Tuesday, Dec. 19, 2006

It has been a while.

The past few days have been a blur, one blending into the next.

I feel like I am losing focus in the project, moving too fast and photographing too many people. I want to focus more on certain people, certain things. I hope I can do so in the next few days.

I want to focus on the female issue, but it is such a complex issue with so many caveats. There are the female children in the school. There are the girls caring for entire families in shantytowns. There are the female laborers, carrying loads of bramble and sticks upon their heads. There are the widows, both the relatively well-off and the destitute.

And the camera. I stand out by virtue of my skin color, but the camera makes me stand out more. Obviously. So people try to pose for my photos, are intimidates to be photographed with such a long lens. My guides try to tell them, “Act natural.” Nay. They are not used to cameras, they are not used to me.

Today, for the first time during this whole trip, I felt like crying. I am so frustrated. I have so much to do, and my days in Vrindavan are rapidly dwindling. And everyone notices me, everywhere I go there are the same things to photograph, the same types of people trying to pose.

I need to step back and re-evaluate.

****

Saturday I go for the first time to an ashram where many women are chanting. They are predominantly widows, but there are a few married women amongst them seeking alms.

The widows do this twice a day, hundreds of them, in various ashrams all over Vrindavan. They receive some food and some rupees. They receive about 5 or 6 rupees a day, most of which they receive in the ashrams. The rest they will get by begging.

The women in this ashram chant “Hare Krishna” melodiously. Some people are passing out bits of food. They toss pieces of apple and other fruit, and the widows hold out their shawls to catch the treasure. Only a few lucky ones catch. They are desperate.

The women here are happy to be photographed, and the lighting makes certain women glow and puts others in complete shadow. They pull at my pant legs, trying to get me to pay attention to them. So many want individual photos taken.

I head upstairs, where there are more widows. As soon as I enter the room, there is pandemonium. A dozen women rush over to me, yelling things at me in Hindi that I cannot understand. I slink to the back of the room and sit amongst a few elderly women.

As soon as I get up to go, the yelling starts again. Then I realize the women leading the chanting are trying to get me to photograph the picture of Lord Krishna they have in the center of the room. I do so, and they smile appreciatively. Then they pose in front of Krishna and ask to have their photo taken.

After the program is over, the widows exit with tokens. They exchange these for five rupees. A long line forms and snakes around the building. One woman kisses the ground in front of the gruff man passing out the rupees and walks away crying.

****

Sunday.

Today is one of the first rest days I have had in a while. At noon there is a feast for widows at the school. I go to photograph.

(Please forgive my spelling) Chipatis, subji, rice and a kind of tapioca pudding are served on placemats made of leaves. One of the workers for the school hands out ten rupees to each widow.

These feasts occur about twice a month. Widows are supposed to buy tickets, but always some show up who don’t have tickets. The school feeds them anyway.


I see one of the most moving scenes. There is one widow, in her thirties. She is blind and has been so since birth. A brown shawl hangs over her head and the head of her 5-year-old daughter. The blind woman spends her time begging just so she can take care of her daughter. But it is very difficult.

I leave the feast and go to see the birthplace of Lord Krishna. I have never seen a place with more security. I am allowed to walk in only with a bottle of water.

Ages ago, a Muslim king destroyed half of the birthplace to build a mosque. The mosque stands right next to the birthplace. Security is tight so violence does not erupt.

The birthplace is in a prison cell. The stone floor is cold on my bare feet. I am not a religious person, but there is something special about being somewhere where a god was allegedly born. There is something so mysterious and intriguing about it. I stand in awe.

****

Monday.

Today Prashant takes me to another widow ashram. A woman and her family live here, and the widows help them out. But they are mainly here because they have no where else to go.

There is one widow. Perhaps the sweetest old woman I have ever seen. She has so many wrinkles. Her dark eyes peer through thick glasses. As she talks to Prashant and me, she cannot stop shaking. The light is striking her face in just the right way. I shoot. I show her the photo and she smiles. “Hare Krishna.” She touches my arm in appreciation.

At one point in the afternoon, we visit a woman who has eight children. Her husband is a sadhu, or “saint.” This means he leaves and wanders the streets, professing to be holy. He leaves his wife to care for all of the children.

When we are there the woman is making chipatis for her children. I shoot. Notice the absence of the husband.

Finally, we visit a widow who is clearing wood. She has several children. Her husband died and she has moved in with another man, simply so she can have a place to live.

She is trekking out into the “jungle” to gather more wood. Prashant and I follow. There are thorns everywhere, and strands of them stick to your shoes. Luckily they do not penetrate the soles of my shoes.

She gathers the wood and carries it on her head. As we are heading back, we see girls from the school doing the same thing. Loads of bramble, balanced on their heads. I shoot.