People I

We love taking photos of people. I do too. Here's a first collection from my trips.

Left: my fellow passengers on Hong Kong's tram.

Right: a couple steal a corner of the Chain Bridge, Budapest, Hungary. It took me a while before I managed this shot. Partly because there were people passing, partly because I was trying as hard as possible to be inconspicuous.

Left: Sikh guards having a chat at the Golden Temple, Amritsar, India.



Right: This guy was on the phone for some time while his girlfriend (we assumed she was), waited for him to end the call. He was either oblivious to her growing impatience, or simply ignoring it. Oh yes, this was taken in Istanbul, Turkey.


The shot on the right was taken outside Qutb Minar, Delhi, India. She was probably tired and waiting for the rest of her group.

Below: This is one of my favourite shots of my trip to Sarajevo, Bosnia-Hercegovina.

His name was Premchand

This piece was first written on 21^st March 2010

The train was waiting at the platform from as early 1620hrs. We’d actually made it on time to Kalka after a slow descent from Shimla on the toy train, considering the Himalayan Queen left the mountain town 25 later minutes than scheduled.

It was soon to be a 6-hour ride in the second sitting compartment to New Delhi. My mum and I settled ourselves into our seats next to the window. Actually, I was to rest my butt along the aisle because we were to have someone in the middle. A quick look at the passenger list next to the train door before we’d boarded gave us an idea of who was going to be our t ravel companion: a man named Premchand. I did not not take note of his age, which was likely printed in the very next column. All the name gave us was an indication of what the seating arrangement was to be like, and fodder for my often fertile imagination.

I got busy trying to figure out which one of the men climbing into the compartment might be Premchand. I pictured him to be someone mature. Then again, he could have easily been a young man with a moustache in a neatly pressed shirt and pants. But the number of elderly men that kept coming in began to chip away at this image.

Could it be this old man, with snow-white hair with glasses perched on his relatively sharp nose? Or the friend of the family sitting behind us, whom we’d seen loitering around on the platform earlier? I just hoped it would not be the man standing near the door whose mobile phone conversation was no longer secret.

At 1650hrs, the train started pulling itself out of the station as lazily as the sun was being swallowed up by the horizon. But where was Premchand, I turned and asked my mum? Could he have missed the train by a whisker (maybe he was dragging heavy bags)? What if someone else hops on and tries to claim his seat? Should I save it for him? But how do you do something like this when you don’t even know who it is you’re helping? My mum pointed out that he might be boarding at a later station. Fair enough (I don’t know why this thought had not crossed my mind in the first place).

A stop or two later, a man in a white shirt calmly squeezed past a group that was trying to get off the train. He had glasses on, and a moustache. Planting himself comfortably next to me, he gave himself all but two seconds before turning to me to ask for my seat number (I was in his seat). Before I could finish explaining my trespass, he understood that the lady next to the window and I were travelling together. ‘No problem,’ he said, before whipping out his mobile phone to inform someone at the other end that he had gotten into the train. At this point, I turned to my mum, and as discreetly as possible, pointed my right index finger in his direction: ‘Premchand!’

Pop Patriotism

This article was first written on the 28th of October 2008


The car ride to the Wagah border was symptomatic of several South Asian, and in fact most developing, countries. We were on a narrow two lane road where might is right. Our driver, however, was on a mission to prove that he had what it takes to show the huge TATA lorries who’s boss.

In the backseat, Sanyam’s mother was not too amused. ‘Bhaiyya, we’re not in that much of a hurry,’ she said as she leaned forward. He did not care to respond although I noticed an imperceptible acknowledgement on his part. I turned back to give her an assuring smile: I, the visitor to this chaotic country, the one more accustomed to orderly driving. My eyes were largely unperturbed by the horns whistling past us and the risk of smashing into oncoming traffic. My gaze was fixed on the fields on both sides of the road. On the left, the sun was suspended well above the trees and fields of sugarcane and the like. I was a tad nervous, but overwhelmingly excited: this was the closest I was going to get to Pakistan. 

 I got out of the car and looked around. There were fields stretching beyond the limits of my sight. In the direction of the setting sun, I saw fences and barbed wires separated by a few metres of earth – no man’s land. We walked away from the parking area on to the main road. Most of it was occupied by colourful goods trucks waiting to cross the border. I was told dried fruits and other eatables change hands in these parts. Not too far away from the parking lot was an area that served as a dhaba, a roadside eatery. There were also stalls selling items with the Indian flag emblazoned on them – pins, caps, etc. Others were crowded with candy floss, drinks, and samosas. At some point a group of men in saffron robes starting singing to the beat of a dhol as they walked towards the border. They were joined by a small group who sang and danced along. The guide books were not exaggerating when they said there’s a carnival atmosphere here. But this was only scratching the surface.

About a hundred metres ahead we reached the beginnings of the road into Pakistan. On the left were the stands where spectators could sit and watch the border closing ceremony every evening. We found a spot about six rows from the front. Not too bad, I thought to myself. I could see, fairly well, the soldiers standing at attention in front of me, and beyond them the gates that separated the two countries. On this side was a festival in full swing. People were waving flags and clapping and singing along to patriotic songs being blasted from loudspeakers all around us. As if on cue, some of the girls in the first row climbed over to the side of the road and began dancing. The crowd went wild, as did flashing cameras.

‘You don’t seem impressed,’ I said to Sanyam who was hiding behind his shades.

‘It’s pop patriotism. It’ll die out once the evening is over.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Listen to the song selection. Where does Dil Chahta Hai’s Koi Kahe fit into nationalism? It’s only about sounding better and louder than them.’
He had a point. Every now and then afterwards, a voice would boom over the loudspeaker with pro-India chants: Hindustan, Zindabad! Vande Mataram! The crowd naturally responded with gusto.

On the Pakistani side, things were more subdued. I could faintly hear a song being played, but the spectators seemed more solemn. Perhaps one flag was flying over the crowd’s head. They look just like us on this side, I thought to myself.

The speakers on this side blared a song from the 1955 film, Naya Daur. It was about the land of Punjab: it was romanticism of the kind that Yash Chopra later sought to repeat in his films, most recently with the 2004 Veer-Zaara, about a love that transcends the difficult border. It was his attempt at healing wounds that have divided the subcontinent. 

My thoughts drifted to my grandma. She was born in a Punjab that breathed under an undivided India. The country was born again in 1947, but that independence indirectly forced her out of the country. I don’t remember when my throat began feeling lumpy. As the crowd rose to its feet in patriotic fervour, their fists punching the sky, I quickly wiped away the tears that had slid past almost undetected.

random thoughts: northern india

This entry was first written on the 4th of March 2010



the colours of Holi

in a coffeeshop, before gunpoint

1. Why do so many people I speak Hindi to think I'm the foreigner? (They’re right of course, but my mum gets away without saying anything)
2. An usher at the Agra Fort, together with the ticketing officers/attendants, are probably the only ones who think I'm an Indian national.
3. A guy I bought water from assumed I was from Punjab (rightly so since I was rambling away in Punjabi; does that mean I speak it well enough?).
4. I'm amused, still, by the sales assistant in Amritsar who sharply said 'no way!' when I held up a kurta set I was interested in (he meant to say it wouldn't fit me) just before I asked if it'd be available in my size.
5. I don't get why so many people have to spit virtually everywhere.
6. People I've met or come across complain that India's dirty. Aren't they contributing as well?
7. I've been 'to' gunpoint -- not a very lovely place, I assure you (we were trying to get to the West Gate of the Taj Mahal from the South one after the monument had closed for the day. the guards quickly raised their rifles at us and went 'OYE!' before telling us to take another route)
8. 1984 remains relevant in Delhi it seems (evident in a t-shirt I saw).
9. Bhindranwale still has fans too, as I overheard in a shop today (and it's something that shouldn't be discussed openly too it seems).
10. I wonder when people will stop reproducing like there's no tomorrow and instead think about feeding and educating those that are already here.

Salim Chishti shrine at Fatehpur Sikri

Shimla on a winter's night

 11. Malay is not so foreign a language in Amritsar.
12. Humans are so easily amused by monkeys..the primates must be equally puzzled.
13. I finally saw a cat in Amritsar, disproving my sister's theory that there are none in Punjab.
14. I think the French guy at Gulshan restaurant (in Agra) is rather dubious..and his intentions may involve the children working there.
15. As much as I wish the kids at the restaurant were studying and not working, I think it's better that they're earning a living 'properly' instead of roaming on the streets or doing something dodgy.
16. The Taj Mahal felt over-rated when I visited it (then again, that's because I've been there before)
17. Maybe it was good that there was no snow in Shimla, cold as it already was.
18. I wonder where all of India's wealth is going.
19. I hope Delhi will be ready for the Commonwealth Games.

the Taj Mahal

20. Holi is not meant for the faint-hearted.
21. Visiting the shrine of Sufi saint Salim Chishti was an emotional experience.
22. Walking from India Gate to Paharganj is quite do-able.
23. It's always possible to decide, at the last minute, not to visit relatives (just don't inform them of your arrival).
24. It's a wonderful feeling to be asked for directions in a city that is alien to you.
25. Does cheating someone and then feeling bad about it make it less wrong?