Rituals by the river

On those crowded North Calcutta roads the next car is always inches away. If it isn't a car, it's one of those carts carrying heavy sacks pushed by four people with all their might, or a pedalled cart darting randomly grazing the sides of vehicles they pass by, hand pulled rickshaws, ubiquitous yellow taxis and auto-rickshaws with their ominous sudden turns. The rear-view mirror beside your window isn't really yours.

I hadn't imagined I would have to drive through this kind of chaos, and when we reached after much delay, I just couldn't think of photographs. All my enthusiasm prior to leaving had dissipated. Photography requires a clear mind and mine was filled with exasperation after the drive. Though we had left at dawn, everyone was out on the streets before us, adding their share to the congestion. S remarked that Calcutta hardly looks like the slow sleepy city it is reputed to be. But one remarkable quality despite the troubles is, everyone seemed content, taking these hiccups with good cheer.

The riverside or the ghats as they call it, line the city under the Howrah bridge and are bathing/washing/praying/excreting/feeding grounds! They are coated with a thick layer of sludge, left behind when the Ganges recedes from a high tide. When an over-zealous me had muddied my shoes someone promptly remarked that I should cleanse myself in the holy waters and the silt was apparently more useful than any soap. A couple of travelling photographers appeared soon after and asked how Calcutta was to live in and how it felt to see so much poverty all around all the time.

Pity is a shallow feeling and as long as we don't contribute directly to the poor (or even take an easier route by making donations) feeling sorry for them makes little sense. I would rather feel sorry for the ones around me blessed with financial abundance, who fail to take pleasure in the simple, perhaps little things around, those who fail to realize the importance of each passing moment.