Listen to the audio version here.
Below, I reproduce the original text:
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.
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?”
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