Photographer’s Note:

I think it was in the month of February, 2010. I love the sea. I would visit Chennai’s Marina Beach frequently and, being a photographer, my attention was naturally drawn towards the open photo studios on the beach. Open, because each ‘studio’ comprises a makeshift stall or booth and people are actually photographed outside these, on the sands of the beach. Though just shacks, their presence is a fixture of sorts on Marina Beach. Each of these ‘studios’ have cardboard cutouts of Tamil and Hindi film stars. These cutouts seem to wait for their fans by the waters of the Bay of Bengal. After minimal makeup, people—young boys and girls mostly—select their favourite stars and get photographed with the cutouts. In a few minutes, they receive a maxi printout of themselves— hugging, holding or simply grinning next to the star. Photographers charge Rs. 25 for a print, provided there is only one star in the picture. If a customer chooses to be photographed with two or more stars, the price goes up accordingly. The photographers try desperately to solicit clients during the weekdays, often calling out to random passersby. But during the weekends crowds throng these open studios and customers, photographers, and even the cardboard stars, seem to be wearing permanent smiles on their faces.

What especially struck me about these ‘studios’ was how eager people were to have their photographs clicked with these cutouts. It was almost as if they were sharing moments, inside their head, with the real stars. I thought I must capture these moments too.

Gripped by this idea, I began frequenting Marina Beach for this purpose alone. There are many studios at the beach. I would sometimes spend many days in one studio, looking for the best moments. Then, for some periods, I would spend every day in a different studio, to get a greater variety of photographs. Though I could have easily staged the pictures—as my subjects were posing for a camera anyway—I did not manipulate a single shot. Instead, my essay captures subjects posing for another camera. So, even though my subjects are seen posing, in many of the pictures, you can call these candid images in a way.

Though I usually interact a lot more with my subjects, in this case I kept a distance. I did not even ask them their names. I decided this essay would not be in the nature of a documentary, but rather a stringing together of a series of moments that so many different human beings have shared with what in fact are pieces of cardboard.

Having found my process the shoot was not difficult. The photo-stall owners were too busy soliciting and photographing their customers to bother with me. And my subjects were getting themselves clicked either way— so they didn’t mind an additional photographer on the spot.

But it took two and a half years, during which I kept returning to the beach, before I was satisfied that I had captured enough moments to be able to curate this essay. Then to choose the pictures that would comprise the essay I sifted through the lot, seeking out those that, to my mind, made for interesting moments and compositions. This, so far, has been my only photo-feature which is related to the ‘entertainment’ or TV and film industry, so to speak.

At one level this is a simple story of how people are fond of their favourite film stars, and how eager they are to be photographed with them. Yet, at another level, it also reminds you of what’s behind an actor’s stardom— the camera. The camera, controlled by the director and cinematographer, is what grants an actor his or her ‘limelight’. And maybe pieces of that limelight are what all those people getting photographs clicked with cardboard cutouts at Marina Beach are looking for too.

– Fawzan Husain

Photographer’s Note

“I’ve loved cinema halls since I was a child. Theatres were where I watched most movies back then— I was fascinated by the posters, the dark exhibition room, the projection of the characters I was so enthralled by, on a giant screen… So, in the second year of my photography course at Dhaka’s Pathshala South Asian Media Institute, in November 2010, I decided to photograph the Manoshi Cinema at Old Dhaka. Why? Because the theatre has stood for 72 years now, and documenting it would mean documenting a significant chunk of Dhaka’s film watching history, right through Bangladeshi cinema’s ‘golden age’— which is said to have existed from the 1960s up to the 1980s. This was the era of acclaimed Bangladeshi filmmakers like Zahir Raihan, Khan Ataur Rahman and Alamgir Kabir, each of whose works I have grown to admire.

“Also, interestingly, Manoshi’s manager said to me that it was given its name by India’s poet laureate Rabindranath Tagore. He said that the theatre’s owner had known Tagore, and that when the former had asked the poet to suggest a name Tagore had suggested the title of one of his poems: Manoshi, meaning ‘very dear’.

“The manager had refused to let me shoot inside the theatre at first. It took me many hours of persuading to convince him to allow me to. Before beginning my essay I also spoke at length with the staff at the theatre— some of whom have been working here for more than 50 years. And I chatted with those who would come to watch movies at Manoshi. Even after I began photographing the theatre, I would catch people in the movie intervals and chat casually about what they made of a movie, or who their favourite actor was.

“Since the last decade the kind of films that show at Manoshi are, mostly, low-budget action movies. The audience which earlier comprised families from the middle or upper classes (during the ‘golden age’), has transformed now into men from lower income groups. Shakib Khan is the favourite hero of most Manoshi regulars. Khan, who made his debut in 1999 with Anonto Bhalobasha (Unending Love), is today the highest paid actor in the Bangladeshi film industry. He is especially known for action blockbusters like Tiger Number One, or Boss Number One. Both these movies, released in 2011, were among the year’s biggest hits.

I shot this essay over a year, and still keep visiting the theatre, whenever I have time, to see if I can add to it. The most difficult part was shooting the audience while a movie was on. Arifur Rahman Munir, a classmate, would accompany me, carrying a flash bulb. I’d like to mention here that without Munir’s help I wouldn’t have been able to complete this essay. Sometimes, when we used the flash on viewers during a movie, they would get very angry. They would threaten to rough us up. But it was worth it. For me, since childhood, cinema’s most attractive sound has been the reaction of an audience. The cheers and jeers. The whistles, hoots and applause. Shooting the audience while they watched these movies was my way of resurrecting this magical sound, and memory, on camera.”

Certain episodes reshaped my life and changed its course entirely. I know not who makes such incidents happen. But whosoever he might be, I am eternally grateful to him. My tryst with the camera is one such episode. Let alone photography, I didn’t even know how to click a camera. It was probably 1967 or 1968. A card session was on in full swing in my house.

Most of my friends, Shubhendu (Chattopadhyay), Bhanu-da (Ghosh), Bansi (Chandragupta), were associated with films. I was never any good at cards. It was sometime in the afternoon. Snacks were being served— the card game and light refreshment going on together. I stood near the window and was munching some muri (parched rice). I was to leave for rehearsals a little later. I was completely immersed in theatre at that time. A friend of mine suddenly turned up and said that someone had left behind a fixed-lens camera in a taxi. Another friend of his had already offered him a sum of six hundred rupees for the camera. Something clicked in my mind, and I told him, “Look, you owe me two hundred forty rupees. You give me the camera and the loan is as good as repaid. Now, you better decide which to choose— business or friendship.” Sure enough, he left the camera with me. I examined it but could make nothing of it. Realizing my predicament, one of my friends, Jaipratap Mitra, an assistant cameraman, decided to help. Bhanu-da suggested he would arrange for film rolls. Thus, with the help of my friends, in a short span of time, I started viewing everything through the lens of my camera.

***

My friends and I were in the habit of spontaneous outings. Let me mention here that this habit has never left me, despite advancing age. To tell the truth, I have never devoted much time to any of my three children. But still they have been brought up well. The full credit for this goes to my brothers and my wife Sibani. In fact, we all lived together. And perhaps it is because of the benefits of living in a joint family that I could, and even now can, take such risks. I met Sibani only after our wedding and we have been together for over fifty years now. Meanwhile, I quit my job, stopped acting on stage, spent thousands on film. When fathers of other children escorted them to examination halls, I would perhaps be out on some outdoor shooting or, intoxicated with photography, on the lookout for some other shoot. My wife has never complained about such escapades. Even when I missed many social functions she took responsibility and made excuses for me. She has always demonstrated ample faith in me and my pursuits.

One Saturday, we boarded a train for Barddhaman— the Canon camera and two rolls of film with me. What awaited us there was beyond our wildest dreams. Our host at Barddhaman—a friend of mine—told us that Satyajit Ray was shooting for Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne at nearby Rampurhat. Robi-da, the director of our drama group Chalachal, was playing an important role in the film. I thought, well I could try killing two birds with a stone: see him on the job, and take his photograph also. We were all quite excited! But having reached there we learned that the shoot had been cancelled for the day. The unit was busy rehearsing a shot, one that later fascinated film lovers the world over— the shot in which drops of water drip from leaves and fall on Bagha’s drum. I don’t know what possessed me then. As if in a trance I felt my finger pressing the shutter on the camera. I finished both rolls of film. We returned to Kolkata the following day. I went straight to the then famous Studio Renaissance in Ballygunj, owned by Bhupendra Kumar Sanyal, more popularly known as Mej-da. Leading filmmakers and creative artists of the time like Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Ritwik Ghatak, Tapan Sinha and Ravi Shankar used to frequent his studio in those days. Perhaps my association with theatre gave me the courage to go to the studio to develop my films, for there was no reason he would pay any heed to a small fry like me. It transpired that Mr. Sanyal had seen me on stage and liked my performance too. That is why I could gather enough courage to hand over the two rolls to him. He took them and with a grave face entered the darkroom.

I waited in eager anticipation, my heart thumping against my ribcage. Each moment seemed like an endless hour. Mej-da was sure to come out and say in his enigmatic voice, “Well, you were doing fine in theatre. Why then this sudden craze for photography?” Mej-da came out of the darkroom. The first thing he did was pinch me on the belly and then he kissed my forehead and said, “Go ahead, you will succeed in photography.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I heard it right? This, after just a few days of holding the camera in my hand for the first time. His words still ring in my ears. Praise from such an experienced man in the field gave me a lot of strength and encouragement.

My excitement knew no bounds. I went on showing those pictures to others. I still vividly remember my joy and surprise at the pleasant response to those photographs. Of course, I did not have the slightest inkling even then as to how the camera would change my life completely. It was then that Bansi Chandragupta, who used to address Satyajit Ray by his first name, suggested to me that I show Manik-da the photographs. “Whom?” I asked him in amazement. He replied, “Why! Manik, of course. He is shooting for Goopy Gyne… these days at Tollygunj. Just drop in sometime with these pictures.”

***

One afternoon a few days later, I dropped by at the studio at Tollygunj, Bansi-da took the packet and said, “Manik, have a look at these photographs.” While Manik-da looked at the photographs, I hid behind Bansi-da, nervously watching the six-foot-two-inch man as he attentively went through the photographs shot by an amateur like me. To say I was excited would be an understatement. He finally spoke. “Who has taken these photographs?” Bansi-da moved aside, pointed towards me and said, “This boy, he is Nemai, Nemai Ghosh.” Manik-da looked at me and in his deep baritone said, “You have done it exactly the way I would have, man, you have got the same angles!” I was ecstatic! I remember having gooseflesh out of sheer thrill and suspense. Much time has passed since then, but that excitement, I can still feel within me. Even today, when I write about that incident I feel that same excitement so palpably. Then he himself escorted me to the sets. And that was my initiation. Soon I found myself in the company of experienced people with modern cameras in hand. It took me a while to get used to the whole ambience. That I could, was perhaps because of the towering personality of Manik-da, which overshadowed everything around him. Completely overwhelmed by all that I saw around me, I was fascinated by my subject— the magnetic presence of the filmmaker as auteur. My lens captured various poses of that intense, self-contained man— the minute trembling of his fingers; the way he sat, walked, the poise with which he stood. I still held in my hand that Canon fixed-lens camera.

***

Some members of Manik-da’s unit used to meet in the evening at a shop in our neighbourhood. Present at such a gathering, were his art director Bansi Chandragupta, sound recorder Sujit Sarkar, production controller Bhanu Ghosh and many others. They usually discussed the minute details of the day’s shooting and also the artistic skills of the filmmaker. In time, I too became a part of the adda. I found myself drawn to it every day on my way back home from my rehearsals. It was like an addiction. However, to begin with, I was only a listener. I wondered when I would know enough to be able to discuss the nitty gritties of working with Manik-da. It used to depress me a little, but I would invariably gravitate to their adda every evening. In retrospect, I realize that this adda acted like an inspiration for me. It would remove the pain of being away from Manik-da. I could feel his personality radiate through his work and the various discussions on it. And that was what kept me going. It gave me a sense of confidence. Someday, I would also be able, like they were then, to tell his story.

***

Meeting Manik-da on the sets was like a dream for me. But there was a big gap between that dream and reality. I was the eldest of my brothers and was married about ten years prior to my first meeting with Manik-da. As the head of a joint family, married, and having children of my own, I had many responsibilities. I was always worried whether I would ever be able to devote myself fully to the fulfilment of my dream. On the one hand, there was my stable, ten-to-five job which would sustain my family, and on the other hand was my first love— theatre. Even in the face of such harsh realities, I visited Manik-da’s set whenever I had spare time. When Bhanu-da told me that Manik-da had framed the photographs I had taken and hung them in his bedroom, I was greatly motivated.

***

After that first meeting when I showed him my photographs, I met Manik-da again on the sets of Goopy Gyne... I was there for about seven or eight shoots. But even within such a short span of time, I saw the man in some of his lonelier moments. Usually, Manik-da never left the sets during lunchtime. Since I was not a member of the unit, I couldn’t accompany the others during breaks. As a result, I studied him from a distance, through my lens.

Once, I saw him standing alone and playing a dundubhi (a kettledrum). On another occasion, I saw him lying on the floor and looking at the ceiling; at times I would see him raising his hands above his head in deep contemplation. I noticed that a sign of his deep anxiety or serious contemplation was biting a handkerchief or the pipe. Sometimes, he would whistle a tune, oblivious to the surroundings. For my photographs of Manik-da which show him laughing heartily, I am deeply indebted to my actor friend Kamu Mukhopadhyay. While I would take different positions—sometimes sitting, sometimes lying, or even standing at precarious angles—Kamu would stand behind me and imitate my pose, making Manik-da break into a loud guffaw. One morning I came to know that he was leaving for Santiniketan the next day by an early morning train, travelling first class. I bought a third-class ticket and boarded his compartment. He was deeply engrossed in reading a book. I was sure he had not seen me. I clicked away. It was much later that I realized that he had seen everything. When the train halted at a station, he alighted, bought two earthen cups of tea and offered me one. Manik-da was an early riser. I used to visit him at his place at six-thirty in the morning. In fact, that was the only time he was free and did not have visitors. Later on, of course, there was no fixed time for me to visit his house. His door was always open. He was always at work. I hardly ever saw him sit idle. Manik-da would get ready by six and come to his drawing room where I would present him with all the contact sheets of my photographs. He would scrutinize these and mark the ones he liked. I still retain those contact sheets. There were occasions when Manik-da would not tick certain photographs that appealed to me. When I asked him, he would explain, like a teacher instructing a student, why those were not good in all respects. Some shots might have been good but the background was not proper. This is how I learnt the art of perfect photography from him.

One thing surprised me then and it strikes me even now. Despite all the name and fame he had attained, he had an uncanny ability to guide any newcomer towards his goal. But he used to get annoyed if someone wanted him to demonstrate how to do something. His mantra was ‘do it yourself’, though he would act as a guide every step of the way. He would judge a man through his attempts and then guide him in a manner that he could easily follow. In my judgement, he was one of the best actors in the world. I can prove it through my photographs.

Excerpted from Manikda: Memories of Satyajit Ray by Nemai Ghosh, courtesy of Harper Collins. You can purchase the book here

These photographs are part of Nemai Ghosh’s archive of nearly 1,20,000 images, built over a lifetime of work, now housed at the Delhi Art Gallery. The gallery is currently showing an exhibition titled ‘Nemai Ghosh: Satyajit Ray and Beyond’. The exhibition showcases Ghosh’s photographs of Satyajit Ray and his films, as well as his lesser known, but equally extensive documentation of both mainstream Hindi as well as Bengali cinema. It is on till January 28, 2013 at Delhi Art Gallery, 11 Hauz Khas Village, Hauz Khas, Delhi, from 11 am to 7 pm. The exhibition can also be viewed at www.delhiartgallery.com

– Fawzan Husain

As part of his project Dress Circle, between 2003-2005 Shahid Datawala began exploring the business of B and C grade films in the Chandni Chowk area of Old Delhi where most of the small time distributors had their offices. They worked within the area— transporting film from Chandni Chowk  to Paharganj and Dai Wara and other surrounding neighborhoods.  Films were transported in cans by coolies from one distributor’s office to another or to the theatres.

Datawala believes in keeping a distance from his subjects which limits his interaction with them. He believes in experiencing the equation with his subjects on his own terms, and not getting manipulated by inputs the subjects would provide him, or not. He even eschews the term ‘photographer’ with its documentary connotations and prefers to call himself a ‘lens-based artist’ instead. He was not out to document the Can Coolies, he says. His interest in their work was purely visual and aesthetic. As a result he can only speculate that they were paid about Rs 80, 100 or 150 on a daily basis, depending on how much film was to be carried. And that they possibly got a little extra if they had to hire a rickshaw. He doesn’t know where they are from or what they make of their job.

Text by Alyssa Lobo

– Fawzan Husain

Sheetal Mallar went into Aram Nagar with TBIP and came away with these impressions

Photographer’s note:

“Aram Nagar really felt as the name describes it to be. It’s relaxed and most residents there live at their own pace. Having said that the production houses and casting studios with actors and models going in and out all day make it quite the opposite of what the name suggests. A lot of these aspiring actors make rounds of the places everyday, regardless of whether or not auditions are actually happening. They come around in the hope that they might get noticed by one of these studios and their dream of being in a Bollywood film, or on television, would come true. Their optimism is inspiring. The dilapidated MHADA board is a constant reminder to the residents that their homes can be taken away from them. The large potholes and puddles do not bother anyone. They’ve become a part of Aram Nagar and its vibe. The casual settings of production houses of popular films, with young assistant directors hanging out and having chai with the guard, just fits into the ambience of the place. But despite it’s laid back pace, Aram Nagar is a reminder of the huge impact cinema has on our lives in the city.

“To shoot this essay I made several trips to Aram Nagar and walked around the area meeting models and actors who came for auditions, and chatting with them. Some of them shared their frustrations and insecurities about surviving in the city, while still trying to hold on to their dreams. Their stories were intriguing, and touching. I met some of the older residents who told me stories of themselves as well as other residents and production houses. Stories about what the area meant to them. There were endless stories about MHADA and the proposed redevelopment of the area, whereby the homes of those who stay here will be demolished, and what some residents have done to fight this.