15 faces I never got to know…

I feel like a ghost in this hectic city.

Invisible…

Everything just rushes by. Everyone storms past. I watch in awe.

I’ve always been slow. Maybe I think too much. Or maybe I’m just dumb.

Photography gives me a purpose. I can tell myself I’m not just watching; I’m recording.  A moment in life maybe nobody will remember.

I shoot in film…

Many find it funny… Say there is no point.

I say life ‘is’ funny… With a steel cold irony attached… There’s no point either.

Digital is for perfect day, beautiful people, awesome nature, enjoying poverty as art… Where things have a price-tag…

Where I dwell life is scratchy, leaky, mal-developed and grainy… And I like to keep it that way.

They say a photograph says a thousand words; tells a story… I don’t believe it. It only raises a thousand questions… People just make up a story in their mind to avoid the questions…

Questions are uncomfortable…

Here I present 15 faces I never got to know…15 lives I’ve lost in the crowd… Many questions I’m left with.

No photographic romanticism…

Face 1:

Somewhere in Mirpur while walking towards 11 no mosque I saw him.

That yellow vest caught my eye… I took a shot and went on.

 It was 12 in noon. His background was jet black to my eye from outside. But after develop I find a whole new world.

A shabby hotel…

Flat-breads…

A red jug…

Water filter with a steel glass…

Everything makes me wonder…

How the food tastes?

How his everyday goes?

Who eat here?

What’s his name?

Where he got that vest?

Face 2:

Another scorching noon…

I was walking by the rail road at Karwanbazar.

 He was there, looking far.

I took a snap and he disappeared into the darkness of that slum. Almost like a spirit vanishing into smoky woods.

What was in those eyes? Dream… Despair?

How’s life in those dark, mysterious, ghostly caves of the slum?

No, I won’t enter to know… not this way… Like visiting a zoo and achieve some sick fulfillment.

I have no right.

I’ve been too well fed for that.

Face 3:

Suhrawardi Uddyan…

He had an empty gaze to the sky. I broke that moment while approaching. 

That’s bad, I didn’t get real life.

Good for some though… far less questions.

Best posed photos have no questions. Guess that’s why they are so pricy. People with money hate to answer questions.

I’m not that good, can’t be.

What are those lockets for?

Face 4:

16 December morning…

It was cold at TSC.

Hay boy, how those feet feel on that cold concrete in this Sunrise-of-Victory?

Is that long gone flag has enough warmth?

How many dreams are burned into smokes?

Boy, stop with that philosophy and go do some clowning in front of those Future-of-the-Countries, they are getting bored. 

If you’re lucky you may get extra…

Face 5:

Another cold morning…

What’s in that bag?

How much rich-filth you to plough through to get a meal?

How much those filth generators have to walk to live more and generate more filth?

Are those eyes angry?  

Should be… I'm one of them.

Face 6:

Most adorable eyes I've ever seen.

Rayerbazar…

She was there sitting alone like a fairy.

Lame me… just took a shot and ran off as usual.

Later realized she was trying to give me one of those papers she was holding.

What was it?

Address to some magical land?

A letter?

Or just a smiley she drew?

I went back to that alley many times later. Never saw her since.

Face 7:

On a January afternoon I met this man at Ramna Park.

He was high; Bubbling about something.

Who is he?

A poet?

An artist?

Or just another simple man numbed by this unforgiving urban jungle?

How many repairs have those shoes gone through?

How many days he spent chasing someone for some help, recognition even simple company?

Where is that girl now who once gave him rainbows?

Face 8:

It was an Eid day.

They live in a half-slum at Mazar Road near Gabtoli terminal.

A friend of mine arranged a party for poor kids on that area.

They came.

Using a sunsilk sashay they suddenly transformed from street kids to little dolls.

Again, ther’s not many questions.

Only how are they now when Eid is gone?

Face 9:

Kamlapur rail station.

Not much to describe.

How he got here?

How harsh the city been to him that he can sleep in a busy track?

Is world have become that dangerous these days?

His face seems crooked in repulse even in sleep.

Are we poisoned his dreams too?

Face 10:

I met this girl, two kids and a man on a slow moving train leaving Kamlapur station.

Trains always fascinate me.

Every window is a slice of a different life, new story, new set of questions.

What was she thinking?

Why can someone be gloomy leaving this grinding machine capital?

Was her love leaving on another train?

Or she was thinking why she can’t leave for ever…?

Face 11:

Not all my faces are gloomy; some are fun too… though they are rare.

People put on their happy mask only when posing.

Otherwise it’s like a treasure hunt looking for a real smile in this city.

This was taken in Suhrawardi Uddyan.

Why is he in the water with a cycle and sandal?

I guess I’ll never know but this puts a smile on my face and I’m grateful…

Face 12:

This car was parked at Dhanmondi 4 bus stand.

I pressed my shutter for the woman.

But like a lottery bonus I also caught that dreaming kid in back.

Where is his gaze?

Sky?

Is it big enough to dream in this city?

Do those two in front know about his dreams?

Or is it all about 'competition era' these days where dreams are market generated and shoved into a kid’s head like nail into wood?

Face 13:

Mirpur Benarasi Palli.

Machines have taken over…

Capitalism is sucking the blood out of them…

Racism clinched to their throat.

How life’s going there? Stupid question…

Their product is out of reach for most but how much salary do they get?

Will his son keep alive the craft?

Face14:

Again somewhere in Mirpur…

I was actually trying to capture the boy in front.

But something happened during the mirror flip and I am now left with this piercing look.

I don’t have questions here.

My skin is just not thick enough to stare at her more than 2 seconds…

Face 15:

Last one is in Mirpur too.

He didn’t like to get photographed.

Guess he didn’t like people making stories out of it.

I won’t.

I only ask myself what’s in those eyes…

How it feels to be different?

Being a black crow in this sea of white ones?

Who should change to whom, and who should decide?

End of my presentation.

P.S.

Photographers, the real ones, are creature of heart.

They very much like stand up and tell people what they are, and what they do.

They say, “Don’t like what I do? Very well, move on, but don’t tell me what to do.”

And that’s the way it should be… (copied from a Jimmy Hendrix video)