WEEPING YOU, WEEPING ME,                                  A HANUMAN FOR NAZIR

                                                             YOU LEFT ME ALONE. ( Call me anytime, my no is 9968075965)

                           RETURN JOURNEY FOR THOSE WHO LEFT UNDER UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES, 
                                                                         and other forms of return

   
  in front of Anish Kapoor, Right, with Berliner, Art TV, below: in front of Picasso . Left with a policeman
   
   
In Art Sumit 2009, Pragati Maidan New Delhi,  holding  the book THE POLITICS OF AESTHETICS by Jacques Ranciere., I walked through the entire labyrinth of differnent  Art Galliery stalls exhibitng  art works by different artists ( images by Natasha, Allana, Rahul and some unknown amongst the corwd)

THE MANGO TREE

The centre of the universe is not the place where I am standing, but the Mango Tree in front of my balcony. But because of different seasons its centre of importance shifts, particularly when there are no mangoes on its branches. Almost a decade back, when I shifted into my flat, there was no such tree over there, but indeed a structure conducive for the growth of a Mango Tree, or any other tree, was always there. This space where these small and big trees exist belongs to the entire colony, a public space, where people relish their evening strolls, or let their children jump a little, and also scatter biscuit and chocolate wrapper around, carelessly. The Trees are mostly non-fruity ones, so everything is cool, except this Mango Tree.

Right now, the entire colony is talking about this mango tree, but the flats which are directly facing this mango tree are constantly thinking about it. I am also looking at the mango tree, but among other things, what puzzles me is the question why the tree gives birth to hundreds of mangoes when it does not want its entire crop to grow? As I notice some little green mangoes keep on falling on the earth, naturally. Why? It fascinates me. This is perhaps, what we call mysteries of the nature, so no need to interfere or worry on that account. But still there are plenty of mangoes on the tree, and everybody is silently looking at them, who simply want to eat them. But there is some helplessness in their looking at them.

The reason for this is that the 70-G-wallay (family living in the Ground floor) happened to water this mango tree sometimes , and now they have the birth right to harvest the entire crop of this tree. True, I am witness to that, but I doubt if they actually had planted the tree. I believe, somebody had carelessly thrown a mango kernel into the park which has given birth to this controversial tree. The 70-F-wallay, 70-S- wallay, and 70-T-wallay (families living in First, Second and Top floor) feel that they too have the right to eat some mangoes. These families live closer to this tree, but other families which are facing it too have the similar desire but, I guess the intensity of the desire to eat these mangoes is directly proportional to the distance of the eyes that are looking at this mango tree.

The trouble is that the 70-G-wallay leave no stone unturned to ensure that the mango tree is under their control during the crop time. They don’t even let a singing bulbul, or a peaceful dove, let alone stray colony monkeys to come near this mango tree. They use all the ways and means to keep the other away from the reach of this tree. They must have even counted the number of mangoes on the tree which are still unripe, quite green but distinguishable from the green of its foliage. The 70-G-wallay are Baniyas (the traditional business community) and hence have a natural tendency to think about their personal benefits only. I must say, with some confidence, that such families are the predecessor families of the entire world capitalism, like monkey is known as the predecessor of the man. A limited thought, but business is usually created to be inherited by their successors, usually sons. So, there is a tradition, to own the factory, an orchid, an oil well etc. Right now, here in this colony, there are people who want the entire mango tree to be felled since they don’t get their share of mangoes, but there are people who are content with the idea of a tree alone. Although, the later category of people are quite in minority but they are happy that there is a place for a dove to make a nest, or twig for a squirrel to jump from this tree to another tree.

Yes, some children from outside, say from other underprivileged families, whom I guess have never tasted a mango in their life, do come and try to steal a mango or two from this tree by throwing a stone or a small stick. The 70-G-Wallay quickly come out from their flat and use all kinds of popular vernacular to chase them away. The rest of families again remain silent, who otherwise would not like these outside children to venture into the protected colony, where I too happen to own a flat.

The result is that every year, the 70-G-wallay harvest the unripe crop lest it might be shared or stolen by others. The entire unripe-unripe crop is harvested, because the fear of losing the crop intensifies with the passing of each day, which is just good enough for ordinary pickle at the best. The real mangos never see the light of the day.

I don’t about the whole world, but in India, the nature of business is such that the entire crop of Mangoes is usually plucked from the branches while it is still growing, still green. The golden fruit becomes golden only in the dark rooms of Mandi (Fruit markets) where they are dumped for couple of days, or weeks, to hit the stalls on the very day they turn golden, golden red or golden green. Who knows if some chemicals are injected into the mangoes to give them a more golden look, or make turn them even tastier? After all we are lured by products which are masked, glossed, either on TV, cinema, or in the Malls, or in the life directly. After all, the idea of mango is usually smarter than the actual mango.

But there are spaces where Mangoes are allowed to turn golden on the trees itself, and subsequently relished with their maximum sugar and vitamin levels. But, as we know that is outside the structure of business and people like 70-G-wallay don’t have a clue about that. So, has anybody ever tasted a real mango?

The question is that there is just one mango tree, and thousands of eyes on its couple of hundred odd mangoes on the tree. Right now, the people like 70-G-wallay who control the production of plant don’t let the mangos grow naturally. So they too have not tasted a mango, and neither let others to taste a real ripe one.

So has anybody tasted a real mango, if there is one, and if yes, who deserves to eat that, and relish?

With love

Inder salim

                                                                         inder salim : face to face

     River Yamuna, Delhi 2009                                                                                River Yamuna Delhi 2002

                                                 Whenever God from heaven will be looking down on Earth..
 

  

         http://www.amnesty.org.in/articles/AI_India_participation_at_the_Delhi_Marathon.aspx

 
photo by Maria ( amnesty staff )

other runners while performing with the hang post ( material foam ) being photographed

                                         Survelliance Camera in jama Masjid Delhi.               People  in front of the camera

 
Eid celebration at Gandhi Smadhi                                Protest at Gandhi Smadhi
                                                                                     ( Loot in the name of Gandhi:
                                                                                       Destruction of farmers, reward to Capitalists )   

  
 
Letter from Tagroe to Gandhi                                    Namda ( kashmiri handicraft )
                                                                                     gifted by Amtul Salam to Gandhi and Bha

I TALKED TO HIM IN FRONT OF PARLIAMNET IN LONDON, HE WAS THERE SINCE WAR IN IRAQ, HE IS NOT FROM LONDON AND NEITHER A MUSLIM... I STRANGELY SAW MY MIRROR IMAGE....

                   TEXT ON STONE:
                   WE ARE ALL IN THE GUTTER, BUT SOME OF US ARE LOOKING AT THE STARS

d

IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE: THE OTHER 1857

One million died,
And I was born:
INDIA 1857

Blood all around, cries, cries of scattered limbs,
Raped women and beheaded children,
Men, either hanged or blown to pieces in front of cannons
or drowned alive,
That was my umbilical cord
Which I didn’t saw, but my mother
Who is memory now…

My father and me grew up, hand in hand
Marching, left right, left right left,
Hey, you Indian Sepoy,
Keep your nails in check, else I chop off your fingers.
That was Him to him in between left right left.
Hey, you little boy, clean your hands before meals
Else I chop off your fingers, that was him to me.

Blue and red uniform brought food to me
I remember, how I grew up with saxaphones, drums of Military Parade
And that simmering disquiet against that Sun-that-never-sets.
I remember, how violence met non-violence.

Two million died
And I was cut into two:
FREEDOM AT MIDNIGHT-1947.

Celebrations, and unrest, hunger amidst few rich
Few rich who hired me to perform.
Perform and perform in those blues and reds
Performing those crammed notes, I died.

Nobody died,
But I was Dalit: a born non-existent:
A BAND-WALLA

A monsoon wedding, or a simple wedding
And they tell me to perform
In my predecessors blues and reds
Which brings food to me and my family.
And ah! I play Bollywood tunes.
Meri piyaari Bahaniyaa banighee dulhanihya
Ban kay aayiangey dulhey rajaa
Bhaiya rajaa bajayega bajaa
( my beautiful sister will become the bride, as he will come as a groom ,
this brother will perform)

Perform, I will, to resurrect, ‘the other 1857‘,
I promised to my brothers and sisters back in India.
In Trafarlgar square, London
As I saw myself, living, inside the white concrete slab with ‘text’
Under General Sir Henry Havelock of1857, who is
Silent, but standing confidently high in his robes,

So this other 1857, too
Silent, but standing confidently in his robes..

Tatoo: East and West.                                                      Mother and Son ritual before marraige.


Bride Groom with Cow                                                                            Bride next to Cow

Suraj ( suraj is sun in hindi ) is cold, Come let us auction it today, to warm it a bit.

Suraj is cold, fatigued, hung on the tree of our times, like a punctured tube, come let us heal it a bit.

Sun in his life eclipsed thousands of years ago, when Manu Simriti wrote its text on his face. Let us erase that bit by bit.

Billions of years ago, when Suraj was a dragon fly, a fish, an elephant and all that we imagine Suraj to be, like we imagine for ourselves. Let us restore those primordial similarities between him and us.

Suraj is cool. I quote him, " Mein har haal mein Kush hoon " ( I am content, whatever the circumstances ). So let us learn from him a bit.

Suraj is a Mochi ( cobbler ). His father was son of landless mochi, and his father’s grandfather was also a landless mochi, and his great grandfather was a landless Mochi as well. He has a wide and tall family tree, history of which is written in dust, shoe polish and shape of his hands. Come, let us learn how read it, a bit.

Suraj has a shop called ? "Mochi ki Dukan". It is big, it is big, it is bigger than biggest. Besides getting our shoes repaired, you can march back in time and see how animal skin was stitched first in a cave. So come let us visualize his skilled hands working & the journey of human civilization, simultaneously.

Suraj is a Quran, a Geeta and a Bible. Come let us read him a bit.

Suraj has Kamlesh, like blue bee has its flower. So come let us give them a little twig in this globalized garden of our world.

Suraj's Kamlesh has a Rasoi "Kamlesh ki Rasoi"  ( Kamlesh's kitchen ) which Kamlesh borrows from her daughter in law. In this Rasoi ( kitchen ) she uses rags of the rags of rags as fuel to warm milk for her dear grandson, and to cook food for her and rest of the family.

Suraj is cold, I imagine my hand on his forehead, it is freezing, I move back a little, I see Kamlesh coming to warm Suraj with her cooked food.

Between Mochi ki Dukan and Kamlesh Ki Rasoi there is a little distance, but there is a colony full of people like Suraj and Kamlesh.

Small children, cleaning themselves by shitting openly on the roads. Young girls pumping water from tube wells which are closer to stinking drains. Millions of House flies in this colony are part of the air which one breaths. The air is heavy with words like Behenchod, Behan ka Loda, chootiya, maa ki choot, bonsadi kay. which we all breathe.

please click for 20 odd images <http://mochi-ki-dukan.blogspot.com>
 

So friends, I am here with Suraj and Kamlesh. I have opened a shop Mochi Ki Dukan within a shop which is famous for organizing shows which sell. So I am at a right place.

So this auction, of art and life, blended as one.

This is a performance by  Indersalim in collaboration with Suraj  and his family.  The auction of works  begins now. Remember, the sale proceeds of this auction will go to Suraj and his Family,  Just remember it.

 
some one has posted a video fragment of this performance :
http://youtube.com/watch?v=KwNMdDyrS8g&feature=related