We Want To Live: survivors of the Bhopal disaster remember December 1984

Note to readers: the following accounts contain stark, graphic descriptions of the immediate aftermath of the gas leak and its long term health impacts. Some names have been changed to protect the privacy and identity of the individuals concerned.

On 3rd December 1984 over half a million people in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, were exposed to highly toxic methyl isocyanate in one of the worst ever industrial disasters. Today, the former Union Carbide factory from which the poison gas escaped, stands abandoned and desolate. I arrived there on a dark and rainy morning at the tail end of the monsoon. I expected to find the site secured and protected by heavy security. I was wrong. The gates were open on one side of the low perimeter wall but the road behind was overgrown and a few stray dogs were the only sign of life.

In 2006 the Indian Government issued an affidavit stating that about 558,125 injuries including 3,900 of a severe and permanently disabling nature occurred on the night of the disaster. Estimates of the immediate death toll vary, but the official number is 2,259. Other sources claim 8000 deaths within two weeks of the leak and a further 8000 from gas-related diseases. The deaths were not the end of the story and today many survivors of that night still live with the memory of what happened

“It was like a scene from a movie"

Abdul has a small paan shop not far from the factory. He is quick to smile and has a steady flow of customers who come to spend a few rupees on paan or to stop and chat for a while. He is 50 and would have been just eight years old at the time of the disaster. His father once worked in the factory but not at the time of the accident. He has clear memories of that night and how his father’s quick thinking saved their family. 

“In the middle of the night we started coughing and finding it hard to breathe. We went outside and the sky was very black. People were running in different directions. Some of them had covered themselves with wet blankets. Many were going towards the bus station and the railway station. I suppose they thought they could escape but the wind was blowing the gas in the same direction. Our father took us the opposite way.” (Note - the heroic efforts of the station staff to save passengers at Bhopal Junction that night are shown in the Netflix drama series The Railway Men).

Abdul paused for a moment and seemed to take a few deeper breaths before continuing: "We went home the next morning. There were many dead people and dead animals near the house. It was like a scene from a movie. People’s eyes were popping out. Their tongues were hanging out. There was urine and faeces everywhere.”

Mohamed, 55, was looking after a nearby shop while his friend, whose shop it is, had gone to buy chai. Gentle-mannered and quietly spoken, he too recounted his experiences of that night: “We lived about ten kilometres from the factory but we felt as if someone had squeezed tobacco into our eyes. We covered ourselves with wet blankets but still had trouble breathing. Our throats were burning. On the second day we saw corpses everywhere. The authorities began moving people away to camps that were set up on the outskirts of the city.” 

“It gives me goosebumps to think about it."

Shiva has similar memories. I met this frail 71 year old as he sat outside a small Hindu temple. He said “Just after midnight we started to find it hard to breathe and our eyes were burning. Our Muslim neighbour came and we discussed the situation. He thought it was a small issue that would pass and said he was staying at home. I decided to take my family away but my eyesight was damaged and I can hardly see these days. The following day there were many dead bodies in the street. It gives me goosebumps to think about it.” 

The three men’s stories bear striking resemblances and are borne out in published accounts of what happened - breathing difficulties, burning eyes, the use of wet blankets as a form of protection and the devastation they witnessed in the days immediately after. But 42 years later, the trauma and the anger still linger on. Abdul said: “Since that night, I have had respiratory problems and I have very little energy. My mother died from cancer. We received 50,000 rupees compensation from the Government. We were angry that Arjun Singh helped the American, Anderson, escape justice.” 

Arjun Singh was the Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh from 1980 to 1985 and Warren Anderson, the CEO of Union Carbide. Anderson flew to Bhopal on December 7th 1984, was immediately arrested and charged with culpable homicide. Singh authorised his release and had him flown out of the city, later claiming he had done so under pressure from Central Government. 

In a lane not far from where I met Shiva, a man who wore a mask over the lower part of his face. Amit, aged 48, runs a tiny general store. He spoke about how the legacy of the disaster continues to affect his family: “I was six years old at the time of the accident. We lived here and didn’t want to leave, so we covered ourselves in blankets. Both of my parents have been sick since that time and I have cancer of the face.” When he finished speaking he removed the mask to reveal that a whole section of the lower side of his face had been eaten away by cancer, before adding: "We received 50,000 rupees in compensation."

We want to live 

In 1984, 50,000 rupees equated to between $4000 and $4400. At the time several bodies, including Amnesty International, criticised this as insufficient to cover lifelong medical costs, lost livelihoods and other likely expenses. Funding for the payouts came from a sum of $470 million paid by Union Carbide as part of an out-of-court agreement with the then Indian Government. This came in 1989, five years after the disaster, while payouts did not begin until 1992. The agreement precluded any civil claims being brought by individuals. The sum of $470 million was based on an under-estimation of the number of deaths and injuries. 

There is a small memorial opposite the factory site, a few hundred metres from Abdul’s shop. It is the work of sculptors Sanjay Mitra and Ruth Waterman. Mitra is Indian, Waterman Dutch and a Holocaust survivor. It is surrounded by a metal fence and depicts a wailing mother holding an infant, symbolising loss and the continuing impact of the catastrophe. The mother and child face away from the road, their backs to the abandoned factory. It bears the inscription:

No Hiroshima, no Bhopal, we want to live. Memorial dedicated to the victims of the gas disaster caused by the multinational killer Union Carbide on 2&3 December 1984. 

Further reading

For those wanting to better understand the events of 3rd December 1984, as well as the context and aftermath, a detailed account can be found in Dominique Lapierre and Javier Moro’s book Five Past Midnight In Bhopal. However, it should be noted that the book was published in 1997 with an English edition in 2001, so later developments are not covered.

Free from problems, free from worries - a Jaipur rickshaw wali: More stories from elsewhere

“I’ve been driving rickshaws for four years now,” said Sarda as she proudly showed me her plastic-laminated license. I had to strain to hear her as we rode through the clamour and commotion of central Jaipur. It was a scorching thirty-seven degrees and thick dust rose up from the road as she carefully drove us through the city streets. She began to tell me the story of how she became one of only a handful of women auto-rickshaw drivers in Rajasthan’s capital city.

My father fell in with some bad people and we lost our land

Sarda is a member of the Meena tribal community, a Scheduled Tribe, traditionally employed in agricultural work in Rajasthan and neighbouring states. In theory, they benefit from protections and quotas in education and employment, but legislation does not always reflect reality and many tribal communities struggle to retain ownership of their land due to major development schemes. Social problems can also bring catastrophe. “My family had land and my parents grew and sold vegetables,” said Sarda. "But my father fell in with some bad people, became a drinker and we lost our land.”

Like many others, Sarda and her immediate family moved to the city in search of more opportunities. But again, they faced severe difficulties. "When we moved to Jaipur, the cost of accommodation for me, my husband and our two sons was very high. I needed to find work to help with household costs. I never went to school because I had to work when I was a child, so my opportunities are limited. For a while I worked in a hospital as a housekeeper. My supervisor made things difficult for me and wanted money  (bribes) for me to keep my job, so I left. One day I saw a woman driving a rickshaw and I thought perhaps I could do that.”

Majboori

Once again, a financial challenge presented itself.  “I had to borrow 50,000 rupees to buy a vehicle,” she said. She lacked the documentation required by traditional banks and so turned to a private lender. Sarda believed the interest rate was 36% - significantly higher than that charged by a bank - but in fact it was even higher. She repaid 8,000 rupees a month for 18 months, more than double the initial loan.

I asked her if such an extortionate rate was normal. She replied with one word: “majboori” - a Hindi word meaning helpless and of having no other option. And it is a word that describes the reality for millions who depend on the mercy of local sharks. 

I was curious about how she felt when she began this work. “Very, very nervous,” she said. “I had one accident too. A car hit my rickshaw and turned it over with me underneath it. I had some minor injuries but my passengers were unhurt.” I wondered if Sarda enjoyed being a driver. “I couldn’t say that I enjoy it,” she said, "but it means we can live and that I have a regular income.” Her husband and her brother also work as auto-rickshaw drivers.

Sarda still faces barriers in securing that income. She is one of very few women doing this work in Jaipur and her situation reminded me of Noor Jehan, a rickshaw wali I met in Bangladesh a few years ago. I asked Sarda if the male rickshaw drivers accept her on the road. “Some do, but others prevent me from picking up passengers in the main tourist areas, so I miss out on fees and potential tips,” she said.  Finding work is one thing, breaking down deeply entrenched gender prejudices is something else.

Free from problems, free from worries

I sat in the back of the rickshaw, sweating profusely due to the extreme heat and humidity, keenly aware that Sarda endures these conditions from 9AM to 7PM every day. As we reached our destination, I had one final question - what are her hopes for the future of her two teenage sons?  Her ambition was for them to live a life different from hers. “I want them to be happy, free from problems, free from worries,” she said.

You might also like The Rickshaw Woman of Kamalapur

If you connected with Sarda’s story, you can find more portraits of daily life, resilience and humanity across Asia in my recent book Stories from elsewhere. The book features photographs and narratives from my journeys through India, Bangladesh, Cambodia and Vietnam. 

Explore or buy Stories from elsewhere here.

Boundaries of Choice: Five Fiction Reads

It’s been some time since I last wrote about books. This post reviews five - or perhaps four and a half - novels that I have recently read. My choices span continents and genres to suit a variety of tastes but they share one thing: characters facing major, life altering choices.

We begin in the UK, where crime writer A.A. Dhand introduces us to the complicated world of a new “hero” in his challenging yet gripping novel, The Chemist. From there, Lea Ypi’s book delves back into Albanian history, exploring a diverse, many-layered, but now disappeared world. This one is the “half” - all is explained in the review below. Next, Ben Markovits’ latest novel tells the story of an unplanned road trip by a disappointed, middle-aged basketball fan.

Finally, we look at two titles from contemporary Indian writers. Both are second novels following acclaimed debut titles. Building on the success of a first book is a well-known challenge that authors sometimes fall short on, but that’s definitely not the case here.

A.A. Dhand - The Chemist

 

In this, his sixth full-length novel, Dhand introduces us to a new leading character. Idris Khan, the chemist of the title, runs a pharmacy on a rundown Leeds estate. His ex-wife, Rebecca, is one of dozens of locals who visit him every day for their methadone prescription. She fails to turn up one day and his resulting search for her draws him into a violent turf war between two powerful drug gangs. 

 

As the story progresses, Idris is provoked to commit terrible acts from loyalty and necessity. He is forced into a series of decisions that challenge both his professional oath and his personal morality, engaging in violence and using his knowledge to outwit the gang leaders. 

 

Dhand’s style creates a sense of urgency, making it difficult for the reader to resist starting the next chapter and then another one. His writing is gritty, realistic and brave. He does not shy away from tackling difficult issues, including racism and prejudice between minority communities and the impact of cultural practices on the lives of his characters. He also writes with authority. He comes from a British Asian background, has a Master of Pharmacy qualification, and several years of experience in the profession. 

 

The Chemist is not a comfortable read. The scenes that play out on the bleak housing estates on the city’s periphery are particularly dark, yet authentic. The estate residents include students, methadone users, drug gangs, the vulnerable and exploited and “ordinary” people, just trying to survive against overwhelming odds. Particularly memorable are Al-Noor, a Syrian refugee trying to keep his young son away from malign influence; Amy, a young woman drawn into prostitution and Rebecca whose commitment to helping others places her in danger.

 

Brave, authentic, gripping, The Chemist is a great addition to the British crime writing canon. It is also just the beginning of Idris Khan’s story, as he features in Dhand’s new book, The Kingpin, due out in July.

 

Lea Ypi – Indignity: A Life Reimagined

 

Indignity is not, strictly speaking, a novel. Author Lea Ypi describes it as a re-imagined telling of her grandmother’s life story in Ottoman Salonica and in pre-Second World War and then communist Albania. This reimagined approach, involving detailed dialogue between characters real and imagined, led me to include Ypi’s book in a list of fiction reads.

 

She began researching this story after seeing a photograph on social media of her grandmother, Leman, honeymooning in the French Alps in 1941. This was despite having been told that all evidence of her younger days had been destroyed during the early part of Albania’s communist period. Intrigued, she began researching her family history in archives opened to the public following the fall of the old regime in the 1990s.  

Leman is portrayed as a resilient, talented, determined woman who manages to survive some of the most turbulent events of the 20^th century. Her story takes place against the backdrop of forced population exchanges between Greece and Turkey, the Italian and German occupations of Albania during the Second World War, the deportation of Salonica’s Jews, and the establishment and collapse of one of the world’s most repressive communist regimes. Historical characters also appear, including communist leader Enver Hoxha and Albania’s first and last monarch – King Zog. Real life British spy Vandeleur Robinson also features in the story. 

 

The “fictionalised” chapters are used to develop characters and demonstrate changing political moods and allegiances, and to show how historical events impact and are reacted to by Leman. They are interspersed with the author’s experiences in various archives as she searches for the truth about her grandmother. Ypi also introduces us to Leman's social milieu – that of writers, artists, politicians, revolutionaries and socialites from different backgrounds. Many were learned, multi-lingual people of various ethnicities and religions, representing a culture that no longer exists.

 

Women feature strongly in the story, some of them breaking long-held taboos and customs, but others fall prey to them. Her feminist aunt, Selma, for instance, commits suicide rather than go through with an arranged and unwanted marriage. This act highlights the meaning behind the book’s title, a refusal to surrender to the indignity of a forced existence. Indignity matches the sharp observation of Ypi’s acclaimed first book, Free, (so good I’ve read it twice) and consolidates her position as a major talent in modern biographical writing.

 

Ben Markovits - The Rest of Our Lives

 

Tom Layward, a 55-year-old law professor, drives his daughter to Pittsburgh to start university, then rather than heading home to his wife in New York, heads west. He spends several days visiting his brother, his son, an old girlfriend, eating at roadside diners and playing basketball with strangers. 

The background to this unplanned road trip is that twelve years earlier, his wife Amy, had an affair and Tom had resolved to leave her once their children had grown up. After dropping his daughter, he remembers this promise to himself and takes off. 

 

The trip forces him to confront problems at work, hidden health issues (which will later assume greater importance), an unsatisfactory relationship with his son, and to confront various other disappointments. He sums all of this up when describing his marriage, saying: “What we obviously had, even when things smoothed over, was a C-minus marriage, which makes it pretty hard to score much higher than a B overall on the rest of your life.” How is he to face his remaining years?

 

Tom is disappointed with life but is still likeable. He finds it easier to make connections with strangers rather than to communicate with close family and old friends. This may be because some of those he meets in bars, diners and on basketball courts, are also looking for something from their lives although they don’t quite know what. These and other characters are well-drawn, including his wife Amy, who makes several appearances in the book, has her own disappointments and is not written as a minor character.

 

Basketball features largely in this story. We learn that he was once a player (as was the author) and planned to write a book on the sport. Whilst on the road he decides to resuscitate this project and to this end, makes notes and collects anecdotes from strangers, but admits to himself that the book will never be written. This involves the use of a few “techie” basketball words. Look them up or don’t – I didn’t but this did not impact on my enjoyment. Tom’s challenge is to come to terms with past failures and to embrace his remaining years with hope.

 

The Rest of Our Lives was shortlisted for the 2025 Booker Prize.

 

Rahul Bhattacharya – Railsong

 

Charu is the daughter of an inter-caste marriage; her father, a railway worker, renounced his Brahmin status and family name to marry a woman of lower social standing. He becomes involved in left-wing political activism which forces the family to flee to the safety of a tribal village, making the first of many moves and journeys that will chart Charu’s life.

 

Railsong describes a double journey, one physical, the other personal. The former tracks her moving from Bihar to Bombay, as well as travelling across the country to fulfil her duties as a welfare officer for the Indian Railways. The latter deals with the sexism and opposition she encounters from more senior male colleagues. It also charts her emotional growth as she forms friendships, deals with office politics and eventually marries. Her story is one of transience and evolution, living in temporary accommodation, buffeted by events in the lives of others and by rapid change in a newly independent country. 

 

The passage of time is marked by the ten-yearly census in which Charu notes the rapidly expanding population and is conscious of her “smallness” set against such vast numbers. Historical events anchor the timeline – the assassinations of Indira and Rajiv Gandhi; the demolition of the Babri Masjid and various strikes and protest movements. 

 

The role and position of women in Indian society is a constant theme of the book. We see an aunt condemned to a life of servitude when she becomes a widow. When Charu's mother dies, the aunt is expected to move in with the family, to cook, clean and care for them. The possibility of her re-marrying or living independently is unthinkable. In contrast, Animesh, Charu’s father, is pressured to re-marry. These themes culminate in Charu’s wedding. Breaking with tradition, she chooses a love marriage. Already controversial, her entry into a Gujarati family brings new challenges – shared faith but different traditions, food and language.

 

Though she continues to work, she faces hostility from her conservative in-laws, who oppose her independence. Her husband, although supportive, is unable to stand up to his parents. He advises her that she must: “dissolve like sugar in milk,” giving up her own identity to blend-in and make the household run smoothly.

 

Railsong tells the story of one woman’s resilience, as she refuses to “dissolve” into her surroundings or surrender to the oppressive and unreasonable expectations of others.  Charu sets her personal struggle against that of a newly independent country as it tries to balance tradition with modernity. Bhattacharya has an engaging style, with well-drawn, believable characters and superb historical and social contextualisation, making this epic double-journey a moving, irresistible addition to modern Indian fiction.

 

Megha Majumdar – A Guardian and a Thief

 

Megha Majumdar’s second novel, like its predecessor, is set in her home city of Kolkata. Described as a moral thriller, the story takes place a few years in the future as law and order begins to break down, and the population struggles with flooding and extreme heat.

 

Ma, her two-year old daughter Mishti, and her elderly father (referred to as Dadu), plan to leave India to join her husband who is already settled in the USA. They have their passports and visas ready but shortly before their departure date lose everything in a burglary. Ma then sets out to recover or replace her documents, triggering a series of events that lead to a shocking denouement.

 

One of the key themes of the book is an examination of human responses to adversity. Dadu loves the city and the kindness and human connections it was once known for. He exemplifies this through giving precious cold water to a rickshaw driver. But kindness may only last so long in extreme situations, and we also see him stealing an orange from a starving child to feed his own granddaughter. 

 

The other main character is Boomba, a young man who leaves his village to find work and to support his parents and little brother. He finds a series of jobs but like Ma, he too meets disaster and turns to crime, including theft. The reader may wish to consider how society views Boomba’s stealing to help his family survive, against that of Dadu who despite the hard times, is still much better-off. For both of them, love and desperation blur the lines between right and wrong. 

 

The story is interspersed with telephone calls between Ma and her husband in the USA. Neither of them tells the full story of their condition and situation, preferring to keep the truth to themselves, hoping to resolve their mounting problems rather than to reveal them.

 

Majumdar’s first novel, A Burning, became a New York Times best seller and was also shortlisted for the Andrew Carnegie Medal for Fiction. It was my favourite book of 2020. Repeating success with a second novel is always a challenge, but I read A Guardian and a Thief in two sittings, anxious to know the outcome of Ma’s and Boomba’s struggle for survival. The book has also received critical acclaim and a Carnegie award. 

It would be interesting to know what you think of these selections, or to hear about what you’ve been reading recently. Let me know in the comments!

A single boy - a postcard from Odisha.

When I arrived in Raghurajpur, the dancers were already applying make-up in preparation for their performance. All four were dressed in silk saris and traditional jewellery, including a tiara-like item, known as a mukut. Nothing unusual perhaps, except that three of the four dancers were male and just one a teenage girl. I was warmly welcomed and told to take as many pictures as I wanted.

Gotipua is a traditional Odissi dance performed by boys. The term itself comes from the Odia words, goti, (meaning single) and pua (meaning boy). Previously, female temple dancers known as maharanis or devadasis, performed these dances. During the colonial period, the collapse of old social systems and the decline of royal patronage caused the deterioration and eventual criminalisation of the devadasi system, which had seen young girls married to temple deities and working as temple servants.

“We have toured in Europe and even performed at the Royal Festival Hall in London, but the covid period caused many problems. Despite this, we are devoted to preserving our dance and culture,” said Sri Laxman Maharaja, leader of the troupe and accomplished dancer and musician. His sons and grandchildren also perform and together with students drawn from surrounding villages, keep Gotipua alive. Many of the fifty-five students currently studying under him come from less well-off families. They train every day, first in the early morning before school, and then again in the evening. They also receive food and accommodation - an important, practical help for those from poorer families.

Two of the boys, aged ten and thirteen, began talking to me in a mixture of Hindi and English. Their own language is Odia, but both learn Hindi at school and the older boy was also studying English. They asked me about my work. I showed them one of my books, they examined it closely, commenting and asking questions: “Where is Cuba?”, “These women in Myanmar look like the tribal people in Odisha”, and, in response to a picture of a Kolkata chaiwalla - “Do you like chai?” I confirmed that I most definitely do like chai and a few moments later a cupful was produced for me.

As their preparation continued, they helped each other tie their long hair into elaborate knots, completed aspects of each other’s make-up and checked each other’s clothes. Once ready, they made their way to a raised open-air platform where the guru and his two older sons waited cross-legged, instruments ready.

They performed three dances combining vigorous, tandava (masculine) elements,  and more graceful lasya (feminine) movements and poses. They also sang while performing, the guru beating time to the music. Afterwards, I was invited to the family home where some of the students also live and where there is a small rehearsal hall on the first floor. At the rear of the house, the family maintains a gaushala, a shelter for fourteen cows. The obligatory and very welcome chai, served soon after my arrival, was made with milk from the same animals.

You might also like Beads of the Bonda or Holy Food - both in the Postcard from Odisha series

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Unfiltered - A postcard from Odisha

Almost everything is sold in the weekly market in Chatikona – fruit, vegetables, dried fish, clothes, electrical goods, haircuts, financial services, and dark, thick-veined, air-dried tobacco leaves. Locals buy the leaves either to chew, or to make into large homemade cigarettes or cheroots, which can be five to eight inches in length. These cheroots are called a sutta in the Chatikona area or a pikka in other parts of Odisha and in neighbouring Andhra Pradesh.

The pungent, earthy, aroma drew me to a tobacco vendor’s stall, where a group of women sat on the floor, preparing the leaves they had purchased. Some were already smoking and after taking a few drags, put the lit end  of the sutta into their mouths to extinguish it, before placing it behind an ear, in their hair or clothing to return to later. 

Ponala was one of the group and was about to smoke. Her nose rings identified her as a member of the Desia Kondh community, part of the wider Kondh group of the tribes of Odisha. They live mainly on the lowlands and foothills, undertake settled farming and of all the Kondh, are the group whose lifestyles are closest to that of their non-tribal neighbours. Many now follow Hinduism or Christianity, or combine one of these with their traditional animist beliefs.

Ponala agreed to be photographed smoking her sutta.  She untied her matches from the corner of her sari-like clothing, lit-up, took an initial drag  and then continued to inhale and exhale, the smoke drifting upwards partially concealing her face. As she showed no sign of wanting to move on, I continued working with the camera, capturing dozens of images and recording the whole process from start to finish. A little group of her friends came over, intrigued, and began to call out encouragement in the local language as well as: “chalo!” (let’s go!) in Hindi. 

When she had finished, I asked her age. She shrugged, raised her hands and said “no idea,” before letting out a smoker’s laugh and heading back to the tobacco stall.

 

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Beads of the Bonda - A postcard from Odisha.

 

“I don’t feel well, so I’m not drinking today,” said Adi, one of a group of Bonda tribeswomen who had agreed to participate in a short photo shoot at the weekly market in Onukudelli, Odisha.

The Bonda women are immediately recognisable. Only partially dressed, they wear a ringa – a short piece of cloth around their waists, while their torsos are covered in a string of colourful beads, as are their shaved heads. Around their necks hang heavy bead necklaces and aluminium bands called khagla and their arms are lined with bangles. When leaving their villages, some of the women wear simple dresses or wrap themselves in a piece of blue cloth for modesty.

The reason for this unique appearance is found in the Hindu epic, the Ramayana. Some Bonda women are said to have mocked the goddess Sita as she was bathing.  Enraged, she cursed them to eternal nakedness and to giving up their hair. When they pleaded for forgiveness, she softened and conceded the waist cloth and beaded jewellery. 

 

The Bonda are one of the oldest and most culturally distinctive tribal communities in India. They live mainly in hilly areas near Lamptaput and in the Malkangiri district of Odisha. They are believed to have come from Africa, possibly as long ago as 60,000 years. Bonda society is matriarchal, and women dominate and are responsible for the tribe’s economic activity. They are also, in all senses, the senior partner in marriage, taking a boy five to ten years younger as a partner. It is then the woman's role to raise him, and his to look after her when she is older. 

They practise shifting cultivation, growing paddy, millets and maize as well as gathering forest produce. The Bonda men are known for being skilled marksmen and in the past would visit markets carrying bows and arrows. The women make small items of jewellery, decorative items and some textile items which they offer for sale at Onukudelli. 

 

There are perhaps only 25,000 Bonda in total. Life expectancy is low, and the tribe has been identified as being at risk of extinction. Their unique culture and way of life is also threatened by de-forestation, economic poverty and pressure to assimilate into the Odia language. Several of the tribal communities, including the Bonda, are known to consume significant amount of desi (country) alcohol. At the Onukudelli market, numerous vendors sell mahua, a spirit made from the fermented, sun-dried flowers of the tree of the same name. This mildly sweet alcohol was banned by the British in 1892, but several states have since legalised it and there is even a bottled, premium band nowadays. 

Except for Adi, the women involved in the photoshoot drank throughout the time we spent together – some of them from glasses and some from the dried gourd seen in the photograph above. 

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Holy food - A postcard from Odisha.

Bhubaneshwar’s Ananta Vasudeva Hindu Temple, built in the 13^th century, is unique in that it is the only one in the old town that is dedicated to Lord Vishnu. Like many Hindu temples, it provides a range of services, including the preparation and distribution of food known as prasad or in Odisha, abdaha. It is the same food served at the Puri Jagannath Temple.

 

Every day, hundreds of male workers are involved in the delivery, preparation, cooking and then sale of the food. They are drawn from families who have fulfilled these roles for generations and live in the vicinity of the temple. The abdaha is cooked in the temple kitchens and placed in clay pots before it is first offered to the gods and then served at nominal cost to devotees in the adjacent Bhaga Bazar. 

 

All the food is fully vegetarian and is also made without onions, garlic, potatoes and tomatoes which are not considered Indian in origin. Dishes include kanika, a sweet fragrant rice, yellow in colour and flavoured with clove, cinnamon and clarified ghee. Dalma is a slow cooked lentil and vegetable stew made with very little oil and besara is made with mustard paste, fresh grated coconut and assorted vegetables with a spice mix and a fried crunchy coconut topping. Sweet dishes are also prepared. Everything is served on banana leaves.  

 

The workers carry the clay pots, either singly on their shoulders, or with several loaded into large baskets and carried on their heads. Everything is transported at great speed as the workers move between different parts of the temple, from delivery point, to kitchen, to the offering to the deities and then to the place of consumption. This labour begins early in the morning and goes on until the food is served between 12.30 and 2pm daily. Amongst those eating are numerous priests, many of whom will have earlier carried out rituals beside the water tank opposite the temple, to mark the death anniversaries of relatives or for other purposes. Hindus come to them with offerings and to be guided through the appropriate pooja (prayers). Some pay for the priests to eat at the temple afterwards.

It is forbidden for outsiders to touch the food during preparation, or to enter the kitchens. If these stipulations are contravened, or if food is spilt, it will be considered contaminated and disposed of. Arrangements can be made for delivery to other locations and small vehicles line the road, ready to fulfil this purpose.

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Travels with my camera 2025 - the best photographs.

This year, I have visited countries in three continents. In this post I will share some of my favourite pictures from these travels with my camera.

In February and March I visited Cambodia for the second time. Phnom Penh has to be one of the best cities in the world for candid street photography while the towns and villages also have many interesting subjects. The visually striking, orange-robed Buddhist monks can be found everywhere, and people are generally open to being photographed. 

I photographed the little monk pictured below, in a monastery in Phnom Penh. As a novice, in addition to his studies, he will have many chores to complete each day. These include helping to prepare and serve food, doing laundry work and keeping the monastery clean. He will also have a little free time before lunch, his second and final meal of the day. This small boy was enjoying that time, playing imaginatively with bricks left over from a building project in the monastery grounds. 

I met Somrat Wah, the woman washing dishes, in one of the many alleys that lead off the Orussey Market in central Phnom Penh. She cooks a variety of dishes at her stall from early in the morning until mid-afternoon every day. Her upright stance, elegant attire and open smile made me want to photograph her. This picture of Somrat is a candid shot, but I was able to speak to her afterwards and to hear her story. You can read it here.

In 2023, I visited a small monastery not far from Siem Reap. It was there that I met Cai, an older monk who told me about his experiences during the Khmer Rouge period and how he survived a bullet wound to the head. I returned to the monastery this year to find that he was no longer living there. I left his picture with one of the senior monks in case he returns or comes to visit. The picture below shows a small boy looking through the window of one of the buildings in the same monastery complex. He seems far away, perhaps thinking about his future, or dreaming of being somewhere else. My friend and wonderful photographer, Kimleng Sang accompanied me to the monastery and to several villages around Siem Reap, just as he did two years ago. His work has received international recognition and can be seen here. He also offers a range of photo tours which are a great way of seeing and experiencing local life.

 

There are no direct flights between London and Cambodia and my connection was in Saigon. I had not been to Vietnam before and decided to delay my journey home and spend a few days there. I was fortunate to link up with French photographer and Saigon resident, Adrien Jean, who led me through early morning markets, city streets and lanes, far away from the main tourist sites. I was able to meet people who had lived through the Vietnam war and who were happy to share their stories. Adrien also encouraged me to try some new approaches, including shooting images reflected in the mirrors of motorcycles, glass display cabinets and the plastic awnings of shops in the flower market. This resulted in one of my favourite pictures of 2025. It shows crisp pink and white orchids in the foreground combined with the slightly blurred reflection of the shop behind and a woman wearing a traditional conical hat. 

Another of my favourite pictures of the year was taken in Saigon. It is a candid shot of a small shop where eggs, garlic, sauces, preserves, pickles and other items essential to Vietnamese cooking are sold. The woman vendor sits with her back to the camera, talking to someone on her phone. Her hair matches the colour of her blouse, the egg wrappers and other goods in the store. But, it was the image on the back of her sleeveless top that first caught my attention. It shows a woman, head turned to one side, but looking at the viewer, almost as if she is looking out for customers while the vendor has her back turned - watching you, watching me. 

I last visited Romania in 2012, when I spent several days in Bucharest, photographing the city’s art deco and modernist architecture. I returned in June this year and spent several days in Maramures, a rural area close to the border with Ukraine. My objective was to photograph a community whose traditional, agricultural way of life is coming to an end. The work is physically hard and pays little and many young people have opted to leave, choosing to work in the cities or to go abroad. I was accompanied by local photographer Vlad Dumitrescu, who acted as guide, interpreter and fixer. Through Vlad, I was able to hear the stories of elderly residents who still have clear memories of life during the communist period and even before and during the Second World War. You can read some of those stories here.  

My favourite picture from my time in Romania, is that of a married couple, Anuta and Patru. They invited us into their home where at first we sat in a room flooded with light and where Anuta spoke about their life together. They then showed us into another room, much colder and darker then the first. The only light came through a single window covered by a net curtain. Anuta sat beside the window and picked up her needlework. Patru, stood close by watching.  Their quiet companionship was touching and the scene reminded me of a Flemish painting. It is my favourite picture of the year. You can read the couple’s story here.

Pachewar is a small Rajasthani town of about 7,000 people. It is also the source of several of my favourite pictures since I began photographing people. On my first visit in 2022, I met and photographed Guni, an older woman of striking appearance. I returned to the town in September this year and was able to give her a large format print. I also revisited a Gadhia Lohar community on the outskirts of the town, to distribute some pictures and reconnect with the artisans I’d met previously. The Gadhia Lohar traditionally work as blacksmiths, but demand for their household products has reduced due to the availability of cheap, mass-produced goods. Some have reinvented themselves as artists working in metal.

Several members of one Lohar family asked to be photographed. They were teasing one of the children -  Anita - because this ten year old girl is the only relative with curly hair. Despite being a little shy at first, she wanted to be photographed too. The resulting portrait is one of my favourites of the year and is included below.

Back in the centre of Pachewar, I noticed a flash of red on the opposite side of the road. It was a scarf worn by a young woman who sat head down, reading. I could not get a clear shot because of the traffic and so I walked to the middle of the road and tried again. At this point the young woman looked up, saw me and looked directly at the camera. She was not afraid of the camera and began to smile and pose a little. I showed her the shots and we exchanged a few words. Her long chunni (scarf) contrasts beautifully with her green clothing and the dull, peeling paint of the backdrop.

Jojawer is another small town in Rajasthan. It has a bazar, several tea-shops and many friendly people, curious about outsiders. There is also a tiny art-deco neighbourhood, established by Jain families, most of whom have now departed for the larger cities. One evening, I passed a group of moustachioed men sitting talking outside a shop, all of them wearing orange turbans. Surprised to see me, they paused their conversation, asked me where I am from, and agreed to be photographed.

Jojawer is an important centre for the Ribari community - herdsmen known for their thick, rope-like red turbans and white garments. In the evenings, I walked a couple of kilometres outside of town to see the Ribari men returning home with their cattle after having been out all day, grazing them. I was invited into some of their compounds, where their wives and daughters were busy preparing the evening meal. One family were working together to administer a herbal “medicine” to their goats to prevent them catching diseases. Kallu Ram, perhaps in his 60s, owns a large piece of land and has about 40 cattle. He is pictured below, looking directly into the camera and holding his staff.

Readers who are familiar with my photography will know that I enjoy taking portraits. This year’s travels provided many opportunities to take close-ups. My best portraits come when I have been able to spend a little time with the subjects, to exchange a few words, to enjoy a snack or drink tea together. On the way to Pushkar, I made a brief stop in a Rajasthani village and met Lal Niwas in a tiny teashop. He comes from the Mali community - gardeners who cultivate vegetables and flowers which they then sell in local markets. While we sat enjoying our tea, a fight broke out between two young men who had some dispute relating to money. As they traded slaps and insults, Lal Niwas turned to me and said: “Welcome to our village.” He is pictured below.

And finally, early in the year, my daughter and I took a short road trip in the South Australian outback. It was very different from my usual travel experiences that focus on interactions with people. Here, I became fascinated by the landscape, the colours of the earth and the very big sky. It made me very aware of just how small we are and how big nature is, as illustrated by the picture below, showing our car and the South Australian sky.

In June 2026, I will return to the Jeannie Avent Gallery in East Dulwich, where several of the photographs in this post will be exhibited. I hope to see you there! In the meantime you can see my work on Instagram or on my website.