THE SINGING WELL

There was once a tiny radio.

The elders always called it transistor.

I don’t know why.

Its name was radio!

The radio was tiny but the sound it made was big.

So big, that if it was played in one end of the big house it was in, it could be heard at the other end!

The five sisters in the house loved the radio.

They would all sit together listening to songs while they helped their mother with her chores.

They would memorize the songs and sing along with it.

Sometimes, it would play even while they studied in the light that the kerosene lamps threw on their books.

The radio was their friend and companion.

There were books of course. And children’s magazines.

But if someone asked them who their best friend was, they would all say, RADIO!

There was no TV then. Or telephones.And no electricity.

But no one noticed because their radio was always there for them – to entertain them, to tell them stories from all over the world and to sing them to sleep.

One day after school, when they turned the radio on, it began to cough, stutter and stammer.

Father walked over to the radio and removed its batteries.

It had four huge batteries.

Father put in four new batteries and turned the radio on.

It groaned at first and then began to sing as usual.

“There. Your radio will never stop singing now,” he said.

The girls clapped their hands in glee.

One day, the girls put the radio on the wall of their favourite well.

Their house had three wells but this one was their favourite because they had seen it being dug and

there was a lot of room to run around near this well.

They were playing ball today.

Do you know what happened next?

That’s right.

While the girls were playing, the ball slipped out of a hand and fell on the ground.

But it did not stay there.

It bounced.

The girls looked at the ball with horror as it bounced towards the well.

And before they could stop it, the ball hit the radio and fell into the well.

Splash.

The radio moved and fell sideways into the well too.

SPLASH!

The five girls ran to the well but the radio was nowhere to be seen.

Sadly, they walked back to their big house and stayed indoors for the rest of the day.

That night, father saw them all sad.

They told him about the radio.

Father quietly stood up, opened the big door of the big house and stepped outside.

The girls followed him.

It was a starry night.

They saw their father’s shadow walking towards the well.

“Listen carefully,” father said.

The girls stared at the well and tried to listen.

They could only hear the tadpoles and the crickets.

Father looked at the youngest daughter and asked her to sing her favourite song, the one she had heard on the radio.

She started singing.

The other four sisters joined in.

Father only knew the first few lines but he hummed beautifully for the rest of the song.

Mother looked at them from the kitchen and smiled.

Years have gone by.

The four younger sisters have grown up and work as engineers.

The eldest sister however got the best job.

She became my mom.

And till date, she tells me the beautiful tale of the singing well. 

Instant photo, bees rupya

I have a theory. If you visit the Gateway of India on a Sunday or on a public holiday, you will easily appear in at least a thousand pictures. People click pictures on their phones, smartphones, tablets and cameras both compact and DSLRs. Among those using the DSLR cameras are the 300 odd photographers who'll give you a piece of your memory for twenty rupees a print.

When I last visited the Gateway, I was struck by a thought. These photographers click everyone. No one clicks these photographers. I tell this to M.K. Das, one of the many photographers. He laughs. Quickly, he finds someone to click us. 

With Mr. M.K. Das

I reached the Gateway today, armed with my Nikon Coolpix and a random set of questions, hardly a questionnaire. The objective was to catch these memory-makers in action, talk to them and know who they are.

It wasn't easy to get them talking, especially on a Sunday. Today is when the monument gets the maximum footfalls. A good day for business. I overheard two photographers discussing how there are more locals than tourists today. Not so good a business day then.

Das has been clicking tourists here since '88 when he was twenty. He roars with laughter when I tell him I was born in 1986. An average working day begins at 11 and ends with daylight at 8, the last few frames aided by the yellow beam on the heritage structure. 

With Mr. Tulsi Rai

I talk to Tulsi Rai who's been clicking at the Gateway for 15 years. Where's he from? He takes a bit to respond, Jharkhand. I made a mental note to avoid similar questions at the very beginning of the conversation. Both Mukes (M.K. Das) and I are from the same village in Jharkhand. I tell him about my photographer-clicking spree. He smiles and nods and gets another photographer to click us. Does he do only this? Rai works in a pub sometimes, clicking at their events. He gets a hundred rupees per photo there.

How did he end up here? There were relatives in Bombay. I used to come here with them whenever I visited. Then one day, I just stayed back, Rai says.

Ranjit, sipping tea from a plastic cup approaches me with the usual sales pitch. Bolo sir, instant photo, bees rupya. I tell him I want a picture with him. He shakes his head and says Mein sirf apne biwi ke saath photo khichaata hoon. It was my turn to laugh. I raised my hand for a hi-five but he had the cup in one hand and an umbrella in another. He gave me a fist bump with the umbrella hand.

Babu saw me trying to talk to him into posing for a picture. Ranjit ran. Babu and I chased him and got this one. Win win situation. I got this picture. He did not pose.

Chasing Ranjit

On a good day, Rai says he makes an average of Rs. 450. Paisa kamaane ka apna apna line dhoondhna padta hai. I agree with him. I wish I could find mine. I ask Das if he manages to make a living with this money. Chal jaata hai, he says.

Maqsood came to the city 4-5 months ago after passing his tenth. He has to send money back home in Karimganj, near Silchar in Assam.

Maqsood

He lightens up when I tell him I was in Guwahati and Silchar last year. He lost his father. His maternal uncles work on boats at the Gateway, he says. Is that how he got here? There are more maamas here, photographers. Idhar sab maama hai he says.

What do I do? Das wants to know. I tell him I am a jobless writer. He nods knowingly and says he knew I was ‘something like that’. Apparently my questions gave me away. So you make stories. I nod, somewhat glad that he put it that way.

Many photographers like Fulesh (from Bihar) and Ranjit refused to be photographed. I don't know whether to file that under 'You are afraid of what you don't understand' or ‘the ghosts of past experiences.’

I'm glad some of these people spoke to me. I wish I could ask them more questions. They were busy and I was growing tired of walking in the rain. After spending around three hours clicking and talking with my flashy friends at the Gateway, I left for a late lunch.

P.S: Both Both Das and Rai refused to accept money. They said this is the first time someone thought of clicking them. Isko aap gipht samjho.

Some more clicks from today:

The poor man's bubble bath.

Their equivalent of a 'water-cooler' chat.

Families taking pains to convince their baby to look into the camera and smile.

This is how photographers have fun in their mundane job: Make tourists do stupid poses.

This is how photographers have fun in their mundane job: Make tourists do stupid poses.

Sometimes, they pose too.

The printer that has made 'photography' easy. Apparently, people who used to do 'monkey-business' have now become photographers.

The Grand Taj.

The End.