The Business of Being Parisian...2

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Like London or Delhi or Bombay or New York, Paris is more than one city. There's the Paris of the garish tourists, for no outsider can match the finesse and grace of the true Parisian, and there's the Paris of the classic and nonthreatening seediness, if there's a such a thing, in Montmartre. There's the Paris where I narrowly avoided being robbed*, and there's the Paris of the puppet artist who shooed away an ice cream quaffing American from his shop but warmly welcomed wide-eyed me. There's Hausmann's Paris, of course, and weaving through all of this is the Paris of the Parisians, where they go about the seemingly uniquely cliquey business of being Parisian.

It all comes together in a sort of unreal utopian fairy tale unlike a London or Delhi or Bombay or New York - the wonderland that Paris is, to me.




*Not exactly a  hold-up, but boarding the RER train, I caught a girl trying to open my bag that was carelessly slung on my shoulder. She disappeared before I could react, leaving me very indignant indeed. Well, served me right for being a careless tourist. I clung on to my belongings for dear life for the next three days in the city. And no, this episode did nothing at all to spoil my Parisian fairytale - if you've been watching this blog lately, you might have guessed that. :)

The Business of Being Parisian

Others from Paris, here

Another London Series | The People Of Shepherd's Bush Market

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I turn my attention to the people. If you take my skin colour and match it with the rest of the population milling about in Shepherd's Bush Market, it'll probably be close to the average. Brown.

As a brown-skinned and clearly Indian-featured woman, I should blend in, but I stand out with my camera and attire - just as it was in Brick Lane. I document the reactions to me and my camera - and suddenly I'm the subject - a change from the usual routine of being the observer, the photographer.

Some men wave and strike a pose.

Some shyly wave, and then blush furiously.

"Don't kill him with your camera, now!" joked a black man watching me click this sweet Sikh shopkeeper.

I click a shop sign while the Sikh owner watches me with a smile.

"Give me a pound"

"Excuse me?"
"Give me a pound", he repeats.
"Why?!"
"Because you clicked my shop sign" he grins.
I give him a look, shake my head and smile that says "nice try Mister" without saying it aloud. We both know the other is Indian. I walk away, as he laughs.

Some others deliberately saunter into the frame and pretend to be nonchalant about it (a typical behavioural trait of Indian men)

Yet some others are unaware of me - too drunk to notice, too taken by the glittery pawnshop.

I notice an elderly gentleman watching me from a distance, for the fourth or fifth time. He seems to be appraising me - perhaps curious, perhaps suspicious; I cannot say. He himself looked a bit out of place in this setting.

But the women are different. They do not want my camera on them. Some turn their backs on me, a bit arrogantly at times.

Some look away deliberately.

And some just go on with their business even though they know I'm clicking them - which is both a relief (after the men's reactions) and a bit unsettling at the same time.

She looked up at me once and I smiled at her. She just went back to her work. I could have been invisible.

But some women tear out of the frame! I had to put away the camera and reassure a couple of very scared hijab-wearing young women that I did not take their picture, that I was only clicking the signboard above their heads. I have to repeat myself a couple of times, gently, firmly, asking them not to worry. I do wonder what scared them so much. It couldn't have been me, they were only threatened by my camera.

****

As I walk out of the market, I hear two men calling out to me in Hindi in that leering way that only Indian men of a certain type can.
"Kya baat hai badi photo le rahe ho!" (What's with all the photography, then?! - loosely translated and said in a leery tone)
Hello?! Oh Hello!
I pretend not to hear and decide it's time to go home.

****

On the bus back (I live a few miles away), a small, scared looking Bangladeshi man hesitantly approaches me. In faltering English he asks me why I took a picture of him in the market. I say I'm not sure I did.
"Are you from TV?", he asks, looking extremely worried.
I say no.
"Then why you take picture of me?"
"I don't think I took a picture of you specifically, but I was clicking the market, I do these things..."
"You click why?"
"I click London because I like it"
He finally relaxes.
"Where will these photos go? Print?"
"On my blog, my website"
"How can I look at it? I want to see because I think you click me and I would like to see my photo"
"I can give you the website address if you want"
He breaks into a smile. "Yes please"
"Do you have a piece of paper?", I ask as I pull out my pen.
He rummages through all his pockets and finally hands me his oyster card. Thankfully my pen is a Sharpie. I scribble the url down and hand it back to him. He takes it, tries to read it aloud "ffll.... OK, thank you very much".

Dear Bengali gentleman, I don't know why you were so worried. I went through all my pictures carefully and you were nowhere in them. Sorry!

The other Mumbai wakes up

Early on a Sunday morning, the Fort area of south Bombay ought to be deserted. No throngs of suits and ties, no briefcases and cellphones, no long and short cars, and traffic jams and honking and cursing, and sweating policemen just barely managing to keep a semblance of sanity in the chaos. None of it.

The suits are in pajamas at home sleeping off the week and the traffic policemen are yet to arrive on duty. I expect to find a deserted Fort. It is strikingly different, but as I look around I realise I have unwittingly wandered into the morning rituals of the other Mumbai - those who have no weekends.

For, work must still be done for that wage that will buy today's dinner for the family. That walk to work must still be done. That bus caught. That cycle trip made. Sunday is not a weekend. There are no weekends.

Teeth must be brushed before those gas cylinders are delivered.
Hair must be brushed before the day's business starts.
Last night's laundry must be picked up from the park fence before a bird ruins it. Rubbish must be cleared.

I'm clearly the outsider: Who is this woman toting a camera? She isn't supposed to be here so early on a Sunday.

Pictures must be posed for.

"Didi, humaari bhi photo le lo"
(Big Sister, please click a picture of us too)
Lots of posing and giggling ensues.

"Maddum, hum bhi khinchwale?" she asked shyly.
(Madam, Can I also have one?)
I loved her smile.

"Arre Maddum, lage haath meri bhi le lo!"
(Oh Madam, while you're at it, please take one of me too!)
Strikes a pose, pretends to talk on the phone. Never mind the trash in the foreground.

It's always like this on Indian streets. It's more endearing than annoying. I click, while an amused old taxi driver watches. I train my camera on him, but he doesn't flinch.

Back to morning business - tobacco and choona (lime) must be shared, over routine morning greetings.

"Arre Maddumji, ye kaunse aqhbaar mein chhapegi?!"
(Hey, Madam! In what newspaper will this picture get published?)

I smile and shake my head to indicate a no and walk on. Perhaps I should have explained what a blog is. But the sun was getting higher in the sky and sweat was streaming down my back. It would have taken too long - too long for my comfort.

Meanwhile, the old taxi driver is still watching. He's smiling now. One more picture to let him know that I know he's watching. He could have been a statue.

Up on the road, business has already begun. The first customer of the day, the first few rupees. That heavy delivery of potatoes that will take hours on a cycle. The posh shop front must be prepared for its posh customers. The underwear drying on the plants must be removed.

Someone else cycles past me and waves me a loud hello. He's faster than my camera. My car's waiting, the driver slouching in air conditioned comfort, probably wondering what the hell I'm up to, but too polite to ask. I want to stay and watch some more, but I'm drenched in sweat now. I'm not used to this. The rest of Mumbai is still asleep.

I glance back before I sit in the car. The taxi driver is still watching me, his smile wider - the kind of indulgent smile that the elderly reserve for what they consider the foolish young. I laugh and take one last picture.

Mumbai Disturbia

There's a Sanskrit word with its roots in Indian Hindu philosophy and mythology called "Maya" - meaning illusion, something that embodies duality - that, which changes face and confuses our perception of reality in daily life.

Mumbai, the city, epitomises Maya.

That, which glitters with hope for millions in small town and rural India; that, which carries the honourable plaque of the financial hub of the country, that utopian dream that can make millionaires out of rag-pickers - that temptress, which attracts so many to it only to send most of them plunging into its dystopian reality, a world, ironically, full of disillusion.

Few of us are alien to Mumbai's dark underbelly - glorified as it is by the Slumdogs and Salaam Bombays. But walk right into its scenes when you least expect to, when you haven’t been in the city long enough at a stretch to be sufficiently inured to it, and it can disturb deeply.

On my last leg of my India trip last month, I spent two days in Bombay (as I still like to call it). Rose early on a Sunday morning to get a few shots of my favourite part of the city and to get a few shots for Metrotwin Mumbai. Shots of NGMA done, pleased with myself , pleased with the shots I had managed to take, I started walking towards my waiting car, the city only just stirring into action around me. This is when I spotted this little girl, sweeping a small patch of the street, all alone.

Why did I stop and notice her? It was the way she was dressed, the look on her face – she was an anomaly to the hordes of street children one comes across on Bombay’s streets. She wasn’t in tatters; she wore a clean frock and her hair in two neat pigtails. She couldn’t have been over 5. She was so vulnerable. I moved towards her, hoping to speak to her – suddenly she looked up and ran away. I followed, hoping to find her around the corner but instead, I found this.

I don’t know if this woman was her mother. I don’t know why she was sleeping (lying?) on the doormat of that building. Like the child, she was dressed neatly; she didn’t belong here, on the street. There were a few men around by this point. No one else seemed to notice her. A couple of men glanced at me, probably surprised that I was paying her any attention at all. At one point I thought I saw her open her eyes slightly and look at me. I couldn’t be sure. I was afraid to go up to her and talk to her. I don’t know why. I stood there for a long time wondering if I should. The little girl was nowhere to be seen.

In the end I walked away, just like the men. But these images didn’t leave me.