The pandemic presented fraught challenges to our connections with the rest of humanity, the people and acquaintances in our world. In her personal photo-essay, Sufia Khatoon attempts to forge links with the strangers with whom we share our breaths.

- Sufia Khatoon

That one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner,
only that breath
breathing human being.

-Rumi, “Only Breath”

In the slipping time, we need to breathe, breathe in the power to absorb energy around us and share the knowledge we gather with the next generation. Life is capable of holding a different meaning for each one of us.

I often feel the need to draw my strength from things I see, to make me believe in the beauty of life. Every day, I have to steal some time for myself to rest, recuperate and dream.

Our present is like smoke, a life constantly threatened by death. It isn’t possible now to breathe freely around people. Our breath is heavy, sweaty, calculated and anxious in the pandemic. Our touch is hesitant; our bodies feel the need to be comforted but constantly withdraw into its shell and our palms long for warmth. Some of us have survived the deadly Covid, some of us have lost our families. Some of us are still struggling to make sense of our immediate reality.

It is said that in our lifetime, on an average, we meet some 80,000 people. Some of these people make a difference; they become a part of our conversations, plans, memories as friends, family, lover, strangers, co-workers and inspirations. We learn that our time is limited, and the world is beyond our control. We make use of our time to create a chain of people to follow, pursue and create a more tolerant world.

In the age of virtual existence and self-isolation, we have lost the feeling of touch that helped us bond with one another, the bond that made us more humane.

Are we really breathing then? What will bring us relief? I feel reassured when I see these people breathing life back to an empty space, by simply being there, present in the physical form, body and soul. Reassured that life will continue.

They all seemed to inhale together, comforting me, as if they were telling me that I wasn’t alone in this big world, as if I wasn’t the only one thinking of the emptiness life brings with it, the sting it leaves on us, the hard times it gives us. We all are in this together; we all will survive it.

It is peaceful to see them sit, rest for the day, sleep, relax while collecting their thoughts and dreaming. Inhaling to feel hopeful that things will fall into place, things will change for the better. Planning for the next day, gathering their strength to go back to their world and begin the struggle to find happiness.

I wear my mask, put on my jogging shoes, and set out for my weekly breather. Walking towards Science City, I remember the days when I would be here to see life-size dinosaurs roaring aloud, while I had held my siblings’ hands in wonder. More than 25 years have passed since then; the city now has a familiar scent and looks in a sullen mood. I find it hard to see it in a new light but the feeling doesn’t last long; the city shuffles and rearranges itself like the changing seasons in front of my eyes.

Across the pavement, I spot a daily wage earner, sitting on a wall parallel to the branching banyan tree, wiping off sweat from his face. He rests on the backside of a high riser. It is the onset of the rainy seasons, sultry and humid. Clad in lungi, ganji and a gamchha, the cloth that helps him shade himself from the dust and grime of the streets. As the afternoon sun tiptoed through the branches, he looks silently ahead with knitted brows, deep in thought.

A young man snored inside the big pipes under the bridge. His legs poked out of the pipe while his body rested on the hard surface of the concrete. Cars sped past the highway, honking loudly, but he continued to sleep soundly. Another old man found a rough empty patch under the bridge and takes a long nap, covering his head to avoid the flies. What worries plagued him? I wondered if he was dreaming of a peaceful world.

While walking through maidan, I spotted a few more men who had found vague spots to sleep soundly, their face serene and mellowed like the winter sun. As if they were telling me that I needed to rest, too; as if nothing could wake them up.

On another day, I found a man stitching a quilt or kheta from old worn-out saris, as part of the ritual of the setting winters in Bengal. My grandmother used to stitch kheta for us; we still have a handful of her work, neatly folded inside the trunks. She has passed away but her feeling remains in the items she left behind.

This man carefully threaded the needle, spread out the slightly torn, faded flower-patterned sarees on top of one another, felt the coarse surface from his fingers, and with long stitches, wove a net-like structure to make it last longer. He patted the laid cloth with a stick, harder each time he gets done adding a layer of the saree. The sun got warmer, subtly setting on my face as I observed him. Even as the weather grew colder in the evening, I spent time there, watching him work.

He smiled while he hummed a song. He took a breath.

There was an old uncle on the terrace opposite to my house, who used to water the guava trees. He is no longer alive. He always had this grumpy, sad look while pouring water from one tub to another, carrying on with his bent back. The pigeons flew in circles nearby, and the kids flew kites in the afternoon as a customary call to evening.

For a year or more after his passing, the garden had begun to look dried up and grieving, the plants have found the forgotten scent of the old man again. Now, the uncle’s elder son has taken over the task; he has slipped in the role effortlessly to fill in his father’s vacant presence in the garden. The plants have grown taller; the lush garden invites all eyes towards itself.

Often, stress management can be something as simple as breathing the right way. It can help one calm down and face the day with good enthusiasm. Post-corona, I have had persisting symptoms and breathlessness. While growing up I have had several health issues related to stress, too.

I remember, one night when I was five-years-old, I was curious to find out about the mechanism of my moving tummy. I stopped breathing while preparing to sleep, I sucked in my stomach for a couple of times till I couldn’t hold it anymore, jammed my nostrils with my thumb and I was still confused about the whole thing.

Why did my tummy inflate and deflate? Why was I breathing in and out? Why did I exhale out air like a balloon from my nose? Why did my left hand work less than my right hand? Why did I hear my heartbeat constantly like the ticking clock? The questions made my grandmother laugh; she once had said that I should become a scientist when I grow up. The curiosity remained with me as I grew up—the search is endless.

I crossed a group of friends out on a picnic, chit-chatting under a tall tree near the tram tracks, playing Truth and Dare, and filling the air with their innocent laughter. A boy sat on a horse with expectations on a family outing, posing for a picture for his parents. He seemed confused but excited at the same time.

Two friends rested on top of an old cannon near Red Road, sharing their future plans and frustrations. The nimbu-paani-wallah waited for his customers. A couple nearby shot their wedding photographs at the Babughat footbridge, stealing glances with shyness and excitement. A traveler sat in the park, bag and slippers on the side, tucking his leg in for more warmth.

And so, I breathed in the noise, the cool fishy breeze of the river, the marine boats circling under the Howrah bridge, burning the water bed like candle lights, the train passing the river front, the bats hunting the smaller birds in the night, the romantic music, the rituals, the songs for the presences of gods, and the boatmen singing for their lovers in the river.

They all seemed to inhale together, comforting me, as if they were telling me that I wasn’t alone in this big world, as if I wasn’t the only one thinking of the emptiness life brings with it, the sting it leaves on us, the hard times it gives us. We all are in this together; we all will survive it.

Another morning, while buying groceries, I found these three little kids playing hopscotch on the pavement: twin sisters and their brother with cute pony tails were bouncing up and down the numbered circle. I invited myself in their game, tantalised to share this moment with them.

I hardly had a friend circle in school or in the neighbourhood while growing up. I always played by myself, and all these years, I have managed to live without having friends to share my life with. Life taught me to accept things, and make the most of what I have. I know that I’ve always had stories with me, and the eye to see life like no one else. So, I hopped in and played along with these children. The girls taught me the rules. When we were done, they waved giggling goodbyes and flying kisses, as I walked further from them, turning back again and again, with a wide grin.

I have kept the wonder of a child still alive inside me, the one that helps me look further than anyone has ever reached.

I spoke to some of the people who became subject to my photographs, while some, I only observed from a distance. In different ways, each seemed to comfort my heart.

I was in Bangalore recently, a city that has often cleansed the doubts away from my mind, whenever I have walked under its big trees and flower-laden parks. In Indiranagar—a place that I love for its soothing vibrancy—I saw children walking towards their school in the locality, masked, bag packs and bottles in hands, finally getting over the fatigue of online classes in the pandemic, heading out to relive their school life.

Like superheroes, the street sweepers here clean the pavements, with brooms in both hands together with high speed and accuracy. There was an elderly man here taking a short step forward at a time with his walking stick, and with each such step, smiled up at me. He had warm, peaceful eyes; eyes that would see the world so much differently than I did. There was a lady here who used to feed the cows every evening, and she discussed her love for cows and flowers. There was an aunty in the neighbourhood who would share her stories with me while I tried my hand on cycling again, falling and starting as a young girl. There was a 12-year-old girl who always smiled and caressed the street cats when I went down to get my tea dose for the day across the streets in the drizzling rainy lanes. All of these people were a part of this time; they fit in like a set pattern, each playing their role in life, while I played mine.

It was during the evening walks by the beautiful lakes of Bangalore when I would find people pausing to do what they loved most. An elder man read the newspaper headlines aloud with the lake view, a couple shared their loving moments hiding from the world, and a father taught his young daughter to cycle in Agara lake. A man sold ceramic faces of Gods near the Turahalli forest area on the highway looked somewhat similar to the boatman near the Kaveri river bank in Madhya district.

Back home in Kolkata, I took a six-kilometre brisk walk, after which I sat on the ghat to rest my mind in the strong, breezy, salty water of Hoogly. The boatmen here were fishing in the dense, still water, while other people were close by performing religious rituals by the ghats. Flowers, dirt and puja idols were strewed on the muddy bank. There was a flute player, blowing old romantic songs, as the mist descended on the water and the moon lit up the water.

Whenever I get anxious or worried, I head out here; water seems to give me a sense of direction in my restlessness. Here I see lovers, gang of friends, and families, sharing their weekends enjoying tea, conversations and boat rides. Here I am reminded of the true meaning of life, sharing it with people in each phase as we age, and die with the knowledge that we lived and continue to live and breathe with each other. I am reminded that we loved, shared our love and we were loved in return. But those who never find it truly know the haunting loneliness and how to cherish the gift of life more. One truly lives when one truly feels.

And so, I breathed in the noise, the cool fishy breeze of the river, the marine boats circling under the Howrah bridge, burning the water bed like candle lights, the train passing the river front, the bats hunting the smaller birds in the night, the romantic music, the rituals, the songs for the presences of gods, and the boatmen singing for their lovers in the river. I felt I could stop here for a while.

***

Sufia Khatoon is a multi-lingual performance poet, artist, literary translator and facilitator. She is the Co-Founder of Rhythm Divine Poets community Kolkata and Editor of EKL Review. She received the The Kavi Salam Award 2018. Khatoon authored Death in the Holy Month, shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar Sahitya Akademi 2020. Her second book of poetry is forthcoming from The Red River publication in 2021. Her work has appeared in Indian Literature Journal, Bengaluru Review, The Alipore Post, Mad Swirl, Indian Periodical, TMYS Review, Narrow Road Review, Poetry Dialogue, and more. You can find her on Instagram: @sufiamystic and Twitter: @SufiaKhatoon.

Breath, Life, and Connection – A Photo Essay

With ‘Episteme’, Ten Indian Artists Translate the Language of Now

Fading Away