shri Nathji, and here they forged a tradition common to painting and photography, creating an embellished image that represented a bold fusion of styles.

La familia Mewari de Maharanas gobernó la ciudad rajasthani de Udaipur durante generaciones. Era una familia de hábiles artesanos que se instaló en la región a partir del siglo diecisiete. Trabajaban para el gobernante de la región haciendo retratos de su familia y seres queridos en el estilo pahari. Los artesanos pertenecían a una casta de artesanos conocida como los adi gaur, tradicionalmente carpinteros de Jaipur, que llegaron a Nathdwara en 1672, cuando se construyó un templo dedicado a Shri Nathji o Krishna. En la corte de Udaipur los artistas eran nombrados por el mukhiya o director del templo de la casta adi gaur, o de otras subcastas de artesanos como jangir o mewara, cuyo distintivo era la distancia que los separaba del templo de Shri Nathji. Cada año se repinta el templo, e incluso las casas alrededor del altar, y a la ciudad entera se le da un baño de azul cerúleo, un color que ayuda a imaginar que la ciudad habita el cielo. Pannalal era un gran maestro que dirigía el taller real de pintura bajo las órdenes de Maharana Fateh Singh (1849–1929), gobernante de largos e imponentes bigotes. Seguía gobernando en 1935, cuando el hijo adoptivo de Bhupal Singh (1884-1955), Fateh Singh, convocó a los artistas en el palacio de Udaipur, en donde Pannalal proyectó el programa general para el diseño del palacio Raj Mahal. Las familias de los artistas solían llevar a sus propios parientes al altar de Shri Nathji en distintas épocas del año. Fue así como se instauró la tradición, al igual que sucede con la pintura y la fotografía, de crear una imagen embellecida que encarnaba una fusión de estilos diversos.

Rahaab Allana

to the gaze

pen

ON PORTRAITS

Photo. Private Collection Devotees outside Shrinathji temple Modern Print, 1960s

Photo. Digital Photograph from Dilkhush Studio of Students in front of painted backdrop, 2009, JNU Delhi, Collection: Pushpamala N.

Universidad Nathdwara

Nathdwara

An image is born to the life it is given.

Una imagen tiene la vida que se le otorga.

There was a dry heat that particular afternoon, the kind that clung to the skin like a layer of unseen particles, an aura hovering so close that it actually burned. A petite girl stepped into the street with her siblings and relatives. They were all a little disconsolate, overwhelmed, perhaps, by what this day meant. She had woken that morning and made tea sitting by the stove, sweating as the others slept in an induced haze, forced to reckon with strange, unclear dreams. It was an early morning at the shrine, and almost everyone had something to wish for from the dancing deity, Shri Nathji. Stepping into the studio, she was besieged by the past – the frames, strung so close together, created a playful history. Family after family, some known to them, others completely alien, together with a strangely compelling motley of foreign tourists adorned the walls. She noticed how, earlier in time, the entire surface of the image was coloured; only the faces were cutout photographs, pasted as a montage on the surface of a mounted board. Watercolour, stark dyes, make-believe interiors and actual faces with peering eyes, some profiles, others boldly looking straight ahead gazed back at the viewer. This was Nathdwara, the city that created pichwais of the divine Shri Nathji year after year, with families eager to foreground him in adulation, as they themselves had now done.

Aquella tarde en particular hacía un calor seco, del que se adhiere a la piel como una capa de partículas invisibles, una especie de aura candente que planea alrededor al cuerpo. Una pequeña salió a la calle con sus hermanos y parientes. Estaban un poco abatidos, tal vez abrumados por el día que les esperaba. Se había levantado esa mañana y había hecho té sentada cerca de la estufa, sudando, mientras los otros dormían envueltos en un sopor inducido, obligados a lidiar con sueños extraños y confusos. Era de madrugada en el altar y casi todo el mundo tenía algún deseo que pedirle a la divinidad danzante, Shri Nathji. Al entrar al estudio se vio asediada por el pasado –los marcos, colgados tan cerca uno del otro, creaban una historia juguetona. Las paredes estaban decoradas con fotos de familias, algunas conocidas, otras completamente desconocidas, junto a la foto de un atractivo y curioso grupo de turistas variopintos. Notó que en un primer momento la superficie del fondo había sido coloreada, pero las caras eran fotografías recortadas y colocadas sobre este fondo, creando una especie de montaje sobre la superficie de madera. Acuarelas, entintados oscuros, interiores teatrales y caras con los mismos ojos, algunas de perfil, otras mirando fijamente al espectador. Esta era Nathdwara, la ciudad que creaba pichwais de la divinidad Shri Nathji año tras año, con familias deseosas de expresar su adulación, como ellos lo acababan de hacer.

The afterlife: An image is created from the remnants of a past.

La vida después de la muerte: Una imagen se crea de remanentes del pasado.

They gathered in groups and there was a queasy discomfort about where and how to stand, sit or lean. The props in this self-appropriated studio were objects drawn from earlier theatrical productions: domestic items, painted backdrops, rejected daily wares from friends and other varied memorabilia. This was Dil Khush (Heart’s Delight) Photo Studio, run by the photogenic artist, Pushpamala N. This was where innumerable students gathered after their days were seemingly lost, sometimes confined in the haze of another afternoon class, where finally their bold imaginations would be kindled by the desire to be somewhere, someone else. The students hovered around this den as though it answered their latent, dreamy desires for infamy. Strangely, among this varied group there was someone whose destiny was tied to another’s in a way she could not imagine. She remains nameless, dressed in ordinary jeans, living an normal life. She yearned to have her youth revealed, but not brashly, perhaps a little coyly. This was her day. She walked in with some friends and found little of interest; just a few old saris, tin objects that would be found in any household, a photographer. She was with friends and she posed. Flashes of light and shadows were cast and flickers of life leapt from wall to wall. Laughing ever so carefreely, she realized that something had happened. Something about her had been ‘stereotyped’.

Se dividieron en grupos y había cierta inquietud incómoda acerca de dónde y cómo ponerse de pie, sentarse o apoyarse. El atrezzo de este estudio auto adjudicado eran objetos sacados de producciones teatrales anteriores: artículos domésticos, telones pintados, utensilios cotidianos que los amigos ya no utilizaban y una variedad de objetos de todo tipo. Era el estudio de fotografía Dil Khush (Deleite del corazón), del fotógrafo Pushpamala N. Aquí es donde se reunía un gran número de estudiantes después de días aparentemente perdidos, algunas veces confinados a la bruma de otra clase vespertina durante la que su enaltecida imaginación los hacia desear estar en otro lugar, ser otro. Los estudiantes rondaban esta guarida esperando hallar ahí la respuesta a sus latentes deseos de infamia. Curiosamente, en este grupo variopinto había alguien cuyo destino estaba ligado al de otra persona de una forma que ella no podía haber imaginado. Permanece anónima, lleva tejanos como cualquier chica de su edad y vive una vida normal. Anhelaba celebrar su juventud pero no descaradamente, tal vez con cierta timidez. Este era su día. Entró en compañía de unas amigas y encontró poca cosa de interés; tal vez unos cuantos saris, objetos de lata que se encuentran en cualquier casa, un fotógrafo. Estaba con sus amigas y posó para la foto. Hubo destellos de luces y sombras. La vida centelleaba de una pared a otra. Riendo despreocupadamente se dio cuenta de que algo había pasado. Algo de ella había sido “estereotipado”.

Rahaab Allana

University

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WKH ÀUVW IDPLO\

through the lens of homai vyarawalla

Nehru and Indira

Indira with Feroz

la primera familia a través de la cámara de homai vyarawalla

“En una exposición en Bombay un hombre empezó a discutir conmigo. Debió haber sido de Bengala. Dijo, “He recorrido toda la exposición. ¿Cómo es que no hay una foto de Subhash Chandra Bose?” Le contesté, “Nunca lo he visto ¿cómo iba a tomarle una foto?” “Pero, ¿por qué ha tomado tantas fotos de Nehru?’ preguntó.”

Three of Homai Vyarawalla’s best known photographs were taken quite by accident. The year was 1954 and India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, had taken time out of his busy schedule to wait at Palam airport. As he stood talking to an official near a board that proclaimed “Photography Prohibited,” Homai clicked. Nehru smiled and she clicked again. It would be one of her most iconic portraits of a camera-friendly and charismatic Prime Minister. She would note later, “He had a perfect figure for a photographer: A personality who electrified the entire atmosphere when he entered… Somehow or the other he never resented photographers around him and sometimes I noticed that he posed for pictures, as if unconsciously!” Was Nehru posing for this picture? We will never know for sure, but the image she took a few minutes later was certainly more spontaneous. Nehru had been to the airport hundreds of times to receive dignitaries from all over the world but this visitor was special. Vijayalakshmi Pandit was the Indian ambassador to Moscow, but she was also his sister. The siblings would embrace with love and warmth on the tarmac to create another of Homai’s iconic images, in fact her most favorite photograph. The airport was where Homai shot a third image of the first family in the 1950s; that of Nehru’s daughter Indira with her husband Feroz Gandhi. Taken from a slightly lower angle, Indira smiles down at her lens. Of course the angle was the result of the heavy medium format camera used by Homai and others of her generation of photographers. The fact that her subjects often looked directly into her camera was inevitable; as the only woman among a group of press photographers, Homai Vyarawalla stood out in the crowd. It is perhaps for the some of the same reasons that she would be invited to photograph the more private occasions of the family,

Tres de las fotos más conocidas de Homai Vyarawalla fueron tomadas por accidente. Era 1954 y el Primer Ministro de la India Jawaharlal Nehru tomaba un descanso de su apretada agenda para esperar la llegada de alguien en el aeropuerto de Palam. Mientras hablaba con un oficial cerca de una placa que decía “Prohibido tomar fotos”, Homai disparó. Nehru sonrió y ella disparó de nuevo. Sería una de las fotografías más icónicas que tomaría de un carismático Primer Ministro al que le agradaba posar para la cámara. Ella comentaría después, “Era el hombre ideal para cualquier fotógrafo: Tenía una personalidad que electrificaba toda la atmósfera cuando entraba… En cierto sentido se puede decir que nunca le molestó estar rodeado de fotógrafos y algunas veces, pude notar que incluso posaba para las fotos, de modo casi inconsciente.” ¿Estaría Nehru posando cuando fue tomada esa foto? Nunca lo sabremos con certeza, pero en definitiva la imagen que le tomó unos minutos después fue más espontánea. Nehru había ido al aeropuerto cientos de veces a recibir a dignatarios de todo el mundo pero éste era un visitante algo especial. Vijayalakshmi Pandit era la embajadora de la India en Moscú pero también era su hermana. El cariñoso abrazo de los hermanos en la pista de aterrizaje quedó plasmado en otra de las icónicas imágenes de Homai, de hecho su fotografía favorita. Fue también en el aeropuerto donde Homai tomó, en los años cincuenta, una tercera imagen de la primera familia; la fotografía de la hija de Nehru, Indira, con su esposo Feroz Gandhi. Tomada desde un ángulo inferior al plano de la fotografía Indira sonríe hacia la cámara más abajo. El ángulo de la foto tiene su explicación en el hecho de que Homai y otros fotógrafos de su generación utilizaban una pesada cámara de medio formato que requería ese ángulo. Era inevitable que sus sujetos mirasen directo a la cámara; al ser la única mujer entre los fotógrafos de prensa Homai

Nehru with the board

Sabeena Gadihoke

At an exhibition in Bombay a man started quarreling with me. He must have been from Bengal. He said, “I have looked through the whole exhibition. How is it that there is no picture of Subhash Chandra Bose there?” I said, “I never saw him so how could I take his picture?” “But why have you taken so many of Nehru?” He asked.

Vyarawalla destacaba de entre los demás. Probablemente era esta la razón por la que la invitaban a fotografiar las ocasiones más privadas de la familia, los cumpleaños de los pequeños Rajiv y Sanjay, por ejemplo, en que Indira hacía de anfitriona en la residencia del primer ministro. Sus imágenes de la primera familia abarcan los años de crecimiento de los dos niños desde pequeños hasta que entraron a la universidad. En las fotografías que tomó del funeral de Nehru vemos a Indira en una actitud solemne velando el cuerpo de su padre y a su hijo Sanjay encendiendo la pira. En otra, los dos hermanos levantan la urna que contiene las cenizas de su abuelo que serán arrojadas sobre el país desde un aeroplano. La primera foto-reportera india nació en 1913 en Navsari, Gujarat. Su padre, Dossabhai Haathiram, tenía un futuro incierto como actor itinerante en una compañía de teatro Urdu-Parsi mientras su madre hacía de ama de casa. Terminó sus estudios universitarios en St Xavier’s College y se tituló en Arte de la JJ School of Art de Bombay. Podría haberse dedicado al arte (en esa época el teatro no era una opción para las hijas de familias “respetables”) pero en lugar de eso conoció a su futuro esposo Maneckshaw, un fotógrafo autodidacta. Homai aprendió fotografía de él pero dadas las dificultades que tenían las mujeres para ser aceptadas como fotógrafos profesionales, sus trabajos iniciales en revistas como Jaam e Jamshed, Bombay Chronicle y la Illustrated Weekly of India aparecen firmados por él. De niña Homai había oído hablar de los discursos incendiarios que pronunciaba el carismático Nehru en el campo Maidan de Bombay. Homai pertenecía a una familia parsi de clase media que juzgaba inaceptable que tomara fotos de mítines políticos. Tampoco podía vestir con un sari de algodón por sus connotaciones políticas, aunque más adelante en su vida llevaría el khadi, una prenda popularizada por Gandhi. Como empleada de los Servicios de Información Británicos, su trabajo consistía en documentar todos los actos y eventos oficiales durante los años previos a la Independencia. Sus fotografías en blanco y negro de eventos políticos, tales como el referéndum para la partición de la India en el comité del Congreso, la primera ceremonia de izamiento de bandera en Red Fort, los funerales de Gandhi, Nehru y Lal Bahadur Shastri, y otras actividades relativas a la formación de la nación india durante tres décadas después de la independencia, la convierten en una de las principales cronistas visuales de la época de Nehru.

Nehru taking a nap

Despite her close access to the family (these were days when security was still very light) Homai never took advantage of this proximity. Her photographs were unobtrusive and respectful of her subjects, never compromising on their dignity. It is perhaps for this reason that Nehru trusted her enough to let Homai photograph him in his ebullient public persona as well as in more private and vulnerable moments. One of her images has him asleep on a chair while waiting for a dignitary to arrive at Red Fort. The following account offers insights into the cordial relationship she shared with her favorite subject: “When he was tired, Panditji would often take a nap during functions, especially when others were making speeches. If he awoke and caught us taking a picture, he would smile. On the other hand Krishna Menon who would also do the same would be furious and shout at us. During one of the formal group photographs of the cabinet, Mr. Keskar, the Minister for Information and Broadcasting had his leg sticking out. I went up to him to request him to sit differently and he got really angry saying, ‘are you trying to teach me how to sit?’ Panditji saw this and when the photo-session was over he came up to and linking his arm into mine took me walking down a long corridor. He said, ’Why do you waste your energy taking these mug shots? Go for something more artistic like the dome of Rashtrapati Bhawan here” And he laughed!” A pesar de su cercanía con la familia (eran tiempos en los que la seguridad era muy laxa), Homai nunca se aprovechó de ello. Sus fotografías eran discretas y respetuosas hacia sus sujetos, teniendo cuidado de no comprometer su dignidad. Tal vez eso explica que Nehru le tuviese la suficiente confianza como para dejarse fotografiar por ella no sólo en los momentos más pletóricos de su carrera pública sino también en situaciones más privadas y vulnerables. Una de sus imágenes lo muestra dormido en una silla mientras espera la llegada de un dignatario a Red Fort. La siguiente descripción nos ayuda a hacernos una idea del tipo de relación que Homai tenía con su sujeto favorito: “Cuando estaba cansado, Panditji se echaba una pequeña siesta entre un acto oficial y otro, especialmente durante los discursos de otros. Si al despertar nos pillaba tomándole una foto, sonreía. En cambio, Krishna Menon que hacía lo mismo se ponía furioso y nos gritaba. Durante una de las fotografías protocolarias de su gabinete, el Sr. Keskar, ministro de Información y Divulgación, no tenía la pierna bien colocada. Me acerqué a él para pedirle que corrigiera su postura y me contestó muy enfadado: “¿Intenta decirme cómo debo sentarme?”. Panditji se dio cuenta de lo sucedido y cuando terminó la sesión de fotos tomó mi brazo y mientras caminábamos por el pasillo me dijo: “¿Por qué gasta su energía en estas fotos de archivo? Tendría que buscar temas más artísticos como este domo de Rashtrapati Bhawan”. ¡Y se rió!

Vijayalaksmi Pandit and Nehru

During a botany class with his grandsons, Rajiv and Sanjay

Sabeena Gadihoke

birthday parties of a young Rajiv and Sanjay, for instance, where Indira played hostess at the Prime Minister’s residence. Her images of the first family mark the growing years of the two boys as they graduated from little boys in shorts to young men attending university. In her photographs of Nehru’s funeral a dignified Indira stands vigil over her father’s body and her son Sanjay lights his pyre. In yet another, the two brothers lift the urn containing their grandfather’s ashes to be scattered by an aeroplane across the country. India’s first woman press photographer was born in 1913 in Navsari, Gujarat, Her father, Dossabhai Haathiram had an uncertain future as an itinerant actor in an Urdu-Parsi theatre company while her mother, Soonamai, was a homemaker. She completed an undergraduate degree at St Xavier’s College and a Diploma in Art at the JJ School of Art in Bombay. She could have opted to be an artist (theatre was not an option for women of ‘respectable’ families then) but instead she met her future husband, Maneckshaw, who was a self-taught photographer. Homai learnt photography from him but, given the difficulty of a woman being accepted as a professional photographer her initial work was credited to him in magazines like Jaam e Jamshed, Bombay Chronicle and the Illustrated Weekly of India. As a young girl Homai heard stories of the rousing speeches made by a charismatic Nehru in the maiden in Bombay, but taking pictures of political meetings was unacceptable to her middle-class Parsi family. Also forbidden to wear a cotton sari because of its nationalist connotations, later on in life, Homai would dress in khadi made famous by Gandhi. As an employee of the British Information Services in Delhi, she documented all official functions and events in the years leading up to Independence. Her black and white photographs of political events such as the voting by the Congress Committee for Partition, the first flag hoisting ceremony at Red Fort, the funerals of Gandhi, Nehru and Lal Bahadur Shastri and other activities of nation building in the three decades after Independence, make her one of the key visual chroniclers of the Nehruvian era.

FAMILIES

Photo. Coni Hörler Kumaran Tiruchendu

Antes del patriarcado Before Patriarchy The Mahabharata is a work that seems to have literally emerged from one of Borges’s fictional libraries, as on various occasions it arrogates to itself the exclusivity of all reality. In a hyperbolic verse of praise it is affirmed that everything that there is in the world is also in the Mahabharata and what is missing in the Mahabharata is also absent in the world. This is, of course, one of the ways by which to publicize the longest book ever known, ten times the combined size of the Iliad and the Odyssey. The Mahabharata, though not an exhaustive catalogue of reality, touches on a variety of subjects that seems to cover all areas of human activity.

El Mahabharata es una obra que parece haber salido literalmente de una de las bibliotecas ficticias de Borges, ya que en varios momentos reclama para sí la inclusividad de todo lo real. En un verso de alabanza hiperbólica se llega a afirmar que todo lo que se encuentra en el mundo se encuentra también en el Mahabharata y lo que no se encuentra en el Mahabharata tampoco se hallará en el mundo. Sin duda alguna una manera más de publicitar el libro más extenso que se conoce, diez veces el tamaño combinado de la Ilíada y la Odisea. El Mahabharata no es ciertamente un catálogo exhaustivo de la realidad, pero sí abarca una variedad de temas que parecen tocar todos los registros de la actividad humana.

In tune with its encyclopaedic pretentions, the Mahabharata has numerous stories on the origin of the customs and mores of various peoples and one of them deals with the origin of the institution of marriage. It is a surprising passage, as it talks of a time when marriage did not exist and women were free. Many critics have interpreted this text as alluding to an age before the onset of patriarchy. There are many other signs in the Mahabharata of customs that were unorthodox in relation to traditional patriarchy. For example, the five protagonists of the story are married to a single woman, illustrating the practice of polyandry, frequent even today in certain regions of the Himalayas. Our story unequivocally avers that these customs were very favourable for women and, curiously, the one who put restraints on female sexual liberty as he couldn’t bear his mother’s independence was usually the suspicious and domineering son and not the jealous husband. This protagonist goes by the name of Vetaketu and he is the same well-known philosopher of Upanishad fame. The narration takes the form of a dialogue between Pandu, the king, and his wife, Kunti. But we can let the text speak: “Oh Kunti, you of the lovely face and beautiful eyes! I will recount to you an old law (dharma), that has been recorded by old sages, who know well the dharma. In the old days women were not kept in seclusion (anavata), but roamed free (svatantra) and revelled to their heart’s content. Oh the lover of beautiful legs! Since early adolescence women were not faithful to their husbands, but there was no immorality in this, as this was the law in ancient times. Even today animals follow this old rule without suffering jealousy or unbridled passion. This ancestral law is celebrated by the great sages and it is still practised in the land of the Kurus in the north. This practice so favourable for women is of hoary antiquity (dharma sanatana). In fact, moral norms were just recently introduced in the world. Listen carefully, oh you of the delicate smile, why and for whom these laws were established. Oh you of the lotus eyes! We have heard that there was a great sage called Uddalaka. Uddalaka had a famous son, Vetaketu, and it was he who in an angry moment laid out human moral laws. Learn from me why he did so. On a particular occasion and in the presence of Vetaketu’s father, a Brahmin took his mother’s hand and said to her: “Let’s go.” When he saw his mother being taken away, as if by force, the son of the wise man got very angry. On seeing him in such a rage the father admonished Vetaketu: “Don’t be so angry little one, this is an age-old custom. The women of this world are free, whichever class they might belong to.” But Vetaketu, the son of the wise man, could not bear this custom and established the moral laws of men and women on this earth. Oh respected lady! This moral law was established amongst human beings but not for the other species. We have learnt that, since then, these laws prevail. From then onwards, if a woman were to be unfaithful to her husband she would commit a major transgression, a horrible sin similar to the destruction of the foetus. In the same way, a man commits the same sin if he deceives a faithful woman who has been chaste since her youth. On the other hand if the wife does not fulfil the conjugal duties of procreation, as demanded by the husband, she also commits the same fault. This is the moral law forcibly dictated in ancient times.” As we note, the text clearly indicates the foundation of a morality conforming to patriarchal norms that has endured till the present narrative. History, in fact, is narrated in the context of justifying the obligation of the wife to conceive sons to satisfy the aspirations of the husband or rather those of the husband’s family. What is noteworthy and singular is the critical tone used when discussing patriarchal laws: they came into force due to the intolerance and the anger of Vetaketu and they are forcefully implemented, while the earlier dharma of marriage was an ancestral law celebrated by the wise men.

Fiel a su vocación enciclopédica hallamos en el Mahabharata innumerables historias sobre el origen de los usos y costumbres de los pueblos y entre ellos se cuenta el origen de la institución del matrimonio. Se trata de un pasaje sorprendente, ya que nos habla de una edad en la que el matrimonio no existía y las mujeres eran libres. Muchos han interpretado este texto como una alusión a una época anterior a la aparición del patriarcado. Hay muchos otros indicios en el Mahabharata de costumbres poco ortodoxas con el patriarcado tradicional. Por ejemplo, los cinco protagonistas de la historia están casados con una sola mujer, ilustrando la práctica de la poliandria, todavía frecuente en ciertas zonas del Himalaya. Nuestra historia afirma sin ambajes que estos usos eran muy favorables para las mujeres y lo curioso es que el culpable de coartar la libertad sexual femenina no fue un marido celoso, sino un hijo suspicaz y dominante que no toleraba la independencia de su madre. Este personaje se llama Svetaketu y coincide con el conocido filósofo de fama Upanishádica. La narración adopta la forma de un diálogo entre el rey Pandu y su mujer Kunti. Pero dejemos que el texto hable por sí mismo: “¡Oh tú (Kunti) de bello rostro y hermosos ojos!, a continuación te relataré una ley (dharma) antigua, registrada por los sabios venerables, buenos conocedores del dharma. En la antigüedad las mujeres no estaban recluidas (anavrta), sino que eran libres (svatantra) y se movían y disfrutaban a su antojo. ¡Oh querida de hermosas caderas!, ya desde la temprana adolescencia las mujeres no eran fieles a sus maridos, pero no había en ello inmoralidad alguna, ya que esta era la ley vigente en la antigüedad. Incluso hoy los animales siguen esta vieja norma sin sufrir el ataque de los celos o la pasión indebida. Esta ley ancestral es celebrada por los grandes sabios y aún hoy se practica en el país de los Kurus del Norte. En realidad esta práctica, tan favorable para las mujeres, es de una venerable antigüedad (dharmah sanatanah). De hecho, hace poco que en este mundo se implantaron las normas morales. Escucha con todo detalle, ¡oh tú de delicada sonrisa!, por quién y por qué fueron estas normas establecidas. ¡Oh tú, de ojos de loto!, hemos oido que había un gran sabio llamado Uddalaka. Uddalaka tuvo un hijo conocido como Svetaketu y éste fue quien en un arranque de cólera estableció la moral humana. Aprende de mí por qué lo hizo. En cierta ocasión y en presencia del padre de Svetaketu, un bramán cogió a su madre por la mano y le dijo: “Anda, vamos”. Al ver que se llevaban a su madre, como si fuese a la fuerza, el hijo del sabio, lleno de rabia, se enfadó sobremanera. Al verlo tan encolerizado el padre le dijo a Svetaketu: “No te enfurezcas, querido, esta es una costumbre de una antigüedad venerable. Libres son en verdad las mujeres en este mundo, sean de la clase que sean. Pero Svetaketu, el hijo del sabio, no toleró esta usanza e instauró las normas morales para los hombres y las mujeres de esta tierra. ¡Oh venerable señora! Esta moral se estableció entre los humanos, pero no entre las otras especies. Hemos escuchado que desde entonces imperan estas normas. Desde ese momento si una mujer es infiel a su marido cometerá una grave falta, un pecado horrible similar a la destrucción de un feto. Del mismo modo el hombre incurrirá en el mismo pecado si engaña a una mujer fiel que haya permanecido casta desde su mocedad. Por otro lado si la esposa no cumple los deberes conyugales de la procreación, tal y como indique el marido, cometerá también la misma falta. Esta es la ley moral dictada a la fuerza en la antigüedad. Como podemos observar el texto señala claramente el establecimiento de una moralidad conforme al uso patriarcal que se prolonga hasta el presente narrativo. La historia, de hecho, se narra en el contexto de justificar la obligación de la esposa de concebir hijos para satisfacer las aspiraciones del marido o mejor de la famillia del marido. Lo que resulta sin duda alguna singular es el tono crítico con que se considera la instauración de la moral patriarcal: surge por la intolerancia y la cólera de Svetaketu y se implanta a la fuerza, mientras que el dharma anterior al matrimonio era una ley ancestral celebrada por los sabios.

Òscar Pujol

NOTE FOR THE COPY EDITORS: PLEASE CHECK THE SPELLINGS OF ALL THE SANSKRIT WORDS

La familia ideológica

Arte y Revolución

FAMILIES

Art and Revolution

Photo. Tina Modotti

Many times it is not ties of blood that make a family; many times it is ideology, shared dreams, shared goals. This was to happen in the 1920s to three friends and comrades, compañeros, as it is said in Spanish, Tina Modotti, Diego Rivera and Pandurang Khankhoje, coming from three different continents, but united in their lofty ideals to alleviate the ills of mankind. The strange alchemy between the Italian photographer Tina Modotti, a woman before her time, a revolutionary and an artist par excellence and Pandurang Khankhoje, the Indian patriot and dedicated scientist is very difficult to define. Modotti had arrived in Mexico in the company of Edward Weston, the famous American photographer, in 1923 and straight away plunged into the ebullient and vibrant artistic world of Mexico City. The Mexican tradition of muralist paintings and frescoes was revived by the vigorous work of painters like Diego Rivera. Modotti, an artist and photographer in her own right, posed for Diego Rivera in one of his major works the murals of the School of Agriculture of Chapingo. She was painted as ‘Germination’ (1925) and the ‘Oppressed Earth’, depicting Modotti in all her sensual beauty, and looking away, in a sense opposing her, were the political forces of the day. It can be said that not since the Renaissance had any country seen such an explosion of art; the past history of a nation and the faces of the new order, the decadence of society and the struggles of the poor, depicted with all the force and expression wherein only truth can prevail. Diego Rivera, the greatest Mexican painter and muralist, was the catalyst that brought these two interesting personalities together. Rivera had developed a fondness and respect for Khankhoje’s work and, indeed, small but significant agricultural details can be seen in some of his major works. After his return from Russia the artist had developed an interest in the Russian Revolution and this was another common meeting ground with Khankhoje. Rivera supported the Free Schools of Agriculture started by the Indian and was one of its major patrons. It was only natural that Khankhoje, serving as a Professor of Genetics in the same school, would meet and interact with Rivera, as the artist had already painted him in his mural in the Ministry of Education; Khankhoje the central figure of the painting is distributing bread to the poor and lowly, in what may have been an ‘allegory of the biblical last supper, or the multiplication of loaves’ (Eva Uchmany). The artist, the photographer and the scientist were greatly moved by the

A veces, lo que hace una familia no son los lazos de sangre, sino la ideología, los sueños compartidos, los objetivos en común. Esto les sucedería a tres amigos y camaradas en los años veinte. Compañeros, como se suele decir en español: Tina Modotti, Diego Rivera y Pandurang Khankhoje provenían de continentes distintos, pero unieron sus ideales para aliviar los males de la humanidad. Es difícil describir la alquimia peculiar que existió entre la fotógrafa italiana Tina Modotti—una mujer adelantada a sus tiempos—, un revolucionario y artista sin igual y Pandurang Khankoje—patriota indio y dedicado científico. Modotti había llegado a México en 1923 en compañía de Edward Weston, el reconocido fotógrafo norteamericano. De inmediato, se vio inmersa en el vibrante mundo del arte de la Ciudad de México. Las tradiciones del muralismo mexicano y los frescos disfrutaban de un renacimiento gracias al vigoroso trabajo de pintores como Diego Rivera. Ella misma una artista y fotógrafa, Tina Modotti posó para uno de los murales más importantes de Diego Rivera realizado para la Escuela de Agricultura de Chapingo. Modotti, retratada como “La germinación” (1925) y “La tierra oprimida”, aparece con toda su sensual belleza, mientras que las fuerzas políticas de la época que de cierto modo se oponían a ella, voltean en dirección contraria. Se puede decir que, desde el Renacimiento, ningún país había visto una explosión artísitca de esa magnitud; el pasado histórico de una nación y los rostros del nuevo orden, la decadencia de la sociedad y la lucha de los pobres, retratados con toda la fuerza y expresión en la que sólo la verdad puede prevalecer. Diego Rivera, el más destacado pintor y muralista de México, fue el catalizador que juntó a estas dos personalidades. Rivera le tenía afecto a Khankoje y respetaba su trabajo. Aunque pequeños, algunos detalles importantes relacionados con la agricultura se pueden apreciar en varias de sus obras más importantes. Después de su regreso de la Unión Soviética, el artista había desarrollado un interés por la Revolución Rusa, lo cual representaba otro punto de encuentro con Khankhoje. Rivera apoyaba a las Escuelas Libres de Agricultura fundadas por el indio y era, de hecho, uno de sus patronos. Era natural que Khankhoje, como profesor de genética en la misma institución, conociera e interactuara con Rivera. El artista ya había incluido un retrato de Khankhoje en el mural de la Secretaría de Educación Pública, en el que aparece como una figura central que reparte pan entre los más pobres. El mural pudo haberse titulado “Alegoría de la última cena, o la multiplicación del pan” (Eva Uchmany). Profundamente conmovidos por la pobreza e inequidad que existían en el México de la época, el artista, la fotógrafa y el científico se comprometieron con la búsqueda de una solución. Rivera, a través de su arte y Modotti a través

Savitri Sawhney

An Ideological Family

FAMILIES

de su activismo y fotografía, mientras que Khankhoje—acaso el más práctico de ellos—dedicó su investigación a mejorar los productos agrícolas y fundó Escuelas Libres de Agricultura para los campesinos mexicanos (1928). Pandurang Khankhoje había jurado desarrollar la agricultura para darle de comer a los más pobres del mundo. Nacionalista dedicado, revolucionario y miembro fundador del movimiento Ghadar, Khankhoje había tratado de lograr la independencia de India durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, llevando un ejército revolucionario a India a través de Beluchistán. El intento fracasó cuando las fuerzas se enfrentaron con el ejército británico en Irán y Beluchistán. Sin embargo, el fervor revolucionario de Khankhoje no murió y se dedicó al desarrollo de la ciencia de los alimentos, con la esperanza de llevar la abundancia a los campesinos abandonados del mundo. México, como gran seguidor de la tradición democrática, le otorgó asilo y trabajo. En Chapingo, Khankhoje estudió el desarrollo de variedades de trigo resistentes a las plagas, así como el origen y la evolución del maíz, alimento base de México. Casi enseguida, la prensa local lo bautizó como “el mago de Chapingo” o “el sabio hindú”: el hombre que creaba maravillas de la naturaleza. La fotografía sería el medio que llevaría a Khankhoje y Modotti a formar una amistad firme, basada en el arte y la sensibilidad hacia los pobres y desposeídos. Inspirada por la dedicación incansable y el trabajo desinteresado del indio, Modotti llevó a cabo una documentación fotográfica de algunos de sus experimentos; las maravillosas fotografías de Modotti dieron color a la frialdad de los textos científicos. Una mazorca de elote de granada, o una mazorca a la que le falta un grano; poesía y luz en una mazorca que encerraba los sueños de Khankhoje, sueños de abundancia simbolizados en la mazorca repleta de granos, abundancia para un país que había sufrido los estragos de la hambruna y de la explotación colonial (1928). La representación artística de las variedades de trigo enano de alta producción que desarrolló Khankhoje atrapó la imaginación de Modotti en una escueta fotografía en blanco y negro: pan para el mundo entero, un ideal compartido por todos. Los ideales del comunismo y de una sociedad socialista eran, en aquella época que le siguió a la Revolución de Octubre, el dogma de muchos intelectuales. Modotti, Rivera y Khankhoje—idealistas hasta el tuétano— suscribían a esta filosofía seductora y es probable que se haya dado más de una discusión mientras que Rivera pintaba y Khankhoje mezclaba los colores. Modotti y Khankhoje compartían la pasión por la fotografía. Khankhoje había tomado fotos en Irán; áridas extensiones de arena y ruinas, tribus interesantes, los vestigios de Persepolis, el tejido de tapetes, las sesiones de entrenamiento del Ejército Democrático y Revolucionario de Persia (1914-15). Todo esto se dio inmediatamente después de la debacle acerca de la acción revolucionaria durante la Primera Guerra Mundial. Hoy día, existe una explosión de libros y biografías sobre Tina Modotti, aunque curiosamente no existe mucho acerca del dedicado científico y revolucionario pese a que mantuvo un registro de su trabajo científico y de su exploración intrépida de Irán durante la Gran Guerra. Después de la revolución, México vivía una época de grandes cambios y por un breve instante de incandescencia en Chapingo, México, el renacimiento del arte y la ebullición del desarrollo científico juntaron a una italiana expatriada, un gran pintor mexicano y a un revolucionario indio. Pandurang Khankhoje se había encariñado con el país y con su gente y trabajó para ellos a lo largo de treinta años, identificándose con el campesino mexicano. De hecho, se sentía tan mexicano como indio. Era un hombre del pueblo y jamás lo olvidó. Las imágenes de Diego Rivera en las que quedó inmortalizado permanecerán para siempre. Asimismo, las fotografías de Modotti que documentan la contribución de Khankhoje a la agricultura, se convertirán en parte del folclor mexicano. Fue una época de oro, breve y evanescente, como lo suelen ser los tiempos mágicos.

ons and lovers

poverty and the great inequality that existed in Mexican society, between the haves and the have-nots, and were deeply committed to alleviating this problem. Rivera through his magnificent art and Modotti through her activism and photography, whereas Khankhoje, more practically perhaps, dedicated his research to the improvement of crops and by opening Free Schools of Agriculture for the farmers in Mexico. (1928) Pandurang Khankhoje had vowed to develop agriculture and help feed the poorest in the world. A dedicated nationalist, revolutionary and a founder member of the Ghadar Movement, he had attempted to bring independence to India during the First World War, by bringing a revolutionary army via Indian Baluchistan. The attempt, though, failed, after facing the might of the British Army in Iran and Baluchistan, but the revolutionary fervour did not die and he channelled his energies into developing the science of food, hoping to bring plenty to the neglected farmers of the world. Mexico, a great supporter of the democratic tradition, gave him asylum and work. In Chapingo he launched into serious studies on the cultivation of disease resistant varieties of wheat, and the origin and evolution of maize, the staple food of Mexico. In no time at all he was dubbed in the local press as the Wizard of Chapingo and the Hindu savant, the man who created wonders with nature. Photography was to be the medium that brought Khankhoje and Modotti together in a firm friendship based on art and sensitivity towards the poor and dispossessed. Inspired by the tireless dedication and selfless work of the Indian, Modotti photographed some of his experiments; Tina Modotti illustrated the dry scientific texts with wonderful photographs. An ear of pomegranate corn, or maize without a kernel, poetry and light in an ear of corn that carried the dreams of Khankhoje, dreams of plenty as the corn was replete with grains; plenty for a country that had suffered the ravages of famine and exploitative colonialism (1928). The artistic depiction of high yielding dwarf varieties of wheat developed by Khankhoje caught the imagination of Modotti in a stark photograph in black and white, bread for the world, an ideal shared by all. The ideals of Communism and a socialist society were in those days, after the great October Revolution, the dogma of many intellectuals. Modotti, Rivera and Khankhoje, idealists to the core, subscribed to this seductive philosophy and many a heated discussion would surely have taken place while Diego Rivera painted and Khankhoje helped to mix the paints. Modotti and Khankhoje shared a passion for photography. He had developed an interest in the early days of photography, and when in Iran took many a photograph; arid expanses of sand and ruins, interesting tribesmen, the ruins of Persepolis, carpet weaving, as well as photographs of the Revolutionary Persian Democratic Army during training, (1914-15). All this took shape right after the debacle of the revolutionary action during the First World War. Today there is an explosion of books and biographical writing about Tina Modotti, but strangely not much is found about the serious and dedicated scientist revolutionary who, whenever he could, recorded his scientific works and his adventurous exploration of Iran in the turbulent times of the Great War. Mexico, after the revolution, was undergoing change and the resurgence of art and the ferment of scientific development brought together an Italian expatriate, a great Mexican painter and an exiled Indian revolutionary for a brief, incandescent moment in Chapingo, Mexico. Pandurang Khankhoje had taken Mexico and its people to his heart and for more than thirty years worked for them and identified with the Mexican farmer. Indeed he saw himself as a Mexican Indian, a man of the people and never forgot them. The immortal images created by the painter Diego Rivera will undoubtedly live forever. Equally, the photographic depiction, in black and white and in sepia, of Modotti, of Khankhoje’s contribution to the world of agriculture, too, will be a part of the Mexican folklore. It was a golden era, brief and evanescent as magical times usually are.

In 1935, when he was about 14, Satyajit Ray created his first masterful image. This was a black and white photograph of himself and his mother. His father - then dead for more than a decade is present as an image within an image. Ray’s photograph of a photograph is also a photograph about photography. Its subject is a living art’s luminous and publicly private relationship with death. This relationship brings together, but also keeps apart, mother and son, father and son, mother and father. Satyajit, his father, Sukumar, and mother, Suprabha, are arranged in a single composition. Yet, each gazes in a different direction, presenting (or being made to present) himself or herself to the viewer, and to the source of light, at three different angles. The widow’s sari, the funereal tuberoses and the table-cover catch the natural light to produce a whiteness that contrasts sharply with the surrounding darkness, out of which glimmers the father’s portrait. Satyajit’s shirt-collar seems to be turned up, in a sobered-down version of the style of his more flamboyant schoolmates, described in his childhood memoir, Jokhon Chhoto Chhilam [When I Was Small]. Suprabha, with one hand resting on her son’s shoulder, is chiaroscuro embodied. The expression on her face recalls the “concentrated serenity” that Marie Seton remembers noticing on the several beautifully modelled “Budhhistic-looking” heads sculpted by Suprabha and kept in the Ray home. (This was Seton’s first visit there and, soon after her arrival, Suprabha had taken her to see Sukumar’s photograph hanging in the bedroom). In the photograph made by Satyajit, the light half-falling on his mother’s face picks out her cleft chin and full lips. These would later become distinguishing marks in iconic images of her son. Satyajit often wrote about mixing what he remembered of his father with what he took on from his mother’s memories of her dead husband. Nothing thrills an artist more than the adventure of finding En 1935, a la edad de 14 años, Satyajit Ray creó su primera imagen maestra. Se trata de una fotografía en blanco y negro de Satyajit con su madre. Su padre— quien había muerto diez años atrás—está presente como una imagen dentro de la imagen. La fotografía de Ray de una foto dentro de una foto también es una fotografía acerca de la fotografía. Su tema es la luminosa relación públicamente privada del arte vivo con la muerte. Esta relación une, aunque también separa, a madre e hijo, padre e hijo, padre y madre. En una sola composición aparecen Satyajit, su padre Sukumar y su madre Suprabha. Sin embargo, cada uno voltea hacia una dirección distinta, de modo que se presentan (o son presentados) ante el espectador—y ante la fuente de luz—en tres ángulos distintos. El sari de la viuda, las tuberosas fúnebres y el mantel captan la luz natural para producir una blancura que contrasta fuertemente con la oscuridad que los rodea y de la que emerge como un resplandor el retrato del padre. El cuello de la camisa de Satyajit parece estar parado, acaso una versión más sobria de la extravagancia descrita en sus memorias de la infancia, Jokhon Chhoto Chhilam [Cuando era pequeño]. Suprabha, con una mano descansando en el hombro de su hijo, es la encarnación misma del claroscuro. La expresión de su rostro remite a la “serenidad concentrada” que Marie Seton recuerda haber notado en las bellas cabezas “tipo budista” esculpidas por Suprabha que se encontraban en la casa de Ray. (Esta fue la primera visita de Seton a dicha casa; poco después de su llegada, Suprabha le mostró la fotografía de Sukumar que colgaba de la pared de la recámara.) En la fotografía tomada por Satyajit, la luz que cubre la mitad del rostro de su madre subraya su barba partida y labios carnosos. Más adelante, estos mismos rasgos serían característicos en las imágenes iconográficas de su hijo. Satyajit escribió mucho acerca de la mezcla de sus propios recuerdos de su padre, con los que conservaba su madre de su difunto esposo.

Aveek Sen

Savitri Sawhney

ijos y amantes

solutions to the technical problems of his art. Ray’s caption for this photograph in his memoirs describes how he devised a way of taking the picture by pulling on a piece of thread tied to the shutter of the camera. So, lurking behind the deathly immobility of this photograph, is a kind of quiet glee. With that clever flick of his wrist, Ray lives out his kinship with a paternal line of creativity that habitually delighted in the novelty of eccentric contraptions. He grew up with pictures of, and poems about, fantastical, Heath-Robinson-like pulleys and cranes, with elders in the family absorbed in block-making and printing presses. Ray’s account of his childhood absorption in optical devices – camera, magic lantern, stereoscope and bioscope – is interlaced with the story of his fascination with conjuring tricks. Lightness of touch would later become an essential quality in his best films. Ray’s image, together with his means of capturing it, glances at, and subtly transforms, the sentimental role of photography in his paternal and maternal families’ ways of death. He recalls his grand-uncle, Kuladaranjan Ray, being skilled in making large photographs of dead people after extracting their faces from groupphotos. To be enlarged and ‘finished’ by Kuladaranjan was part of the distinguished after-life of the Brahmo dead. Satyajit remembers observing how such a portrait was taken out of its brown paper wrapping and stood on a table, and how the bereaved looked at it, wiping their tears. This is linked in his memory with what he later considered to be a misplaced and mistaken adult pity showered

Nada excita a un artista más que la aventura de resolver los problemas técnicos de su arte. En las memorias de Ray, el pie de foto describe cómo ideó la manera de tomarla, jalando un hilo que había atado al obturador de la cámara. De modo que, debajo de la inmovilidad mortífera de la imagen, se oculta una suerte de júbilo silencioso. Con un ágil meneo de la muñeca, Ray experimenta su hermandad con el linaje paterno de creatividad y su deleite con la novedad de los artilugios excéntricos. Se crió rodeado de fotografías y poemas acerca de fantásticas poleas y grúas al estilo Heath Robinson, así como de adultos absortos en la fabricación de poleas e imprentas. El recuento que hace Ray de su atracción infantil hacia los dispositivos ópticos—cámaras, linternas mágicas, estereoscopios y bióscopos—se entreteje con la historia de su fascinación con la invención de trucos. La ligereza de su toque se convertiría en una cualidad esencial de sus mejores películas. La imagen de Ray, así como su manera de capturarla, vislumbra y transforma de modo sutil la relación emocional entre la fotografía y la muerte que reconoce en los miembros de su familia materna y paterna. Recuerda cómo su tío abuelo, Kuladaranjan Ray, hacía fotografías de gran formato de los rostros de gente muerta, extraídos de las fotografías de grupo. Para los muertos de la religión Brahmo, una vida distinguida después de la muerte incluía ser ampliado y ‘retocado’ por Kuladaranjan. Satyajit recuerda haber visto cómo uno de estos retratos fue extraído de su envoltura de papel y colocado sobre una mesa, y la manera en que los familiares del difunto miraban el retrato y se secaban las lágrimas. Este recuerdo se vincula con otro que luego describiría como lástima equivocada y mal dirigida con la que lo colmaron los adultos a causa de la muerte de su padre cuando Satyajit tenía apenas dos años: “Las palabras ‘pobre creatura’ son utilizadas por los adultos para referirse a los niños; los niños no se imaginan a sí mismos como objetos de lástima”. El arte de Ray despoja a la muerte de su cualidad lúgubre. Sin embargo, permanece fiel a la capacidad transformadora de la pérdida, y a los efectos menos nobles de la muerte sobre la vida y la personalidad de los vivos. Esta fotografía es, acaso, su primer intento de hacer de sus

on his two-year-old self after his father’s death: “The words, poor creature, are used for children only by grown-ups; children do not think of themselves as objects of pity.” Ray’s art divests death of the lugubrious. Yet, it remains true to the transforming nature of loss, and to the less noble effects of death on the lives and personalities of the living. This photograph is perhaps his earliest attempt to compose the central relationships of his life into an aesthetically ordered image for the public gaze. Ray’s photograph is thus the ur-image for some of his greatest films: the widowed mother, rock-like yet ghostly, standing behind as well as inside her son, who has to face the complicating light of the world. The most memorable widowed mothers are in Aparajito [The Unvanquished] (1956), Samapti [The Ending], (Teen Kanya [Three Daughters] (1961), and Aranyer Din Ratri [Days and Nights in the Forest](1969). It would be silly to subject these films to crudely Freudian readings. But the full measure of how much these films dare, rather than repress, has not been confronted yet. Ray himself wrote that Bengali audiences were not ready, in the mid-Fifties, for his “psychological” depiction of Apu’s “excessive harshness” towards his mother in Aparajito. But in an incomplete essay written in a shooting notebook for the film, Ray was emphatic about the “daring and profound” aspect of the mother-son relationship in Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s original novel, where Apu feels a “surge of release” after his mother’s death. But Ray made him weep bitterly too. Ray’s notebook essay was abandoned in 1956, his mother died in 1960, and he returned to this scenario the very next year, but this time as romantic comedy – in Samapti, adapted from a short story by Rabindranath Tagore. The celebration of sexual love in romantic comedy also makes it one of the cruellest of the literary genres. The object of comic heartlessness in Ray’s, rather than Tagore’s, Samapti becomes the widowed mother, Jogmaya, of the film’s young hero, Amulya. She exists in Tagore as a device for bringing about, without any overt maternal heartache, the consummation of her son’s marriage. But Ray devises two samaptis, or endings, instead of one. First, the deferred consummation of Amulya’s marriage to Mrinmoyee, figured in Tagore by her full-blooded kiss at the end. Mrinmoyee’s girlhood ends with that kiss, which Ray could not, of course, show in the early Sixties. The other ending, the one with which his film finishes, is the termination of the mother’s exclusive, though always anxious, relationship with her son after his marriage. Tagore’s story ends with the young wife’s kiss. But Ray ends with the mother climbing up the stairs to her son’s room with a plateful of food for him. Amulya and Mrinmoyee are finally together in the room. We hear a door bang shut as we see the mother climbing up the stairs, and the last shot is of the closed bedroom door, preceded by a glimpse of the mother’s face as she realizes that she has been shut out, unceremoniously, from her son’s conjugal life. The mothers of both Amulya and Mrinmoyee bring potentially oppressive miseries into the lives of their children. And there are moments of empathy in the film in which the two mothers are allowed to step out of the comedy that frames them to voice their own fears and desires without being caricatured. Ray makes Jogmaya pretend illness to force her son to visit her. She eventually gives up this pretence because she is terrified of how her son would react when he discovers her pretence. The mother and the wife both yearn for Amulya while he stays away from home, and they both write him letters. Ray weaves together the two women’s anxiety and longing with a beautiful motif on the flute. But the harshest moment comes when Jogmaya’s friend asks her whether, in spite of his remoteness, her son continued to ‘pull’ her: “Boli, shey tomake tane to?” Jogmaya does not quite answer this question: her jewel of a son… ever since her husband passed away… he hasn’t done anything for which he should to be blamed… It is impossible to get to the bottom of how art draws from the fount of intimate histories. All we have here is a lucid, ludic camera and a silent meeting of objects, bodies, darkness and light.

relaciones principales una composición estéticamente ordenada a modo de imagen para ser vista públicamente. La fotografía de Ray es, pues, la imagen primigenia de algunas de sus películas más importantes: la madre viuda—rígida pero fantasmal—que se ve obligada a dar la cara a la complicada luz del mundo, parada detrás de su hijo al tiempo que dentro de él. Las viudas más memorables aparecen en Aparajito [El invencible] (1956), Samapti [El final] (en Teen Kanya [Tres hijas], 1961) y Aranyer Din Ratri [Días y noches en el bosque] (1969). Sería una tontería someter estas películas a una lectura rigurosamente freudiana. Sin embargo, el hecho de que representan un desafío más que una represión, aún está por reconocerse. Ray mismo escribió que el público bengalí aún no estaba listo—a mediados de los años cincuenta—para enfrentar su retrato “sicológico” reflejado en la “excesiva crueldad” de Apu hacia su madre en Aparajito. Sin embargo, un ensayo incompleto que escribió en un cuaderno de apuntes para la película demuestra lo enfático que fue Ray respecto a la relación “desafiante y profunda” entre madre e hijo en la novela de Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay, en la que Apu experimenta una “descarga de liberación” con la muerte de su madre. Aunque Ray también haya hecho que el personaje llorara con amargura. El cuaderno de Ray fue descontinuado en 1956 y su madre murió en 1960. Al año siguiente volvió al mismo escenario, aunque entonces en forma de comedia romántica con Samapti, adaptada de un cuento de Rabindranath Tagore. La celebración del amor sexual de la comedia romántica también hace que sea uno de los géneros literarios más crueles. El objeto de la crueldad humorística del Samapti de Ray (que no de Tagore) es Jogmaya, la viuda y madre de Amulya, el joven héroe de la película. En Tagore, Jogmaya aparece como un dispositivo que hace posible la consumación del matrimonio de su hijo, lo cual sucede sin dolor materno explícito. Pero Ray idea dos samaptis—o finales—en vez de uno. Primero, la consumación diferida del matrimonio de Amulya y Mrinmoyee, representado en Tagore por un beso al final de la historia. La infancia de Mrinmoyee llega a su fin con ese beso, mismo que Ray, por motivos de censura, no podía mostrar en una película de los años sesenta. El otro final—el final con el que acaba su película—es el ocaso, a raíz del matrimonio, de la relación exclusiva y siempre ansiosa de la madre con su hijo. El cuento de Tagore concluye con el beso de la joven esposa. Pero la historia de Ray termina con la madre subiendo las escaleras hacia la recámara de su hijo, con un plato de comida en manos. Amulya y Mrinmoyee se encuentran al fin a solas en su recámara. Se escucha el sonido de una puerta que se azota y vemos a la madre subiendo las escaleras. La última toma es de la puerta cerrada de la recámara, precedida por un atisbo del rostro de la madre cuando repara ante el hecho de que ha sido bruscamente excluida de la vida conyugal de su hijo. Las madres de Amulya y Mrinmoyee tienen la capacidad de provocar amargura opresiva en las vidas de sus hijos. Y hay momentos de empatía en la película, en los que se les permite a ambas madres salir de la comedia que las encuadra para dar voz a sus temores y deseos, sin que aparezcan como caricaturas. Ray hace que Jogmaya finja estar enferma para obligar a su hijo a que la visite. Eventualmente, desiste del esfuerzo debido al temor a la reacción que podría suscitar en su hijo si llegara a descubrir su farsa. Tanto la madre como la esposa extrañan a Amulya cuando pasa temporadas lejos de casa y ambas le escriben cartas. Ray teje la ansiedad y añoranza de las mujeres con una bella tonada en flauta. Pero el momento más cruel llega cuando la amiga de Jogmaya le pregunta si, pese a la distancia, su hijo sigue ‘tirando de ella’: “Boli, shey tomake tane to?” Jogmaya responde a la pregunta con ambigüedad: la joya de hijo que tiene… desde que murió su esposo… jamás ha hecho algo que se le pueda echar en cara… Resulta imposible saber hasta qué punto el arte bebe de la fuente de la intimidad. A ciencia cierta sólo tenemos una cámara lúcida, lúdica, y una silenciosa coincidencia de objetos, cuerpos, oscuridad y luz.

Aveek Sen

FAMILIES

[…] [¡Pra a Habana!, Rosalía de Castro]1 This one leaves and that one too, And soon everyone will be gone. Galicia, where are your men now? Who is left to till the earth? […] And the hearts that suffer Long deathly absences, Widows of men, living and dead Who can never be consoled.

ogbook: The last journey

Cada viaje acaba siendo una aventura, una ventana hacia lo desconocido. Sabemos siempre de dónde partimos, pero nunca a dónde llegaremos. Esta incertidumbre, inquietud deleitosa, nos invade ante cualquier travesía; y la muerte, a la manera de última traslatio, como la que más.

Since ancient times, death has been understood not as the cessation but the continuum of life in another form. The idea of the journey and the sense of adventure, that was usually linked to water, was present in many different civilizations.

Desde las civilizaciones más antiguas, se ha entendido la muerte no como cesación sino como continuum de la vida bajo una nueva forma. La idea del traslado y, por lo tanto, de la aventura del viaje, que generalmente estaba relacionada con el agua, estuvo presente en muy distintas civilizaciones.

The origins of Galician mass immigration to the “Américas” can be traced from the beginning of the XVIIIth Century, when the names of immigrants who had died in America began to be mentioned in judicial and notary deeds and, of course, in parish registers, especially for funeral honours.4 Poverty, demographic excess and the system of inheritance favoured this exodus to a better future. More than one million people left Galicia during 1911 and 1957.5 In Galician rural society, as in all traditional societies, family history, like all collective memories, is conserved by the oldest members and is orally transmitted to the next generation. This oral tradition was substituted by letters and postcards sent by immigrants, photographs taken in studios or by aficionados and also, recently through home videos. This entire effort reveals a sentiment of belonging to a particular society.6 For this reason dying abroad far from home, was considered by the family to be a real disgrace. 7 The parish as a social unit through the creation of parish societies gave birth to practices and community customs that had

uaderno de Bitácora: la última travesía

De igual manera que se cree que las almas viajan de unos lugares a otros, deseando alcanzar un espacio mejor, sin sufrimiento y de complacencia absoluta, las imágenes tomadas de los difuntos también se convierten en pequeñas embarcaciones que emprenden su propia aventura. El papel, como soporte del conjunto fotográfico, alberga esa imagen final para transportarla de unas manos a otras. Pero no sólo se trata de un viaje físico, sino también introspectivo, lleno de incertidumbre y emotividad. *** Desde un punto de vista demográfico, resulta evidente, tal y como afirma Beiras, que la emigración gallega vino a sustituir, en el ciclo moderno, una función desempeñada antiguamente por la mortandad catastrófica.2 Se convirtió, pues, en un canal de comunicación, transmitiendo nuevas costumbres en los lugares de destino.3 Los orígenes de una emigración popular de gallegos a “las Américas” comenzaron a rastrearse desde los comienzos del siglo XVIII, a través de las menciones de emigrantes fallecidos en América, de la documentación judicial y de la notarial y, cómo no, de los registros parroquiales y, en concreto, las honras fúnebres.4 La pobreza, el excedente demográfico y el sistema de herencia favorecieron estas huidas en busca de mejor fortuna. Entre 1911 y 1957, abandonaron Galicia más de un millón de personas.5 En las sociedades tradicionales, como es el caso de la sociedad gallega rural, la memoria familiar, como toda memoria colectiva, es conservada, por los individuos más mayores, y transmitida oralmente. Esta tradición oral fue sustituida por las cartas y tarjetas postales enviadas desde la emigración, las fotografías de estudio o de aficionado y, más recientemente por los videos domésticos. Todo este esfuerzo desvela un sentimiento de pertenencia a una CASTRO, R. (de): Obras Completas, tomo I. Ed. Xuntanza. A Coruña, 1989. Pp. 455- 457. BEIRAS, X. M.: A Galicia rural na encrucillada. Ed. Galaxia. Vigo, 1975. Pp. 39 y 50. Íbidem, p. 46. EIRAS ROEL, A.: “La emigración gallega a América. Panorama general”, en La emigración española a Ultramar. 1492-1914. Ed. Tabapress. Madrid, 1991. Col. El descubrimiento de nuevas Fuentes para el conocimiento de la emigración americana. Pp. 17-39. También referirse a: BORREGÓN RIBES, V.: La emigración española a América. Ed. Faro de Vigo. Vigo, 1952. Pp. 154-157; BRANDES, S. H.: Migration, kinship, and community: Tradition and transition in a spanish village. Ed. Academic Press. New York, 1975; GRADAÍLLE MARTÍNEZ, B.: Un mar no meio A(s) identidade(s) construida(s) no discurso de emigrantes galegos no Río de Janeiro. Ed. H. P. Comunicaçao Editora. Río de Janeiro, 2004. P. 43; MOURE-MARIÑO, L.: La Galicia prodigiosa. Las ánimas, las brujas, el demonio. Ed. Gaesa, Xunta de Galicia. Santiago, 1992, pp. 149-198; VÁZQUEZ, A.: “La emigración gallega. Migrantes, transporte y remesas”, en Españoles hacia América. La emigración en masa. 1880-1930. N. Sánchez-Albornoz (ed.). Ed. Alianza Editorial. Madrid, 1988. (Col. Alianza América. Monografías). Pp. 84-85. 5 GONZÁLEZ REBOREDO, X. M.: “A construcción de referentes de identidade etno-nacional. Algunhas mostras sobre Galicia”, en Etnicidade e nacionalismo. Simposio Internacional de Antropología. Ed. Consello da Cultura Galega. Santiago de Compostela, 2001. Pp. 226-227; MOYA, J. C.: Primos y extranjeros. La inmigración española en Buenos Aires, 1850-1930. Ed. Emecé Editores. Buenos Aires, 2004. Col. Emecé Argentina / Historia. P. 339. 1 2 3 4

Virginia de la Cruz Lichet

Photo. Photograph of the burial of Francisca Pérez Debén, 13th February 1913. Burial in Cas Loís, parish of Vilaframil, Municipality of Ribadeo. Galicia. The husband of the deceased is seated and his daughters, son-in-law and three grandchildren together with other neighbours and family members also gaze at the camera. Photograph taken by Benito Prieto.

[…] Éste vaise i aquél vaise, E todos, todos se van. Galicia, sin homes quedas. Que te poidan traballar. […] E tes corazóns que sufren Longas ausencias mortás, Viudas de vivos e mortos Que ninguén consolará. [¡Pra a Habana!, Rosalía de Castro]1

Every journey is an adventure, an adventure into the unknown. We always know our point of departure but never the point of arrival. This uncertainty, a delightful disquiet, pervades our being before any journey; and especially before death, the ultimate traslatio.

Just as it is thought that souls travel from place to place, anxiously seeking a better space, devoid of suffering, of absolute happiness, the images of the dead also become small boats that begin their own adventures. Paper like a medium of the photographic whole, preserves this final image passing from hand to hand. It is not just a physical journey but also one of introspection and full of uncertainty and emotion. *** From a demographic point of view, according to Beiras, Galician immigration was a kind of modern-age substitute for the catastrophic mortality rates of earlier times.2 It thus became a channel of communication introducing new customs in new locales. 3

FAMILIES

an influence on immigration.8 In this manner, the uprootedness and loss of identity were not felt so abruptly. These micro-societies developed in a manner parallel to local society and the Galician community.9 Nevertheless, inspite of this distance, the relatives in each place had a kind of invisible and indivisible union, which was almost supernatural and in which photography played a key role. The portrait of a living immigrant relative as well as his postmortem photograph had similar functions, as both were in some way substitutes for the absent person. The immigrants were considered dead by their family members in Galicia and they acquired a similar status as they embarked on a kind of posthumous journey to start a new life and live a metaphoric death within the family nucleus. They were not around anymore; there remained just the trace of an image, the memory of an icon. This definitive leaving was understood as a death within the family fold, a painful loss, and hence the talk of “orphans or the widows of those who were still alive”.10 After the disappearance and the loss only the image remained. The photograph of the deceased alone allowed for the reiteration of the same vision, like that of an apparition. Since the body was absent, the post-mortem photo portrait thus became an image among other images, a desired and objectified apparition. This memento mori was fetishized by the one who waited to undertake his own journey. In a similar manner, the image worked as a metaphysical bridge allowing for this contact between both. And the post-mortem photograph that was sent acquired a certain magical quality for those who received it. The photograph thus became a kind of notary deed for the dead, documenting the event that had occurred. But it also had other supplementary functions. It documented the funeral rite so that the immigrant who had also participated in funeral costs could prove “how beautifully things had been done,” and also conserve a photograph of the deceased. The cost of the photograph also meant using the occasion for gathering together all members of the family for this unique event. We see again here the analogy between the deceased and the immigrant. The photograph becomes a means of uniting a fragmented group. The inclusion of absent relatives in the image reinforces in some way the integration of the emigré and, at the same time, that of the family unit, as it bears testimony to the existence of the emigré as well as the key moments in the social life of the family (baptisms, weddings and funerals). Galician post-mortem photography of the late XIXth Century and the XXth Century, like all post-mortem photography is indisputably tied to memory. These portraits end up becoming small memory–advertisements for the one who is not there and to help mourn the loss. There are many photographers around Galicia who fulfilled a society’s need to anxiously fill with images the emptiness and sense of abandonment that was felt in the absence of the many waves of immigrants who represented the other dead. In a similar vein, Bourdieu suggests that one of the common functions of the image is that of becoming a link between the emigrés and the original group through the exchange of portraits that take into account the transformations that fragmented families go through.11 Thus, the funeral photograph becomes not only a testimony but also a nexus, making the immigrant family member a participant in his own funeral rites and also fulfilling his necessary

sociedad concreta.6 Por ello morir en el extranjero, lejos de la casa, era considerado por la familia como una verdadera desgracia.7 La parroquia como unidad social originó una serie de prácticas y costumbres comunitarias que se proyectaron a la emigración con la creación de sociedades parroquiales.8 De esta forma, el desarraigo y la pérdida de identidad no resultaban tan abruptos. Estas micro-sociedades tuvieron un desarrollo paralelo respecto a la sociedad local y a la comunidad gallega.9 No obstante, a pesar de esta lejanía, los parientes de uno y otro sitio mantenían una suerte de unión invisible e indivisible, casi sobrenatural, en la que la fotografía jugó un papel fundamental. En cierto modo, tanto el retrato de un familiar emigrado (vivo) como el post-mortem adquirían unas funciones similares, ya que ambos pretendían ser sustituto, de alguna forma, de ese cuerpo ausente. Los emigrados eran considerados por los familiares que se quedaban en Galicia a la manera de difuntos, adquiriendo un estatus parecido puesto que emprendían una suerte de viaje póstumo, para comenzar una nueva vida y, por lo tanto, vivir una muerte metafórica dentro del núcleo familiar. Ya no están; tan sólo queda una imagen-huella, un icono-recuerdo. Esta marcha definitiva era entendida, pues, como una muerte en el seno de la familia, una pérdida dolorosa, y de ahí que se hablara de “huérfanos o de viudas de vivos”.10 Tras la desaparición, tras la pérdida, tan sólo queda la imagen. La fotografía del difunto permitía reiterar una y otra vez la misma visión, a la manera de una aparición. El retrato fotográfico postmortem se convertía entonces en la presencia de un cuerpo ya ausente, en una imagen de imágenes, en una aparición deseada y objetualizada. Este memento mori era fetichizado por aquel que se quedaba a la espera de emprender su propio viaje. De igual manera, la imagen permitía ese contacto entre ambos a la manera de puente metafísico. De ahí que la fotografía post-mortem que se enviaba, adquiriera una cierta cualidad mágica para aquellos que la recibían. De esta forma, la fotografía se convierte en un documento (de tipo notarial) de la defunción, dando fe del hecho acaecido. Sin embargo, existían otras funciones añadidas como la de documentar el rito funerario para que el emigrado que también había participado en los costes del funeral, pudiera comprobar “lo bonito que había quedado todo”, además de conservar un retrato del propio difunto. De igual manera, el coste de la fotografía justificaba que se aprovechara la ocasión para representar al conjunto de los miembros de la familia reunidos en esta ocasión única. De nuevo encontramos esta analogía entre difunto y emigrado. La fotografía se convierte en un instrumento de unión del grupo disgregado. Esta inclusión de los parientes ausentes en la imagen, refuerza de alguna forma la integración del emigrado y, a su vez, la unidad familiar, al expresar tanto su existencia como su apego a aquellos momentos claves de la vida social de ésta (bautizos, bodas y funerales). La fotografía post-mortem gallega de finales del siglo XIX y del siglo XX, como toda fotografía post-mortem, mantiene ese carácter de recuerdo indiscutible. Estos retratos acaban convirtiéndose en 6 MONTAÑA LÓPEZ, M.: A familia galega (1900-1960). Unha historia da vida cotiana. Ed. Asociación Cultural Galega de Formación Permanente de Adultos. Santiago, 1996. P. 9. 7 MANDIANES CASTRO, M.: Loureses. Antropoloxía dunha parroquia galega. Ed. Editorial Galaxia. Vigo, 1984. Col. Ensaio e Investigación, 2. P. 146. 8 FARIÑA XAMARDO, X.: “A parroquia rural galega”, en Grial. Revista Galega de Cultura, nº 48, abril, mayo, junio 1975. Ed. Galaxia. Vigo. Pp. 153-167. 9 RODINO, H. J.: Inmigrantes españoles en Argentina: adaptación e identidad. Documentos (1915-1931). Ed. CIBINA (Biblioteca Nacional). Buenos Aires, 1999. (Col. Fin de Milenio, Página/12). P. 16. 10 LISÓN TOLOSANA, C.: 7LYÄSLZ ZPTI}SPJV TVYHSLZ KL SH J\S[\YH NHSSLNH Ed. Akal. Madrid, 2004. Pp. 71-90; también en FERNÁNDEZ DE ROTA, J. A.: Gallegos ante un espejo. Imaginación Antropológica en la Historia. Ed. Edición do Castro. Sada, A Coruña. 1987. Col. Ensaio. P.p. 28-29; LLANO CABADO, P.: Arquitectura popular en Galicia. A Ed. COAG. Santiago de Compostela. 1981. P. 63; “Manuel Ferrol”. Catálogo de Exposición. Ed. Ayuntamiento de A Coruña. A Coruña, 2000; MOYA, J. C.: Primos y extranjeros. Opus cit., p. 104; REY CASTRODIZ, F. L.: Galicia no recordo. Ed. Diputación Provincial de Pontevedra. Pontevedra, 2001. P. 25.

involvement with the community. Spanish and Latin American post-mortem photographs are closely related. This eschatological bridge that joins the two continents, became an image pathway, on which posthumous photographs, like souls anxious to reach the celestial vision, journeyed incessantly from one side to the other of the ocean, becoming a necessary link in the union and emotional comingtogether through space. *** Nevertheless, burdened with the testimony and irrefutable proof of the event, like a visual testament, they also crossed the ocean, taking with them the customs of funeral rites. The image is accompanied with the rediscovery of the uses that rural society has found for photography integrating it in the funeral rites, testifying to the reality of death but also to the consummate execution of rituals. The very image becomes another immigrant who integrates into Latin American society and forms an integral part of it. Post-mortem photography in Galicia definitely maintains its documentary function (Document-Vérité), but, at the same time, it is intrinsically an indispensable psychological element and functions as a sacralised cult object acquiring an almost magical aura. It solemnizes important events, it participates in confirming the actual unity of the family nucleus.12 But, from the anthropological and sociological point of view, as posthumous photography it functions as an element that was also inscribed in the circuit of obligatory ritual exchanges that privileged the export of private rites originating in very closed communities. These were incorporated through the figure of the emigré in the society in which he arrived. A new identity was constructed for him and a Galician funeral rite was reproduced abroad. “You keep watch from this room where the fearful shadow is your own There is no silence here only sentences that you avoid hearing. Signs on the walls narrate the beautiful distance (Make me not die before I return to see you)” 13 [Alejandra Pizarnik. Estar, 1963]

pequeños anuncios-recordatorios para quien no estaba allí para verlo y llorar la pérdida. Muchos son los fotógrafos repartidos por toda Galicia que cubrieron las necesidades de una sociedad ansiosa por llenar con imágenes el vacío provocado por la ausencia, abandono que ya habían vivido con las numerosas oleadas de emigrantes y que representaban sus otros difuntos. En esta misma línea, Bourdieu sugiere que una de las funciones familiares de la imagen es la de convertirse en vínculo entre los emigrados y el grupo de origen mediante el intercambio de retratos que cuenta de las transformaciones por las que transitan los conjuntos familiares disgregados.11 Así pues la fotografía funeraria se convirtió no sólo en testimonio sino también en nexo de unión haciendo partícipe al familiar emigrado del propio rito funerario y cumpliendo, por lo tanto, con su obligada implicación frente a la comunidad. Las fotografías post-mortem latinoamericanas y españolas mantienen, pues, una relación estrecha entre ellas. Este puente escatológico que une ambos continentes, se convertía en una ruta de la imagen, donde las fotografías póstumas, a la manera de almas ansiosas por alcanzar la visión celestial, viajaban sin cesar de un lado a otro del Océano, convirtiéndose en el lazo de unión y comunión emocional necesaria en la distancia. *** No obstante, encargados como testimonio y prueba irrefutable del acontecimiento, a la manera de testamento visual, también navegaban a través del charco, trasladando a su vez la costumbre del rito funerario. La imagen se acompaña de un redescubrimiento de los usos que la sociedad rural ha podido hacer de la fotografía integrándola en el rito funerario, atestando la realidad de una muerte, pero también la buena ejecución de los ritos. La propia imagen se convierte en un emigrante más que acaba por integrarse en la sociedad latinoamericana hasta formar parte íntegra de ella. En definitiva, la fotografía post-mortem en Galicia se mantiene en su función documental (Document-Vérité), pero, a su vez, lleva intrínseca la cualidad de ser un elemento psicológico indispensable, funcionando como objeto de culto, sacralizado, adquiriendo una categoría casi mágica. Encargada de solemnizar los acontecimientos importantes, participa en la confirmación de la unidad presente del núcleo familiar.12 Pero desde un punto de vista antropológico y sociológico, la fotografía póstuma funcionó como un elemento que, a su vez, se inscribía en el circuito de intercambios ritualmente impuestos y que favorecía la exportación de unos ritos privados, provenientes de unas comunidades muy cerradas que se fueron incorporando a través de la figura del emigrado en la sociedad en la que llegaba, construyendo así una identidad nueva y reproduciendo el rito fúnebre gallego en el extranjero. “Vigilas desde este cuarto donde la sombra temible es la tuya No hay silencio aquí sino frases que evitas oír. Signos en los muros narran la bella lejanía (Haz que no muera sin volver a verte)” 13 [Alejandra Pizarnik. Estar, 1963] 11 BOURDIEU, P.: “Culto de la unidad y diferencias cultivadas”, en Un arte medio. Ensayo sobre los usos sociales de la fotografía. Ed. Gustavo Gili. Barcelona, 2003. Col. FotoGGrafía. P. 68. 12 Íbidem, pp. 68-69. 13 PIZARNIK, A.: Poesía Completa. Ed. Lumen. Barcelona, 2009. (Col. Poesía, 120). P. 232.

Gérard Castello-Lopes (b. 1925, Vichy. France). A self-taught photographer, he began taking photographs in the streets of Lisbon at the end of the 50s. His work of this period was greatly influenced by Cartier-Bresson. His reputation as a photographer grew significantly in the 1980s, particularly following a landmark exhibition at the Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon (1986). Dayanita Singh (b. 1961, India) is considered one of the most influential Indian photographers of the past two decades. Her work has been exhibited widely, both in solo and group shows. She has been awarded the Andreas Frank Foundation Grant, Robert Gardner Fellowship in Photography (Harvard University) and the Prince Claus Award. Her last solo exhibition took place at the Mapfre Foundation in Madrid (2010). Dayanita Singh is the author of ‘Myself Mona Ahmed’ Scalo 2001, ‘Privacy’, Steidl 2003, Chairs, Steidl 2005, ‘Go Away Closer’, Steidl 2007, ‘Sent a Letter’ Steidl 2008, ‘Blue Book’, Steidl 2009, and most recently ‘Dream Villa’, Steidl 2010. Alberto García-Alix (b. León, 1956) is a Spanish photographer who was awarded the National Photography Prize in 1999. He has also been one of the protagonists of the Madrid Movida (Movement) of which notable portraits done by him remain. Some of his inspirational muses have been motorcycles, tattoos, music and the night. In 2008, the Reina Sofia Museum exhibited one of his most important retrospectives to date. Prabuddha Dasgupta is a self-taught photographer whose work has been exhibited internationally, both in solo and group shows. He was the recipient of the Yves Saint Laurent grant for photography in 1991, and his work is included in collections like Museo Ken Damy, Brescia, Italy, and Galleria Carla Sozzani, Milan, Italy.In 2009, Dasgupta’s third book Edge of Faith was published by Seagull Books. Brígida Mendes (Tomar, Portugal, 1977) has a degree in Fine Arts from Lisbon University and a M.A. from the Royal College of Art, London. Sohrab Hura was born on 17th October 1981 in a small town called Chinsurah in West Bengal, India, and he grew up changing his ambitions from one exciting thing to another. He started with dreams of growing up and becoming a dog, which later turned to becoming a superhero and then a veterinarian, a herpetologist and a wildlife film maker. Today he is a documentary photographer, after having completed his Masters in Economics. His home base is New Delhi. Adriana Lestido (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1955). She has been awarded, among other prizes: the Guggenhein Fellowship (1995), the Hasselblad Fellowship (1991), the Leonardo Award (National Museum of Fine Arts, Buenos Aires, 1998). Adriana has been a curator for exhibitions, a jury for festivals and her work is part of many important collections of contemporary photography and museums. Sudharak Olwe (b. 1966 ) a Mumbai-based photojournalist, has tried to document the changes and afflictions in society over the years. In 1999-2000 he was the recipient of the National Foundation Media Fellowship in India. The following year, World Press photo chose him as the only photographer from India to be invited to exhibit his work at the World Press Photo exhibition held in Amsterdam for his stories on gender and the environment. In 2004 he published his first book, ‘Spirited Souls: Winning Women of Mumbai’ (Samay Books) and in 2005 he was honoured with the prestigious All Roads Photographers Award from National Geographic Sebastião Salgado (b.1944 Minas Gerais, Brazil). He is particularly noted for his social-documentary photography of workers in less-developed nations. Having studied Economics, Salgado began his career as a professional photographer in 1973 in Paris, working with the photo agencies Sygma, Gamma, and Magnum Photos until 1994, when he formed Amazonas Images, an agency created exclusively for his work. www.amazonasimages.com Ketaki Sheth (b. 1957 Bombay) continues to work in black and white, with chemistry and silver gelatin prints. She won the Sanskriti Award for Indian Photography in 1992 and the Higashikawa Award 2006 in Japan. In 2008 she was honoured with a solo show at Fete Du Livre, Aix en Provence. Her work has been exhibited in museums and galleries in India, UK, US, France, Spain and Japan. Her books include Twinspotting (Dewi Lewis Publishing, UK, 1999) and Bombay Mix (Dewi Lewis, UK and Sepia International, NY, 2007). Her new work on the Sidis of India will be published next year. Graciela Iturbide (b. 1942, Mexico) is considered one of the most important and influential Latin American photographers of the past four decades. Her work has been exhibited internationally and is included in many major museum collections including those of the Hasselblad Foundation in Göteborg, Sweden, the Fotomuseum in Winterthur, Switzerland, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the J. Paul Getty Museum. Gauri Gill (b. 1970, Chandigarh, India).She got her M.F.A. Art in Stanford University, California and a B.F.A. Photography, Parsons School of Design, New York. She has had two solo exhibitions: “Notes from the Desert”- Nature Morte, New Delhi (2010) and “the Americans” which was exhibited in several venues in India and USA during 2008 and 2009. She lives and works in New Delhi. Paco Gómez is a member of the NOPHOTO collective, he puts together photographic series that generally tend to question the limits of reality, using hidden messages in photographs and documentary research to construct the story.

Vinay Mahidhar started taking photographs at the age of sixteen with the camera presented to him by his father. Vinay’s work covers a wide range of genres from portraits of itinerant performers and traditional workers to fashion and advertising work. He has been interested in collaborative projects as a way of extending his practice outside of a framework defined by studio photography. One of the best examples of this is his collaboration with the artist Sudarshan Shetty in the Show ‘A Brisk Walk Makes You Feel Good’ in the year 2000.Vinay has also been a part of various group shows in India. Alongside his ongoing project for the last two years based on the comparative architecture across the world, he is also in the process of working on a collaborative multi-media video based project. Aitor Lara (b. Vizcaya, 1974) has studied philosophy and casually entered the photography field. In 1992 he got his first camera. In 1999 he was awarded the Photography Prize Juana de Aizpuru. In 2008 he published the book Torre de Silencio (Tower of Silence). He is presently living and working in Seville as an independent photographer and has been involved in the last few years in a project of documentary photography. www.aitorlara.com Prashant Panjiar (b. 1957) is a self-taught photographer. He has worked as a photojournalist and editor in mainstream media at Patriot newspaper (1984-1986), India Today (1986-1995) and the Outlook Group of Publications (1995-2001). Since 2001 Panjiar has been working independently, specializing in reportage, editorial and documentary photography. Panjiar also continues to work as a consulting picture editor and is actively involved in mentoring younger photographers. Panjiar has served on the jury of the World Press Photo Awards in Amsterdam in 2002, the China International Press Photo Competition in 2005 and the Indian Express Press Photo Awards. www.panjiarphoto.com Humberto Rivas (Buenos Aires 1937 – Barcelona, 2009) was an Argentine photographer although most of his activity, as regards photography, happened in Spain. In 1997 he received the National Photography Prize from the Spanish Ministry of Culture. www.humbertorivas.com Kushal Ray (b.1960) is a journalist-turned-photographer-painter. He has taken part in many major international photography exhibitions including the ongoing Where Three Dreams Cross: 150 years of Photography from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. He also held two solo exhibitions of his paintings and drawings in Kolkata where he lives. Joan Colom (b. Barcelona, 1921), National Photography Prize 2002, belongs to a generation of Spanish photographers who made innovations in the language of photography and incorporated the avant garde trends of their time during the second half of the fifties. From 1958 to 1961 he created images of the streets of the Chinese quarter of Barcelona without looking into the camera viewfinder and clicking with the camera placed below his waist. The result is a wonderful combination of avant garde photo reportage and a faithful portrait of the poorest proletariat of Barcelona: the underprivileged classes, the prostitutes, children and the atmosphere of the inns where sexual unions were consummated. Paz Errazuriz (b. Santiago-Chile,1944), is self-taught. Her professional and artistic activity began in 1980s for the Chilean review ‘Apsi’ then in the diverse foreign news agencies. For almost two decades, she has worked on the social minorities of Chile. She’s had many individual and group exhibitions (Chile, Switzerland, Mexico, the USA, Australia, Canada, France). She obtained the Guggenheim Fellowship (1987), the Fulbright ( 1992 ) and Fondart (1994, 1999 and 2004). She has taught at various universities since 2000. www.pazerrazuriz.cl Tony Catany (b. Mallorca, 1942) is a self-taught photographer. Ever since his first exhibition in 1972, he has held more than a hundred individual exhibitions and has participated in events in Spain, France, Switzerland, United Kingdom, Italy, Greece, the countries of the Maghreb, Australia and Japan. He was awarded the National Photography Prize in 2001. Coni Hörler was born 1973 in Zürich. Starting in 1994, he fully dedicates his life to photography. India became the major subject of his photography and the centre of his life since he first discovered the beauty of the subcontinent in 1996. He is based in Bangalore, India. Cristina García Rodero (b. Ciudad Real, 1949) is one of the most internationally well-known Spanish painters and the only Spanish member of the Magnum Agency. In 1996 she received the National Photography Prize

Agustin Paniker (b. Barcelona,1959) is an editor and writer who specializes in Indian culture. Son of the philosopher Salvador Pániker, he is the author of Jainism (published in English) and also of Índika. An Intellectual Decolonization: Reflections on the history, ethnology, politics and religion in South Asia. His last book, The Sikhs, is an analysis of the history, religion and the customs of this Indian community. On one occasion Paniker defined himself as a Mediterranean man who longed for India, and for whom writing, music and travel were a passion. He heads the Kairós publishing house: www.editorialkairos.com Parvati Sharma is a writer based in New Delhi. She works as a travel writer, freelance journalist and editor. Her first book, The Dead Camel and Other Stories of Love, was published in 2010. Rosa Montero (b. Madrid, 1951) has been a journalist for Spain’s daily newspaper, El Pais, since 1976. She has published eight novels, many of which have been bestsellers in Spain. Montero’s novel La hija del canibal (1997) won Spain’s most prestigious literary award, the Premio Primavera de Novela. Her latest novel is Instrucciones para salvar el mundo (Instructions to Save the World) (2008). José Luís Peixoto (b. Galveias, 1974). He graduated in Modern Languages and Literature (English and German) from the Universidade Nova de Lisboa. In 2001, he received the José Saramago Literary Award for the novel Nenhum Olhar, which was included in the Financial Times list of the best books published in England in 2007, it was also included in the programme Discover Great New Writers run by the North American bookshop Barnes & Noble.In 2007, his novel Cemitério de Pianos received the Award Cálamo Otra Mirada, given to the best foreign novel published in Spain. In 2008, he received the Poetry Award Daniel Faria for the book Gaveta de Papéis. His novels have been translated into a total of eighteen languages. Ameen Merchant is the author of The Silent Raga. Juan Gabriel Vásquez (b. Bogota,1973) is the author of the short story collection Los amantes de Todos los Santos (2001) and of the novels: Los informantes -finalist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in the United Kingdom-, Historia secreta de Costaguana (2007) -which won him the Qwerty Prize for th Best Novel in Spanish- and El arte de la distorsión (2009). He is also the author of a brief biography of Joseph Conrad, El hombre de ninguna parte (2007). His books have been translated into fourteen languages. Sudeep Chakravarti is a writer of narrative non-fiction and fiction. HarperCollins published his third novel, The Avenue of Kings, in October 2010. He is at present completing a second work of non-fiction related to ethnic turmoil, livelihood and security in India. This follows from Red Sun: Travels in Naxalite Country, his bestselling, critically fêted work of narrative non-fiction about India’s ongoing Maoist rebellion, published in 2008 by Viking/Penguin. A former career journalist who held senior positions at several Indian and global publications, in 2004 Sudeep chose an alternate career of literary writing, while continuing to consult for media, corporations and think-tanks. He is a professional member of the World Future Society, Washington D.C, and trustee of Coastal Impact, a non-profit organisation he recently co-founded with fellow scuba diving enthusiasts in Goa, India, where he lives. Elsa Osorio (b. Buenos Aires,1953) is the author of the book of short stories Ritos Privados and Reina mugre, and of the fictional biography Beatriz Guido: Mentir la verdad. She has published the essay Las malas lenguas and the novels Cielo de Tango and A veinte años, Luz, which was published all over the world. The novel was a finalist for the Femina Prize (France) and was awarded the Amnesty International Prize. Neel Chaudhuri is a playwright and theatre director. He is the Artistic Director of The Tadpole Repertory, a Delhi-based group dedicated to the production and promotion of original theatre. His first play, Positions, was produced by The First City Theatre Foundation in December 2006. Since then he has written five plays, including Taramandal, winner of the MetroPlus Playwright Award 2010. He is currently developing a new project titled Ich bin Fassbinder, for which he has received a Goethe Institut Anniversary Grant. Amir Valle Ojeda (b. Guantánamo, Cuba, 1967). Narrator, journalist, literary critic and essayist, he has a Masters in Journalism from the University of Havana in 1989. He has thrice been a finalist for the Casa de las Americas literary prize and also for the Dashiell Hammett International Prize. He has been awarded the Mario Vargas Llosa International Prize for the novel in 2006, Rodolfo Walsh International Prize in 2007 in the essay category and also the Novelpol Prize for the best crime novel of 2007. He is presently director of the journal Otrolunes. Revista Hispanoamericana de Cultura. He has been living in Berlin, Germany since 2006. Omair Ahmad is the author of The Storyteller’s Tale and Jimmy the Terrorist. He has never travelled to Latin America, or the countries of the Iberian Peninsula, but one day he imagines that it will no longer be so. Élmer Mendoza (b. México, 1949) is a playwright, novelist and academician. Some of his novels are: Un asesino solitario (A solitary assassin), El amante de Janis Joplin (The lover of Janis Joplin), Efecto Tequila (Tequila Effect) and Cóbraselo Caro (Charge Him Dearly). In 2007 he was awarded the III Tusquets Prize.

Poet, novelist and critic, Tabish Khair’s most recent books are the study, The Gothic, Postcolonialism and Otherness: Ghosts from Elsewhere (Palgrave, 2009), Man of Glass: Poems (Harper Collins, 2010) and the novel, The Thing About Thugs (Harper Collins, 2010). Rafael Argullol i Murgadas (b. Barcelona 1949) is a Spanish writer, philosopher, poet, blogger and Professor of aesthetics at Pompeu Fabra University in Barcelona, where he also directs the Institut Universitari de Cultura. The author of 25 books, he was granted the 1993 Nadal prize for his novel La razón del mal and the 2002 Fondo de Cultura Económica essay prize for Una educación sensorial. His last book is: Visión desde el fondo del mar (Acantilado, 2010). Rahul Mehta’s debut short story collection, Quarantine, was published in India in 2010 and is due out in the U.S. in 2011. Born and raised in West Virginia, he currently lives in western New York State, where he teaches writing at Alfred University. He is working on a novel. Chantal Maillard is a Spanish poet and philosopher of Belgian origin. She has received, amongst other prizes, the National Poetry Prize in 2004, given by the Spanish Ministry of Culture. Kankana Basu is a Mumbai-based freelance writer contributing regularly to various national publications. Her first book of short stories Vinegar Sunday came out in 2004. Her new novel Cappuccino Dusk was Long Listed for the 2007 Man Asian Literary Prize and for the Vodafone Crossword Book Award 2009. Her novels The Messiah and Spice Corridors will be released next year. Luiz Ruffato (b. 1961) is a Brazilian writer and journalist. He has published collections of short stories Histórias de Remorsos e Rancores (1998) and Os sobreviventes (2000) and the novel Eles Eram Muitos Cavalos (2001). In 2005, he began the series Inferno provisório, to be in five volumes, with the books Mamma, son tanto felice and O mundo inimigo. These were followed by Vista parcial da noite and O livro das impossibilidades. Anu Jayanth is a self-taught writer and artist, and lives in Houston with her husband and their two boys (one is four-legged) in Houston, Texas. José Ovejero (b. Madrid, 1958). He won the Primavera Prize for the novel in 2005 for Las vidas ajenas, the City of Irún Poetry Prize in 1993 for Biografía del explorador and the Great Travelers Prize in 1998 for China para hipocondríacos. He lives in Brussels, where he works as an interpreter. Samrat Choudhury is Deputy Editor of the Hindustan Times, Delhi. His first novel will be published by Penguin in 2011. He can be reached at samrat.choudhury@gmail.com Anjum Hasan is the author of the novels Neti, Neti (2009) and Lunatic in my Head (2007) and the book of poems Street on the Hill. She is Books Editor, The Caravan and lives in Bangalore. Mridula Koshy is the author of If It Is Sweet, a collection of short stories released in May ‘09 by Tranquebar Press. The book won the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize for 2009 and was shortlisted for the 2009 Vodafone Crossword Book Prize. She lives in New Delhi with her poet-schoolteacher partner and three exceptionally wonderful children. Jason Keith Fernandes is an itinerant mendicant, travelling the globe in search of inspiration, and offering unsolicited advice to all and sundry. Some of his ruminations are available at www.dervishnotes.blogspot.com. Currently based in Lisbon, on the pretext of studying for a Doctorate in Legal Anthropology, he remains firmly tethered to Goa to which place he returns after his voyage of discovery. Rahaab Allana is the curator of the Alkazi Foundation for the Arts (www.acparchives.com) Sabeena Gadihoke is the Associate Professor of Video and Television Production at the AJK Mass Communication Research Centre at Jamia University in New Delhi and is also an independent documentary filmmaker and cameraperson. She works on the history of photography in India and her book Camera Chronicles on its first woman press photographer, Homai Vyarawalla was published in 2006. Òscar Pujol has a Ph.D. in Sanskrit, Banaras Hindu University and is the Director of the Cervantes Institute of New Delhi. Savitri Sawhney is the author of I Shall Never Ask for Pardon: A Memoir of Pandurang Khankhoje. Penguin books, 2008. Aveek Sen is the Senior Assistant Editor (Editorial Pages) of The Telegraph, Calcutta. He was awarded the 2009 Infinity Award for writing on photography, given by the International Center of Photography, New York. Virginia de la Cruz Lichet has a Ph.D in Art History from the Complutense University in Madrid (2010) and has written a thesis on Post-Mortem Photographic Portraits in Galicia (XIXth and XXth Centuries).

BIOGRAPHIES

BIOGRAPHIES of photographers

of authors

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