Face to face with a living legend: An evening with Homai Vyarawalla

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I got interested in photography about 3 years back and as it often happens with a new interest, related things also come into the focus of that interest—in this case it was photographers and their works. One photographer, whose name kept cropping up was that of Homai Vyarawalla, India’s first woman photojournalist. While I was curious about her work, I must admit that I didn’t really go out of my way to know more about her apart from reading the mandatory Wikipedia article and the stray media reports and photographs that would appear now and then.

Homai Vyarawalla

Therefore, it was serendipity when I noticed an invite for the inauguration of a retrospective of Homai Vyarawalla’s photographs on February 25, 2011. Curated by Sabeena Gadihoke, “Homai Vyarawalla: A Retrospective” was being held at the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA), Mumbai, in collaboration with the Alkazi Foundation for the Arts, New Delhi.

It was even more serendipitous that I had meetings near the NGMA that day and could attend the inauguration without taking time off from work. 🙂 I arrived early at the NGMA and as I was debating whether to go in or try to grab a quick cup of coffee, a car drew up to the entrance. I knew it had to be someone important, as the NGMA does not allow cars to come in. Two women stepped out, one of whom was Sabeena Gadihoke (as I found out later), and the other was Homai Vyarawalla herself. I had very obviously only noticed the invite, and not read it, as I wasn’t aware that Homai would be present for her retrospective! Since I was standing at the entrance, I found myself face to face with her. As I gaped at her, she smiled at me and said a warm hello as she was helped up the stairs. And what was my response? I continued gaping at her and just about managed to nod my head in acknowledgement !

Some of Homai Vyarawalla’s photographs at the NGMA

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Pallankuzhi: An inheritance of love

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I had been in my first school for just about 10 days or so, when my teacher sent a note home for my mother to meet her. My mother was so worried about the note that she was at my school the next day at the crack of dawn much before the appointed time.

She needn’t have worried. My teacher had only called to rave about my excellent motor skills, my excellent hand-to-eye coordination, and the fact that I could do some simple addition as well as some mental maths. All this at the age of 5 years, 6 months, and some days ! I was apparently way ahead of the rest of my class. Was I some budding genius, she asked my mother hopefully? My mother, after the first reaction of relief, immediately squashed my teacher’s hopes. No, her daughter was no budding genius. She was just a little girl with an inordinate amount of interest in playing Pallankuzhi with her grandmother, which had led to the development of these skills. What is Pallankuzhi, my puzzled teacher asked?

Pallankuzhi game all laid out and ready to play. I inherited this set from my maternal grandmother

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Because the private is public: Turning home movies into documentaries

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Scene from "Bare" (2006) by Santana Issar. Please click on this image to watch the full film.

Two little girls, sisters, are seated side by side and are prompted by their dad to sing “Happy Birthday” for him, while he films them for a home movie. The sisters happily oblige. The scene changes and we see footage of the two sisters and their parents at picnics, other birthdays, on a ship (the father is in the merchant navy), etc. Watching the scenes unfold, one after the other, the viewer is led to think that these are glimpses from the life of a happy family.

This perception changes when the conversations begin—telephone conversations recorded in 2006, which are played out against the backdrop of the 20-year old footage of “happy” family memories. These are telephone conversations between the sisters, Santana and Simran; between the mother and Santana; and between Santana and the father. These conversations reveal something totally contrary to what the images convey—that this is not a happy family unit. The parents have separated and the mother does not speak to the father, and Simran also does not speak to her father and wants to have nothing to do with him. Only Santana talks to her father. Sometimes. The reason for all this is the father’s alcoholism.

The above synopsis is of a film called Bare (2006, 11 minutes), directed by Santana Issar. I watched this powerful film as part of a screening of 9 films “of family footage and home movies” curated by Pankaj Kumar on 23 February 2011. These films were part of Cinema Satsang: The Curatorial Project Film Festival organised by the Katha Centre for Film Studies, in collaboration with the India Foundation for the Arts and Alliance Francaise de Bombay.

As curator, Pankaj divided these 9 films into 4 sections: (i) Home movies as genesis of explorations (Straight 8, The Dust, These Old Frames, and Grandad with a Movie Camera; (ii) Politics of home movies (Khoob Asti Afghanistan and I for India); (iii) “Happy” home movies and strange truths (Bare and Tarnation); and (iv) Conclusion: the way ahead (Phantom Limb). The films were screened in this order and the complexity of the use of family footage in the larger narrative of the documentary film increased as we progressed from film to film, and section to section to experience a range of amazingly simple to multi-layered, complex films. Bare was the 7th film to be screened that day, and the disturbing contrast and disjunct between the visual moving image and the audio track has ensured that this film has imprinted itself on my mind. That is the reason why I began my post with that film.

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Mumbai Lens: The new slums of Mankhurd

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Mankhurd is an eastern suburb of Mumbai, accessed via the Harbour Line (where it is the last station in Mumbai before the Line crosses the Vashi creek bridge to enter Navi Mumbai) or via the Sion-Trombay/Panvel Road. Apart from the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre and the Anushaktinagar colony, most of the suburb comprises slums. Mankhurd is a good illustration for Mumbai’s other name, and a name I do not like—Slumbai !

Some years back, slum areas in Mankhurd started getting redeveloped (a process that continues even today), while in other vacant areas/reclaimed land in the suburb new buildings were constructed to house slum dwellers from across Mumbai under the Slum Rehabilitation Programme for the city.

The high-rise and the slums near Maharashtra Nagar, Mankhurd

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84 Charing Cross Road: A second-hand love affair

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It was at a cousin’s wedding that an uncle gave me his copy of 84 Charing Cross Road with a crisp, “Read it. It’s good”. Now, I don’t know about you but long drawn-out weddings are not my cup of tea, and I always look for avenues to keep sane at such events. This book provided me with that perfect opportunity to escape from cope with the wedding festivities.

So, I read the book while getting my mehendi done, while helping my cousin’s trousseau to be packed, in the middle of the night under torchlight, when I couldn’t bear the collective grunts and snores of so many aunts in the hall we were sleeping in, between the many wedding ceremonies, etc. By reading a few pages at a time, I managed to finish the 100-odd pages of the book over 3 days and return it to my uncle. I was just in time to congratulate the newlyweds after the wedding ceremony, and then run out to try to obtain my very own copy of the book.

So what is 84 Charing Cross Road (by Helene Hanff) all about? I found the book’s blurb—an extract from its review in the Daily Telegraph—tantalising.

This book is the very simple story of the love affair between Miss Helene Hanff of New York and Messrs Marks and Co, sellers of rare and second-hand books at 84 Charing Cross Road, London. It is unmitigated delight from cover to cover.

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The lonely drinking water fountain

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Once upon a time in Bombay (actually, this was about a 100 years back), there lived a man called Lowji Megji. He was a cotton merchant and ran a very successful business exporting cotton. He lived with his wife, mother, 5 sons, 1 daughter, and 4 servants in a large mansion in Bombay (Note: about a 100 years back, political correctness had not crept in, so I use the words “Bombay” and “servants” in this post).

Lowji Megji loved all his children, but he loved his daughter Kusumbala just a little bit more. Nobody minded this, as everyone who knew Kusumbala also loved her just a little bit more. She was a kind-hearted, happy and cheerful soul, who always spread joy wherever she went. She loved going with her father to his cotton godown and giving drinking water to the workers who loaded and unloaded the cotton bales. The workers too loved her a lot and would wait for her visits to the godown eagerly.

Unfortunately, such visits were rare as Kusumbala was a sickly child and prone to frequent bouts of some illness or the other. In her 13th year, her frail body could not withstand yet another bout of illness and she finally succumbed. The family was disconsolate and Lowji Megji devastated. He lost all interest in his business and if it hadn’t been for his faithful employees, he would have been ruined.

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