NIGHT ROUNDS

I wait in the orange rind darkness, my left shoulder pressed against the grime smeared walls. I watch as the 18 something director of a film , son of a high profile artist , places his silhouette in my line of vision. My right hand swivels upwards with the black mechanical contraption and a distinct clack reassures my ears, as i press the button.
A black carved sculpture frozen in time against blazing red-orange -yellow of the overhead streetlamp. The film in the contraption is black and white.
It degenerates that harsh moment into a timid image , drained of its color.
The shoot continues. A man standing at the corner of an inner lane crossing gets bumped into by 2 youngsters running by. He turns and stares into the group of people huddled behind him as the boys run in their direction. Take 1. Take 12.
The man’s arm is throbbing by now. They decide to take a break or head home, i didn’t know which.

I head off, unenthralled by this self indulgent art, an excuse to gain power, to exercise it , to finally create a 2-hr story that compensates for not having bed time stories been read to. Seeing the world through another's eyes, riding on another's imagination is the preferred pastime of the world. The quintessential characteristics of leisure. I would be privileged to join that self -indulgent lot, and shove my thoughts onto the world, unmindful of their bed time stories.

So, I mutter goodbyes to utter strangers, and drifting through the capricious streets of the junkyard, wait for something to happen. Underneath the not-so-false facade of a photographer lies a curiosity to uncover what transpires in dark corners, littered with skeletons of ancient cars crouching in wet mud.
As I am clicking away frames of underlit nonchalance, a man comes up to me, asks me what I'm doing.
"Shooting photographs." "Are u a reporter?" "No. I'm training (they usually don’t respond favorably when I say I’m a student)."
"Oh. Ok.(an almost inaudible sigh of relief, escapes his breath)."
I keep silent, though I am curious about his reaction. I turn to him. I want a subject for my photograph, meditative and static. I snap a few of him against the sedate skeletons of movement.

We started a conversation, about the junkyard and its nightly denizens.
Tonight, it was the police. They sprung up from everywhere, in the narrow gallis , and between heaps of scrap, waiting to pounce, khaki monsters for the ramshackle dwellers.
"Its dangerous for you now to take photographs, guys may think you are a reporter and come ... its unsafe at night here."
HE soon forgot about them, in his soliloquy on the history and activities of the place.
A close community, they were, each of them dealt in different parts of a car, so if a car comes to be scrapped, each gets a bit of it.
"This is my Great grandfather's shop" its shutters almost collapsing to the ground in wizened age. He started it during the Raj. Then, virtually nothing went for scrap, the new imported cars coming into the country , but soon things started to look up. “
"After independence?" "Yes. Anyway, after that there were always cars coming in, waiting to be scrapped , and picked clean. In the middle there was tremendous business, with all the old cars dying out and the new ones entering the market, it was zabardast!"
I could see him lost in thought about the abundance of the times . That must have been when was born. I didn’t ask him.
"IN those days", he said, almost boastfully," we got a few cars everyday, but nowadays, chhe, we get one in about a week."
" Did you know, that in the 90's there used to be all these action films in bollywood, Apna movies, where anything and everything blew up sky high , and with the inkling of a car crash , it would blow up all the cars in a 100 foot radius ?"
Laugh.
"We would supply all the cars for those purposes, they would put dummy people and blow them up, we would recycle the cars and give it back to them to blow up ! Tab to achcha dhandha tha!" Nowadays , those people are using all the new cars to blow up" a short wistful pause as he examined the reasons " so we dont get any deals anymore."
" Do you know Subhash Ghai himself would get cars from us?"
My short laugh in patronising , questioning awe. I asked him if he ever wanted to do anything else , work in any other place. Whether he was educated ? Yes , he said . Till the 10th std.
" What can we do, all the families in this lane have been here since 50 years, and everyone's sons take over the business; with us poor people , where do we have a choice? But its ok. I only wish we had more cars coming in now."
"Its raining, aap ko jaana hai?"he asked. No. i said, I’ll stay. And took a few photographs of people walking the lonely drenched tar streets, lit by inadequate yellow lamps, hiccupping in the rain.

After a short inquiry into what i did and learnt, none of which he fathomed, after the end of it , he sat thinking awhile , presumably about the absurdity of professions, that vainly existed around him.

Just then, two friends of his came ambling by, handkerchiefs over their heads, warding off the needle sharp rain.
He explained my preoccupation with the camera to them, and discussed the why's and how's of it.
Soon they suggested heading out for a cuppa. So we walked down to a tapri which was closed because of the police. They curse in their Muslim Hindi, and we head to the nearest small restaurant.
We order a few chai’s and finally when we get them , suddenly the Police appear from nowhere, swarm up around me , close the shutters of the shop . The rest of the people are shut inside the restaurant . The guys I came with have finished their tea and I’m stuck there cursing my inability to drink hot chai.

The fat , moustachioed owner stands on my right , tells me to take my grand time , glaring down on me , trying to stick some attitude to the police. And the policeman to my right , glares at me with my camera bulge in my jacket, and tells me to get going. So there I am trying to down hot tea, scalding my innards, with two adamant hulks by my side.
I finally finish the tea (I wanted to drink it up, tasted pretty good, too), thinking that I’m pretty much up Shit Creek. I fish into my pockets for some change, when I realize that all I have is a 100 buck note.
Damn, I think to myself, now I’m up Shit Creek, and this time without a paddle.
Suddenly out of nowhere one of my companions materialized paid our money and started walking away. Quickly I followed him into the by lane night. The yellow street lamps echoed his unhappiness. HE started cursing the police.

“Assholes, we do nothing, and they come kick our asses!”
“The rich people up on MG road pimp around and they don’t touch them, we are here doing nothing wrong, and they bring us down.”
“IT’S ALWAYS THE POOR WHO IS VICTIMISED!”

I didn’t talk too much the rest of the way, pondering over the reality of that statement. That’s the way it is I guess, the strong rules the meek, the rich push the poor around and those with power dictate those without.
Blatantly true, it is the unwritten law of the species called Homo sapiens.