Photography is Truth - Is it?

This statement rests on the fact that there is one 'truth' which can be reached, comprehended. Therein lies the fallacy of the statement. Although the context in which Godard put it must have been more challenging, and revolutionary (something I cannot cover in this post), let us focus on just the statement itself.

What is photography? To put it simply, it is a 'picture' taken of something - some object, or some person. In other words, it is a 'representation' of that thing or that person. 

When we speak of 'representation', we have already moved one step away from what we understand as 'reality'. Representation can be one part of truth. but probably not the whole truth, assuming that there is something called Truth. (I assume it because truth for me might not be truth for you.)

So, the context of the representation becomes important.

The context of the photograph becomes important. 

If we remove it from that context, the representation, or the truth that it represents will become irrelevant.

Consider photographing motherhood. Advertisers will hail motherhood as a period of celebration, and complete happiness. The photographs that will represent motherhood will probably show a calm and composed mother with a calm and composed child. But that is just one aspect of motherhood. This representation will hide the other 'truths' about motherhood too - the physical pain, the mental exhaustion, the bouts of depression many suffer from, the colic babies, the sleepless nights. 

Consider photographs of soldiers fighting in a war. Each warring army will represent their side as 'true', as 'correct'. But that representation will alter if the opposing army were to take the task of portraying their enemy.

Consider your own photographs. Consider your 'selfies'. Is that you reflected in that picture? Or is that you 'constructed' in accordance with certain 'shared meanings' in a society. (It would be helpful here to read Stuart Hall's essay on the politics of representation and views of post-structuralists.)

When we consider a photograph to represent reality or truth, we fail to understand that meaning circulates in a given context. To uproot it from that context would alter its meaning significantly.
Photographs are a means of constructing and imparting a certain sense of knowledge but that knowledge may just be only a part of the whole reality.

Meaning changes as perspective changes. Since a photograph's perspective is crucial to the making of its meaning, its meaning will change too with the shift in perspective.

As Ansel Adams rightly said, "You don't take a photograph. You make it."

What is your say on this? Do share your thoughts.


Linking to Write Tribe #writingwednesdays

Human spirit must prevail over technology - Einstein

Albert Einstein said, "Human spirit must prevail over technology." There was a time when we had no phone, no computers, no internet. That was the time of pigeon-carriers or postal mails. That was the time when we would ardently miss our loved ones. That was the time of hand-written letters. That was also the time of heart-felt joys and sorrows.

Gradually, things changed. Sometimes out of necessity, and sometimes just for convenience, the human mind invented things to make life faster, and to make distances shorter. Technology slowly took over. Snail mails were replaced by emails, and real emotions by emoticons. We became more virtual than real. Distances became shorter in terms of accessibility but ironically, the distances between the hearts grew wider.

But who is to be blamed for all this? Is it technology or the human mind that craves to go beyond the limit? Is it not our desire that wants us to have the latest smartphone or the latest cool gadget in the market? Are we not willingly wiring ourselves? Is it not the herd-mentality of ours that wants to take selfies, to post status about where we are, what we are doing, and what we are feeling at the moment? As if the world is dying to hear about it, about us.....How vain are we! When we like some post on FB, we also want our own presence to be 'engraved' in the technological space, so to say....not our footprint, but our virtual print. Just to be seen, to be noticed, to be praised. Technology aids in this, no doubt about that. But it aids because we chose it as our prop.

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In his novel, Guy on the Sidewalk, Bharath Krishna write,""Nearly everyone bid goodbye saying," You are on my Facebook anyway", or " You are on my WhatsApp anyway" as if Facebook and WhatsApp guaranteed relationships."  The problem lies within us. We want relationships without commitments. Technology helps us here. I wrote about this in another post We Need Each Other. We are scared to look in the eye. We recoil from gentle touch because we feel its strangeness, its unfamiliarity. We are afraid to be engaged in reality, so we pretend. Technology again helps in keeping up this pretense. 

And then we say, technology is ruining us. Is it really?

Is it not great to connect with your loved ones miles apart through FB or watsapp? Is it not a solace that the swiftness of message transfer has helped us stay in touch when we really really need to feel connected? The problem is not technology. The problem is our misuse of technology. The problem is our choosing mechanical, automated responses instead of earnest, warm feelings. 




Written for Indispire#128

पापा की बेटी

बचपन से ही पापा की दुलारी बेटी थी।  प्रतिदिन सुबह पापा को उठ कर कचहरी के लिए तैयार होता देखती।  काला कोट न जाने कैसे सम्मोहित सा कर देता।  काले चमचमाते जूते टक-टक करते अपना संगीत सुनाते और मुझे मोह लेते।  जब तक गाड़ी आँखों से ओझल न हो जाती , मैं टकटकी लगाए दरवाज़े या खिड़की पर खड़ी रहती थी। जबसे स्मृतियां बनीं , जबसे चेतना जागी , मुझे बस एक बात याद है - पापा की तरह मुझे भी वकील बनना था ।  

सुबह-शाम सपने देखती कि मैं भी काला कोट पहन कचहरी जा रही हूँ। अदालत में अपनी दलीलों से सबको हरा रही हूँ।  कि पापा की तरह समाज में मेरी भी पूछ है , रुतबा है। 

आज जब सोचती हूँ तो लगता है कि वकील बनने से ज़्यादा मैं पापा की छवि चाहती थी।  पापा की लुभावनी छवि - मुस्कुराता चेहरा, बेबाक हंसी, निडर व्यक्तित्व , सकारात्मक दृष्टिकोण।  आखिर वही  तो था उनकी सफलता का कारण।  और मैं बचपन  की मासूम अनभिज्ञता में दोनों को एक समझ बैठी। 

 रातों-रात नहीं बना था पापा का  रुतबा।  न जाने कितनी रातें पापा ने जाग कर गुजारीं होंगी।  न जाने कितनी किताबें जो पापा के दफ्तर की शोभा में चार चाँद लगाती थीं, पापा ने पढ़ी होंगी।  और न जाने कितनी बार नाकामयाबी की ठोकर भी खायी होगी।  मैं तो बच्ची थी।  मुझे सिर्फ पापा की खनकती हंसी सुनाई देती थी।  मुझे बस मम्मी के स्नेहित स्पर्श हर्षाता था।  मुझे बस भाई के संग मस्ती भाती थी। 

पापा कभी कचहरी के किस्से घर पर नहीं लाते थे पर यह जग-विदित था कि पापा कि अपनी साख थी।  पर पापा ने बहुत संघर्ष किया था यहाँ तक पहुँचने के लिए।  और मम्मी ने उनका पूरा साथ दिया था।  मम्मी बताती हैं कि पापा ने वकालत शुरू ही की थी और मेरे दादाजी का निधन हो गया था।  पर पापा ने हिम्मत नहीं हारी।  दिन-रात मेहनत करते थे।  किराए के घर के पैसे चुकाने के लिए गुल्लक में पैसे रखते।  घर में गैस का पहला सिलिंडर मम्मी की आमदनी से आया था।  मम्मी कॉलेज में पढ़ाती थीं।  पापा के पास आने-जाने का साधन भी नहीं था तो किसी और के साथ जाया करते थे।  एक दिन उसने मना कर दिया।  पापा का मन आहत हुआ और पापा ने स्कूटर खरीदा। मम्मी और पापा जैसे उस दुपहिए वाहन के दो पहिए थे।  एक-दुसरे का मज़बूत सहारा।  एक के बिना दूसरा अधूरा। 

कहते हैं न कि सबको हीरे की बस चमक दिखाई देती है।  सब भूल जाते हैं कि वह कितना तपा है उस चमक के लिए।  ऐसा ही सफलता के साथ होता है।  सबको चका -चौंध दिखती है।  संघर्ष कोई देख नहीं पाता।  

बात सपनों की हो रही थी।  मैं धीरे-धीरे बड़ी हुई।  पर सपना अभी भी वही आँखों में बसा था।  वकील बन जाऊं , बस वकील - पापा की तरह।  लेकिन समाज में बहुत रुकावटें थीं।  या कहूं कि बहुत त्रुटियां थीं।  मम्मी को, भाई को डर था समाज की कुदृष्टि से मुझे बचाना चाहते थे इसीलिए मेरा सपना उनकी उलझन बढ़ाता था।  फिर भी उन्होंने मेरा साथ दिया।  लॉ कॉलेज की प्रवेश-परीक्षा भी दिलवाई।  साथ साथ एक और सपना भी पनप रहा था - मेरी मम्मी का सपना मुझे लिटरेचर यानि साहित्य पढ़ाने का।  उन्हें बचपन से ही इंग्लिश लिटरेचर रोचक लगता था पर उस समय उनके कॉलेज में साहित्य की डिग्री उपलब्ध नहीं थी।  पर मम्मी अपना सपना थोप नहीं रहीं थीं मुझे पे।  बस मुझे एक विकल्प दिया था की अगर लॉ कॉलेज में दाखिल नहीं हो पायी तो लिटरेचर पढ़ लेना।  किताबें तो जैसे मेरे जीने का सहारा थीं।  बहुत किताबें पढ़ती थी मैं - पापा अक्सर दिल्ली से लाया करते थे मेरे लिए।  तो बस, इंग्लिश होनर्स की भी प्रवेश परीक्षा दे डाली।  

अब किस्मत ने कहा की सुनो मुझे भी तो कुछ करने दो।  तो हुआ यूँ कि परीक्षा के परिणाम पहले लिटरेचर के आ गए।  आखिरी तिथि भी नज़दीक थी दाखिला लेने की।  समय कम था।  मन में उलझन भी थी मम्मी के।  पापा ने मुझे स्वतंत्र  चुनाव के लिए प्रेरित किया था।  पर समय की कमी मुझ पर हावी हो गयी।  और मैंने लिटरेचर में दाखिला लिया।  कुछ  दिन बाद लॉ का परिणाम घोषित हुआ और मुझे जीवन भर के लिए एक अफ़सोस  दे गया कि काश मैं थोड़ा रुकी होती तो आज मैं वकील होती। 

पर लिटरेचर ने बहुत सम्भाला मुझे।  अच्छे-बुरे समय में  किताबों ने बहुत ज्ञान दिया।  समाज की जटिलता , स्वभावों की पेचीदगी, विचारों की उलझन, निर्णयों की विवशता - कितना कुछ था किताबों में।  आज दुःख नहीं कि सपना पूरा नहीं कर पायी।  आज ख़ुशी है कि पापा कि  सकारत्मकता मुझ में  सम्मिलित हुई।  वो खनकती हंसी मेरी न हो सकी पर मेरे जीवन को पल-पल अलंकृत  करती रही।  मुझे कहती रही कि अफ़सोस मत कर, बस ज़िन्दगी जी ले। 

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

किस्सा गाड़ी का

Math में था मैं थोड़ा weak

बस सौ तक गिनती आती थी 

पर competition था गाड़ी  का 

तो सौ से भी गिनती पार करी 

रातों को सपने आते थे 

टाटा की गाड़ी में बैठा 

मैं लम्बी सैर पे जाता था 

पर हाय री किस्मत धोखेबाज़ 

जब नींद से मेरी आँख खुली 

टाटा गाड़ी टा टा करके 

पतली गली से जा निकली 

हाथों में मेरे voucher है 

और दिल में मेरे है  anger 

quality post के चक्कर में

 हुई गाड़ी मेरी रफूचक्कर  

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This is a funny take on the present discussions going on in the forum of IB for Tata Tiago Marathon. Whatever the result is going to be, I feel many will have a heart-break. The reason is obvious - bloggers blogged crazily as is evident in the mammoth number of posts submitted and approved. But there are only two cars in question. Yes, there are vouchers but the grand prize is just for two. So, it is a no-brainer that tempers will run high. The results have also not been declared, which is another cause for growing restlessness among participants. This poem is only to make matters light. I do not intend to take anyone's sides here. I can understand the hard-work of those who participated and I can also see the difficult task of choosing the best among so many.

Whatever happens, dear bloggers, just stay happy. And keep blogging....

No Child's Play

It was just like any other day. The neighborhood that was quiet in the hot summer afternoon started bubbling with the lively chatter and laughter of kids. It was just like any other evening. The bigger kids came out with their bikes, scooters, bats and frisbees. Not-so-careful-about-appearance Mommies made their presence felt on the scene as the little ones trundled behind. Gently blowing breeze managed to bring down the temperatures a bit so it was a comfortable evening to play outside or to just loiter around.

'Hey, that's not how you throw the ball." A boy shouted. Another intervened in his support. Mommies looked and ignored as this was no serious matter. All the kids who were playing were wont to play their every single day. There wasn't a newcomer on the scene.

Arguments ensued, however. In the group of the bigger kids was one non-Indian child. I wish not to disclose the racial identity of that non-Indian child because of two reasons - One, I don't deem it necessary. Two, I do not want others to hold or form any prejudice for anyone whatsoever. So, the non-Indian child approached the Mommies and told him that the other kids were being rude to him and were singling him out. Then he said, " My mom doesn't like my playing with Indian kids. She asks me not to be around Indians."

This shocked me. I was speechless for a moment. My mind was looking for something right to say. I wanted to tell the little child that he was so young to be holding a prejudice of this kind in his heart. I wanted to tell him how utterly mistaken his mom was. But I did not want to belittle a mother in her child's eyes. So I was quiet.

Then I told him that it was not an appropriate statement to make. I explained to him in simple words that they were all children and no-body harbored any ill-feeling whatsoever for each other. It was momentary anger and if they talked the matter out, all would end well. He listened and so did the Indian kids. Apologies were exchanged and the play resumed.

But we Mommies were stunned. It was a shock that would take some time to get over with.

My heart felt sorry for the mom who was not just cultivating bias in her heart. She knowingly or otherwise, was starting to contaminate the pure heart of an innocent child. This world is already ailing, do we need any more diseases? I questioned myself.

I grieved in my heart, for what I had thought was a child's play could one day take an ugly form. I dreaded that.

As parents what is our first duty to our child? Is mere formal education enough? Giving them the opportunity to study in good schools and colleges, providing them good clothes to wear, healthy food to eat, a secure roof to live under - is that enough? Who will forfend the plague of prejudice from afflicting their lives? Who will nurture in them the qualities of fairness and equality? We try to save them from the 'bad' elements around us. We try to keep them away from violence in the media. Who will save them from our own faults? Who will shield them from our own turbulent mentalities?

Will it not be a colossal parenting failure if a strong foundation of an unbiased conscience is not laid?
What will we weep for when our kids flounder? Will we weep for our faults or their loss?

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Linking it to Day 7 of Write Tribe Festival of Words # 5

(Today is the last day of the seven-day Write Tribe Festival of Words # 5. It was my first time I tried posting every day in my blogging experience. I was able to post for seven consecutive days, and I tried to read and interact with most of the bloggers who had participated in this festival. In case I have missed you, I am sorry. All in all, the past week was very busy as I had my two kids who decided to fall sick on the very first day of the festival. But somehow, everything was managed and taken care of. With a sore back, and tired eyes, I also have a sense of satisfaction and utter joy. I wish to thank Corinne Rodrigues and all Write Tribers for encouraging me and making this a fruitful experience.)

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Darkness Scares Me Not...

Food for Goddess

I am an India - What is my Culture?

The Pain of Sweet Memories......

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I recently came across this poem by D.H.Lawrence. The novelist is famous for his exploration of repressed emotions and Oedipal conflict in some of his major works. This poem was a pleasant discovery. While I tried to locate Lawrence in the poem, my mind took me away to a time in future when I would be old and my son would remember the times when he was little and together we had played at the piano. It was nostalgia of a different kind.

Then my mind hovered back to my nest of childhood. I saw my mother singing ghazals. I saw my grandfather reading his newspaper while my grandmother opened her trunks to show me her crochet shawls she had done when she was young. I heard the hearty laughter of my father from the basement where his office was. The door to the basement stairs was ajar and I was spying to hear his joke and tell my mom. All I could hear was his laugh - energetic and unrestrained. I then saw my brother taking me back home from school. He was teasing me since once again I had failed to notice that our car was parked right in front and I had passed it and climbed the school-bus. He had honked but I was lost in my own world. I didn't hear and I didn't see. And he made a good joke out of it. Okay, I seemed angry at first but I joined him soon. He was so lively, how could his spirit not touch my soul. 

Just then, I felt my cheeks were wet. Ah, tears....they were so slippery, I could not contain them longer. Taking a deep breath, I wiped them and looked around. What was it about memories? They made us smile, they made us cry, and still we clung to them as if they were the oars that would help us sail in the ocean of life. We held on to them as if they were the wings that would help us fly when the stormy wind tried to lead us to unknown paths.

How far had I come, I thought. Physically, I could never touch my grandparents, my father and my brother any more. They were on unknown shores on unseen lands. I saw them sometimes in my dreams, but just like dreams, they vanished when I opened my eyes. I wanted to touch my mom but we sat miles away from one another. But her presence was a solace. Like a light-house she shines, guiding me from afar, frustrating my fears, encouraging me to sail on.

Was I happy at that moment? I cannot say. I was happy to relive the past. But it was gone now, and that gave me pain. I missed my brother the most for I could not say my good-bye to him when he departed. Since I could not talk to him, I wrote this for him. May be his soul can read it.

The Tales I Will Tell

I wasn't born just a daughter 

But a sister too - 

A sister to you....

To me you were

Part of my childhood,

My other essence

Like two buds of the same plant

We grew together

Fighting for sunshine and space

Blooming despite the stormy winds

Striding many paths

Crossing many hurdles

And then one day, I decided to uproot myself -

Landing on alien soil

I persisted

While you floundered 

On familiar grounds

I knew not you would wither away

Leaving me alone

Stranded 

Abandoned

You always called yourself 'big'

Boasted you would forever be elder to me

As you were born before me

But as I venture forward with my beating heart,

And age 

I search for you

Futilely

Vainly

Wanting to tell you

I have put more miles to my strides than you

Wanting to brag about my age

To show you I have more candles on the cake than yours

But also to tell you

I never wanted to be 'bigger' to you

That even when you are gone

You still remain and will forever be my 'Big' brother….

Our childhood has vanished

Just like you

But our memories will be carried forward

In the tales I will tell

About you and me

Tales of a little sister and her 'big' brother.....

Linking to IndiSpire Edition 126

Linking to Day 6 of Write Tribe Festival of Words # 5

Auschwitz Mug

A sip for meaningless survival

Hides my heritage

In danger of being looted...

Its sanctity concealed from prying eyes

A legacy sequestered by a fake layer

An heirloom meant to be flaunted but 

Not in times like these

A love that ought to be proclaimed loud but 

Spoken only in whispers here

A hope buried to protect it.

Ah the irony!

I wish you live even when I die.

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I wrote this poem after reading an article on Huffington Post - Heartbreaking New Discovery At Auschwitz As Jewelry Found Hidden Inside A Mug . The pictures of the mug seemed to speak to me distantly but distinctly. You can see read more on this and see more pictures here. 

Linking to Day 5 of Write Tribe Festival of Words # 5