Candid Lounge

Features | Stories | Anecdotes


Published in The Caravan in June 2013. 

Read the article here.

Listen to the audio version here.

Below, I reproduce the original text:


                                                                                                                                   Courtesy: Mithila Joshi

Inder Kumar, from Albert Photo Studio, takes a picture of a deceased woman during her funeral at the Manikarnika ghat in Varanasi


For a city that retreats into its shell much before 10 pm, the photo studios at Manikarnika ghat in Varanasi have unusually busy schedules. Services are offered round the clock at each of the five, stationed on the narrow lanes leading to the crematorium at the ghat. Other than the seemingly unlikely location, none of their shops rouse any curiosity unless you happen to notice the photo-collages on their display rack.

Take ‘Baba Shmashan Nath Photo Studio’. Named after the lesser known God of cremation, its showcase consists of pictures of corpses clad in the brightest of colours – a middle aged woman decorated with marigold and a bald man staring vacantly with an expression of ultimate surrender. Family and relatives of the deceased pose pokerfaced by the limp head, and your eyes temporarily de-prioritise negotiating the way around the omnipresent cow-dumps.

            What one sees isn’t the kind of still photography one is used to. But this business finds roots in the same reasons as every other – there is a market for it.

*

“You want to see fire people?” one of the numerous touts asked me when I walked towards one of the countless ghats along the banks of the Ganges. The boatmen peg their number at 365 (“one for each day of the year”), each contributing to the identity the city loves to project – a gateway to heaven. While most offer salvation to the living, Manikarnika ghat and Harishchandra ghat offer similar facilities for the departed. At the former, the bigger of the two, locals estimate that the number of cremations goes well beyond 300 every day and make every use of the opportunity to lure those interested in more macabre facts and figures. This tout was one such self-appointed text-book.

“They have fire people?” I asked. Having seen snake charmers at the adjoining ghat, I shouldn’t have been as surprised at the prospect of fire-eaters at the next.

“People. On fire. There,” he points out the cremation spot not too far off. I detect the rancid smell in the air. Wisps of ash float about deliriously and settle on the bodies of the bereaved, the undertakers and spectators. Chants of ‘Om namah Shivay’, hailing the Hindu God Shiva, blast from the speakers. Walk further and opens up the stairway to the death industry in Manikarnika ghat – dabblers in funeral paraphernalia, refreshment stalls and of course, the photo studios. In one of lanes, I spot ‘Shmashan Nath Photo Studio’, managed by the 22-year-old Kaushal Jha.

“It’s a fashion,” he says. Dark and lean, he is wearing a Nike cap, one of those that have nothing to do with the better known sports-wear manufacturers. “Then there’s the fact that they want something to remember them by. These pictures are kept in their pooja-ghar and worshipped.”

By now, the locals have gathered around the two of us. Kaushal shows me the portraits he has clicked. They are more-or-less the same composition: either the corpse on the pyre before it is lit or tied to the bamboo-bed in the foreground. The body is flanked by the son or a bunch of relatives. As is the tradition, women are not allowed on the ghat. The general consensus is that they won’t be able to keep their emotions in check.





                                                                                                                                                         Courtesy: Mithila Joshi

A photographer outside his shop on the lanes leading up to the crematorium



“These photographs also work as a proof,” chips in 38-year-old Pandit Ganesh Pandey, one of the onlookers, who declares himself as one of the conductors of last rites. “You don’t get death certificates at this crematorium. Those coming from far off take pictures of the dead bodies and use them to establish the death of a person. Many aren’t even related to the deceased but with the date and time printed on the photograph, they use it to claim their share in the deceased’s property.”

Despite 7-8 years in the business (he often branches out to clicking convicts’ profiles for the Varanasi police), Jha isn’t the oldest in the area. That entrepreneurial crown would go to Albert Photo Studio with boasting rights of 13 years. Unlike other shops, which are mostly just oil-paints with a contact number, Albert’s manages some breathing space in the walls.

The manager, 68-year-old Bilaal Nishad, is a picture of composure. He sits still on the steps, waiting and watching out for the next funeral procession almost meditatively. While his peers idly ask every next tourist the country of their origin, he is the last person to be bothered unless approached.

“Funerals take place 24 hours a day. It is but obvious that our services be tailor made,” he says. Earlier a tourist photographer at Assi ghat in the vicinity, he started his business in the year 2000 after a landlord friend proposed the idea and offered one of his shops.

“The first time I made money from photographing the dead, I could not bring myself to use it for my family. Then I thought, this is what I do for a living. I can’t shirk my responsibilities,” he says. It’s been a while since Nishad has been on the field. His 16-year-old grandson Inder Kumar has taken over since two years. I turn to him. Does he plan to make a career out of it?

“I don’t know,” Kumar smiles weakly.

One hears the chants of ‘Ram naam satya hai’ becoming louder. Nishad stops talking mid-conversation and looks up.

“Photu khichai, bhaiyya?” his voice booms. The carriers ignore him.

He isn’t done yet.

“Want to click a picture?” he roars, once again in Bhojpuri. There is still no response. Nishad gestures at his grandson, who scurries after them. He turns back to me.

“They seem like they would be interested,” he says.

The hunch doesn’t hold up. But I see that Jha has managed to crack a deal. I follow him down the steps leading to the burning spot on the banks. The heat radiating from the surrounding pyres make every descending step more oppressive. We are standing between two nearly-ashen pyres. Jha is issuing instructions to the relatives on how to position themselves around the body.

The convener of the group unties the coir rope tethering the deceased to the bed. Six layers of white sheet are peeled off the face. The deceased is an old man, easily in his sixties, eyes shut, stubble on his leathery face. Jha asks the relative to adjust the head so that it looks skywards and pose. Almost theatrically, the chants in the background increase in tempo. Gusts of hot winds lash against our backs. The cows continue grazing on the offerings. A tourist out to see Incredible India looks on curiously and sips her Sprite. An undertaker pushes a log deeper into a pyre raging some distance away.

Click.

*

Back in Jha’s uncle’s shop, a bunch of photographers from the same trade have joined us. Somehow, everybody plays shy for my lens. “Would any of you like yourself to be clicked after you are dead?” I ask.

“Of course not,” the answer is unanimous. One of them is quick to add, “Who would?”