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.

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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.

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.

Wanderlust

I often feel like traveling during February. The cold, dark days of winter’s final month make me long for sunlight, warmth and colour. You might call it wanderlust, which is the title of a new exhibition at the Paxton Centre in Crystal Palace, London. Five artists are participating in this show, including me. Deciding what to exhibit led me to review my travels and photography from last year and to share some of my favourite work in this post.

During 2024, I visited India twice, each time for a month. I also made shorter visits to Istanbul and Budapest, both cities that I have been to before, although not for some years. I spent a lot of time on photography on each my trips and in Budapest and Istanbul, I enjoyed linking up with some great local photographers who helped me get the shots I wanted and to interact with people. In India I saw Hyderabad for the first time and attended the Koovagam festival that I’d read about during lockdown and had wanted to see ever since. I also spent time in Chennai, Mumbai, Punjab, Rajasthan and Delhi catching up with old friends and making new ones.  

Some of the photographs I took on those trips formed part of my October exhibition at the Jeannie Avent Gallery in East Dulwich. It is a great place to exhibit and it was my fourth show there. My 2024 exhibition was entitled “Untold” a reference to the subjects of my work, who are often unseen or overlooked, and to my ongoing writing project on a similar theme. “Untold” included the three portraits and three candid shots featured in this post. All six tell or suggest a story. The subjects of the portrait photographs told me a little about their lives while the candid shots, taken in the moment, leave the viewer to think for themselves about what they are seeing.

I also received my first ever commission last year. I was invited to photograph the cast of Earworm - a play staged at The Divine, a fringe venue in North London. I was a little nervous about the project and there were some environmental challenges about doing the shoot in the basement theatre, not least a revolving disco ball that couldn’t be switched off! Despite this, I was pleased with the results and more importantly, so was the writer and director and the four cast members. It was good to see my work on the production's digital and hard copy publicity.  

Ravi as Karuppanasamy

People who follow my work will know I enjoy portrait photography. Faces can tell stories but if the photographer is willing to take time, the subject is also likely to tell some of those stories. By chance my three favourite portraits from last year all have a spiritual theme. I met Ravi in April during the Koovagam festival. It was an extremely hot day, well over 40 degrees and very crowded. About 200,000 people attend the festival each year, swelling the village population from it’s usual few hundred. Ravi is a farmer who also participates in community theatre. He was putting on theatrical make-up and preparing for a performance when I saw him and asked if I could take his picture. He agreed and explained that he was to play the part of Karuppanasamy, a village deity regarded as the Hindu god of righteousness and who has many devotees in southern India and amongst the Tamils of Sri Lanka. 

Gupta Nath

A few days after meeting Ravi, I met Gupta Nath in the narrow lane of Chennai’s flower market. He is a sadhu, a wandering Hindu ascetic, who has renounced the material world to go in search of enlightenment. He explained: “I walked here from Kashi (also known as Banaras or Varanasi). I have been going from temple to temple trying to find god, but now I know he isn’t in the temples, he is in our hearts.” He wore markings on his forehead that indicate he is a follower of the Hindu god, Shiva, and he carried a staff decorated with a garland, no doubt given to him in the market. Gupta Nath’s comments and photograph attracted much interest in my October show. It is my favourite portrait from last year. 

My third portrait selection is that of a Pandit, taken in Nawalghar, a small town in Rajasthan, India. The word “pandit” comes from the Sanskrit “pandita” meaning "learned man” “wise man” or “teacher”. The markings on his forehead show him to be a follower of the Hindu god Vishnu. He owns a small general store in the centre of the town and was patiently waiting for customers. I was drawn to him due to his contemplative expression.

Contemplative Pandit

My favourite candid shots of last year were also taken in India. In two of them the subject's face is unseen. This adds a further challenge to the viewer, preventing them from considering the expression or mood of those photographed. What is the story of the young woman standing beside the water at the Chennai fish market? Is she waiting for someone to return from the sea - perhaps her father, husband or brother? Or, is she longing to be somewhere else, to escape to a new life or to be reunited with someone who has already left? And why are there so many shoes, seemingly abandoned on the dockside? 

Similarly, in a Hyderabad street scene, what has the laughing girl just been told by the two other young women? Has she just made a joke or has she been told one? Is this a friendly exchange or a confrontation? Is this genuine laughter or bravado? I was drawn to this scene by the preponderance of the colours red and yellow and the interesting signage in the backdrop, but it is the expression of the young woman that is what Henri Cartier-Bresson called the “decisive moment,” freezing in time something that may never happen again.  

On the waterfront

Red and yellow

I captured another decisive moment in Barnala, a town of 120,000 in the Punjab, India. It is a relatively modern city with no tradition of tourism and the only reason I visited was to break my journey between two Bikaner and Amritsar. The plan had been to get up early and drive on, but I couldn’t resist spending an hour walking in the streets before leaving. 

Despite the early hour, the temperature was already in the high thirties with 85% humidity. I encountered a large group of elderly Sikh men, all former electricity workers. They were waiting to travel to Patiala to take part in a protest about their pensions not having been increased despite the rising cost of living. They invited me to drink tea with them before they boarded coaches to go to the demonstration. A little further on I passed several small, open fronted businesses, including car repairers and a tailor who sat in front of a huge electric fan but was still sweating profusely. 

A few steps further and I came to a tea shop where a worker was obscured in clouds of steam that rose from the pots of boiling chai he was preparing. I took several shots as the steam waxed and waned, until finally it cleared to reveal the chaiwalla (tea-seller), wiping his face with a red and white gamcha (worker’s scarf), a religious image on the wall behind him and another figure coming into view. I think it’s my picture of the year. It captures the decisive moment when the steam clears...although the real decisive moment may have been when I chose to delay my departure from Barnala, enabling me to take this shot. Oh, and I will be traveling later this month when I will be returning to south-east Asia to escape the winter and to hear mores tories.

Preparing the chai

All of the photographs featured in this post (and lots more) are included in the Wanderlust exhibition at the Paxton Centre in Crystal Palace.  Four other artists are participating and their work includes painting as well as photography. The exhibition runs until the end of February. The Centre is open Monday to Friday 9-5 and Saturday and Sunday 10-5. It also has a cafe, an impressive programme of events and activities, and some very reasonably priced hot desking space. Come along! 

A dying art - Urdu calligraphy in Hyderabad’s Chatta Bazaar

“Please wait here and I will be back soon,” said Abdul Khaleel, one of the last Urdu calligraphers of Hyderabad’s Chatta Bazaar. I had just handed him a large format copy of the photograph I'd taken two days earlier. I’d noticed him as I passed through a narrow, traffic blocked alley, as he sat anticipating customers. He agreed to be photographed and we waited patiently for a gap in the traffic before I could get the shot.   

Chatta (sometimes written as “Katta" ) Bazaar is the home of Khattati, or Urdu calligraphy. It is a dying art, thought to have been brought to Hyderabad by the Qutb Shahi dynasty, who ruled from 1518 to 1687, and were responsible for much of the city’s built heritage. The practitioners of the art were known as Khattats or Kaatibs, the words from which this quarter of the city draws its name.

I had come to the bazaar to see traditional Urdu calligraphers but found that very few still worked by hand. After the computerisation of Urdu text in the 1990s, demand for hand-written work decreased, with customers opting instead for digital prints. This has resulted in many calligraphers losing their business or having to use their skills elsewhere. Abdul’s experience is an example of this. He previously worked for the Siasat Daily, an Urdu newspaper. Before computerisation, the blocks used to print the newspaper had been made from handwritten text, but technological advances meant that Abdul and many others were no longer needed and had to find other ways to make a living. This problem is not peculiar to Hyderabad as according to a 2023 article in New Lines Magazine, Delhi’s Urdu bazaar only had one working calligrapher.

“I have fewer customers these days and young people don’t want to learn the skills."

“I have been working in my shop for about 40 years now,” said Abdul, “Customers come on special occasions, particularly weddings. I charge 200-300 rupees (about £2-3) for a handwritten invitation and the customers then take it to one of the nearby printing presses for copying. There are many such shops in the bazaar. Sometimes Urdu schools and madrassas (Islamic religious education institutions) also come to me.” He was not optimistic about the future of his craft. He said, “I have fewer customers these days and young people do not want to learn the skills." He explained that there are over 200 fonts in Urdu calligraphy, and that it can take years to learn them all.

I wanted to give him a copy of the photograph and a couple of days later, I returned to the bazar to look for him. The shutters were up, but he was nowhere to be seen. Luckily, his mobile number is displayed in the shop and my guide and interpreter, Madhu, called him to tell him we were there. A few minutes later, Abdul appeared, “I was at the afternoon prayer,” he said. I handed him the photograph and after studying it for a few seconds, he touched his heart and thanked me. “I’ve been photographed before,” he said, “but they don’t usually bring a picture back.”

Abdul insisted we accompany him to a small tea shop where he ordered masala chai for the three of us. The other customers tucked into fried snacks and mutton dishes, occasionally looking over at us, perhaps wondering what we were doing in a small neighbourhood eating place. After a few minutes, Abdul pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and said, “Write your full name in English.” I did as he asked and returned the paper to him. He set off in the direction of his shop,  reappeared a short time later, and handed me another piece of paper with my name beautifully transcribed in Urdu letters.

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No begging and no prostitution

“My parents said they would accept me on two conditions - no begging and no prostitution. Now I work with NGOs and community members to improve the lives of people like me and I have a good relationship with my family,” said Lavania. We were speaking outside the Koothandavar temple in Koovagam, a small village that attracts up to 200,000 visitors for its annual festival. Like Lavania, many who come to participate in re-enacting the story of the god Aravan, are hijra, sometimes called eunuchs or kinnars. In India they are recognised in law as a third gender. Most adopt female dress and behaviour and traditionally earn a living by collecting alms and giving musical performances at weddings, births and festivals. During the Mughal period some held high positions in court and would be called upon for advice on religious matters or to give blessings during important ceremonies. 

Lavania 

In the Mahabharata, a narbali, or human sacrifice was required to appease the goddess Kali before the start of a war. Aravan volunteered himself but did not wish to die a virgin. The gods Arjuna and Krishna are unable to find a wife for him as no woman wished to become a widow the day after her marriage. Krishna assumed the form of Mohini, a woman, and married Aravan.  The next day the groom was sacrificed to Kali and his body cut into 32 pieces. The goddess then blessed Arjun with victory and  Mohini grieved and followed the rituals of widowhood. The festival re-enacts this story. 

I met Lavania on the first day of the festival when thousands waited to enter the temple to take part in a ceremony that would see them “married” to Aravan. Many were hijra, but perhaps half were villagers including men, women and children. Devotees emerged from the temple wearing bangles and a thali (also known as a mangalsutra), the necklace worn by married women to ward off the evil eye. Outside the temple and in the village streets, crowds gathered to take part in various pooja (rituals) and to receive blessings from the hijra.  Small fires were started and the hijra circled the flames, clapping and chanting in a form of call and response. The villagers watched closely while clutching small gifts and financial donations to give in return for advice and blessings. 

Waiting to enter the temple to marry Aravan

Village craftsmen receiving blessings for a hijra guru

Other pooja involve animal sacrifice. A group of men arrived leading a young goat to the open ground outside the temple. A small crowd gathered around to watch a priest as he covered the goat with turmeric and said prayers over it. When the prayer was finished, one of the men stepped forward and slit the goat’s throat. It struggled for a moment and was then still, its blood spreading on the ground. I was assured that this was an honour for the goat who would be reincarnated as a higher being.

The conditions laid down by Lavania’s family may seem strange, but they reflect the lives of many of the community, who unable to secure employment, make a living by begging in the street or through prostitution. Very slowly this is changing, and Lavania is one of a growing number of hijra who now work in mainstream jobs. In Mumbai I met community members working in catering and as beauticians. One was a law student. The day before the festival began I met Suganiya who said: “I have a job, I work in an office.” She agreed to be photographed but asked: “Shall I change my sari first?” “No need,” I replied, “You look fine as you are.”

Suganiya

The first day of the festival was joyful and the mood celebratory. In the morning and early afternoon the craftsmen of four local villages continued their work on making an idol to represent Aravan. Each village makes different sections of the god which are then assembled and mounted on a wooden chassis. I watched the Koovagam artisans painting their section. One of the temple priests encouraged them to: “make it beautiful.” In the evening there were theatrical performances, concerts, a fair, fashion shows and a beauty contest. The crowds made it impossible for vehicles to reach the village and participants had to walk a few kilometres along a dusty road to get there. I spent some time watching a talent show. Hijra performers sang and danced to popular film songs, cheered on by an audience of thousands. Reporters from local radio and television stations filmed the activity and carried out interviews amongst the crowd. 

The second day was more emotional. The crowds grew bigger and the narrow village streets became harder to negotiate. Dozens of devotees pulled the idol, stopping every hundred metres or so, as people called on the priests to shower them with garlands, dropped from the pinnacle.  Parents surged forward to hand babies and small children up to the priests who gave blessings before carefully passing them back down. The road is uneven and when the idol rocked precariously from side to side, the crowds pressed back against houses to avoid being crushed. Hundreds of police officers were on duty to maintain order, the size of the crowd, their religious fervour and the extreme heat (it was 43 degrees and humid) making their work harder. Despite this, they remained calm, and the crowd co-operative. “There won’t be a lathi (baton) charge today,” said Vinodkumar, my guide and interpreter.

The idol being pulled through the village

Calling for blessings from the idol

“My husband must go to war, he is a great warrior"

Many people left the chaos of the street and took refuge on the rooftops. At one home the residents invited me to join them. Their roof was almost level with the head of the idol. Down below, the hijra continued to sing, dance and perform pooja.  One group circled a fire, clapping, alternately leaning towards and away from the flame and  singing a song about Aravan: “My husband must go to war, he is a great warrior, but I don’t want him to fight, I too have many qualities, he should stay at home with me.” Others threw pieces of coconut into a fire and said prayers over them. The villagers edged closer to the flames and when the chanting was finished, some leaped forward, hoping to pull pieces of coconut from the fire, believing they will bring prosperity and protection. Coconuts featured in another pooja. A hijra guru said prayers over a flame, then her followers aggressively hurled the fruit at the ground, in the belief that they were destroying negative energy. Again, the crowd tried to gather the pieces, the pushing and shoving causing several to fall to the ground. 

For a while I remained on the roof, photographing the activity below. Someone call out in English: “Hey camera man! Take my picture!” I looked for the source of the request and saw a hijra looking up, lips pursed and hands on hips. As I pointed the camera, others began calling out, posing, blowing kisses and making heart shapes. The crowd cheered. When I came down from the roof someone else called out with a different request. “Buy me an ice-cream,” said Ramiya, who sat in the shade rubbing her feet. “What flavour do you want? Come with me and choose,” I replied. “Any flavour will do. My feet are too sore to walk,” she said. A vendor was offering ice-cream on a stick for a few rupees. I bought two for Ramiya, who then posed for a portrait.

I left Ramona and followed the procession of the idol out of the village and into the fields. The rough ground made its progress even less stable and at one point the police became more rigorous, forcing the crowds to one side for their own safety. The idol would soon be destroyed - re-enacting the death of Aravan. Those who had married the god the previous day, broke their bangles and waited in line for a priest to cut the thali from their neck, leaving the ground covered with symbols of widowhood

“Hey camera man take my picture"

Broken bangles and discarded thalis

During the second day, some of the hijra changed their clothes, donning the white sari customary of Hindu widows. Shenpagavali wore a white sari and asked me to photograph her, before telling her story: “I am 72 years old and I come from Kanjipuram village. I lived with a man for fifty years but he died last year and now I am alone. There were 12 children in my family. After my father died I came out. My family accept me and some of them came to the festival with me. I make a living by collecting donations at local shops and by doing small jobs for an NGO. People don’t give me trouble. I do not drink, smoke or take part in sexual activities. I come to the festival every year to pray that next year will be better. I studied to grade 12 but left home at 12 years of age. My guru has 20 chelas (students), but I don’t have any followers.” I saw Shenpagavali again later that day. As I left the village for the final time, I looked back and saw her. She had changed back into colourful clothe and danced alone to the music being played in the temple grounds.

Shenpagavali 

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