The Outsider
All photos: Barnali Ray Shukla
Good journeys tend to become a bridge… The bridge is always an internal choice. In a poetic photo-essay of brief, unforgettable encounters, Barnali Ray Shukla finds bridges that bring together divergent souls.
Gaadi mein ghutan howe hai manne, Motorcycle li aao; ek-do chakkar hum bhi laga lenge.
Manju’s words hovered in the air as we got back into the car. The gentle throttle of the ignition grazed over the silence. Brisk greetings of parting coiled up in the air like smoke rings, a ghoomar with a union of laughter. In no time, in a parallel world you could picture her, riding a Bullet and chasing the daylights out of anyone who stood in her way.
At the threshold of departure, much said, more unsaid and certain moments dealt with tact and a hush, with an outsider with a backpack. I chose not to feel like an outsider, as there wasn’t a moment when I was treated like one. I didn’t hide behind my sunglasses or surrender to a sickly-sweet parting note. I remember finding words for her. A promise I hope she doesn’t break, that laughter, full throated, head thrown back, much akin to petulant pebbles that surrender to the tug of a mountain river.
Manju stopped short; I guess she couldn’t help but stare at my silence. She knew I was streaming thoughts and my face was a giveaway. My filters have long gone, and she could see straight into my intent, of working on the montage of her life together, lost in the jigsaw of the moment. The home next door boasted of a lazy grandpa and his camera-shy grandson. I was reluctant to leave, but my friends had an itinerary, suited to my research and recce for a script that was in the last stages of manifestation. Amen to their nudge and my prompt switch from a portal to another. I was the last one to sit in the car.
I recall this moment on the rear-view mirror, as Manju waved at us: She was unafraid of being judged but a query lingered in her grey green eyes, framed in italics of crow’s feet, and a forehead that seemed full of incomplete stories. Somewhere in her fifties, I had noticed her silhouette suggested long hours at work, home and the fields, an enviable tan and casual laugh lines. Manju stood tall; her eyes left no detail for assumption. She keeps her third eye shut for special occasions.
Kishore Kumar’s voice and the pings on our respective phones took over the soundtrack of car as we sped ahead, covering more miles towards a charted destination, I found myself smiling as I recalled the moment at Manju’s living room.
The ice had been broken only minutes into our visit after a very long paye laagoo moment. Also, something to the effect of belated Diwali greetings. My friend had grinned that I had touched her feet a tad longer than the gap in our age. My friend’s husband noted that she seemed older in experience than her age. It was also a gentle reminder that many village folk married early; I have learnt to bury afterthoughts for moments like these when I can write about them.
Not for once, however, was I the outsider. I may have been the ‘other’, maybe, but that distance, too, was bridged after a meal together, and sharing Relaxo chappals for the morning outings, and the cordial Aap nashte mein kya logey?
After walking through a long corridor, we were huddled together in a dimly-lit living room. Manju had insisted on more light and some chai for us. I don’t remember anyone protesting. For me it was joie de vivre that had showed up that morning in Jaitpur—district Alwar—in Rajasthan. In my day at work, these moments had become increasingly rare. We all nodded in chorus. An arid succulence of shared stories and caffeine felt welcome.
So, there was a mandatory round of sweet and savouries, followed by satisfied sounding gurgles, as we washed it all down with even sweeter tea, made by Manju’s daughter-in-law. The bahu was gently pregnant, with a husband—Manju’s son—worlds away, studying medicine in Russia. The younger woman seemed to be in awe of her gregarious mother-in-law.
After the National Lockdown, Manju said she had instructed her son to stay abroad to complete his studies. We remained silent, hoping for more from her. She declared that her husband, however, seemed comfortable staying away in Gurugram, where he worked. There was a beauty in Manju’s lack of melodrama. Much like a well edited sentence, not low on salt but like the sinew of a gazelle. It was possible to infer that she had become sovereign in more ways than one as she declared that they (as women) seem to be doing fine on their own.
The narration drew a grin from the daughter-in-law. The bahu and I made an eye contact that barely lasted. I could read nothing except her awkward wonder. She realised she was staring at us all from behind her ghoonghat, and went away sooner than she had expected, hastened by a friend that urged her to stay. She showed a clean pair of heels, someone murmured; perhaps she is more at home in the inner reaches of their world.
This time around Manju was up on her feet, and insisted we pack some sweets for home. She herself suffered from a toothache, she said, and couldn’t partake. She parked herself by my friend’s husband, followed by an unabashed declaration that she liked sitting with her brother-in-law on the big sofa. Their shoulders touched and perhaps a brush of the thigh wasn’t ruled out. I couldn’t tell if my friend felt awkward, but all of us grinned—all except my friend’s son. The teenager was not comfortable with this part of the proceeding.
Someone wiser veered the topic away. On probing about her toothache Manju declared that her husband brought her gifts from the factory where he was in a mid-managerial post. He worked at the Amul chocolate factory in Manesar, near Gurugram. Ve laawe hai 80 rupaye waley packet, ussey maare daant sarh jaawe hai. Manne poocha, 290 waley chocolate kyun na laawey, usse daant khush raiwe hai ?
We tried to keep a straight face as she guffawed, her pain forgotten in that moment.
Toh wo bolyo waa se AC waaley chocolate …sheher se gaam tak pahunch na paawey.
Almost on cue, mooed the family cow, and we were all shook back to the moment from the above repartee. Manju broke the chain of thought and volunteered to show us around. As we stepped into the November sun, her words weren’t clear, but the caution was apparent. As city folks, we were ready for some terrifying news when she mentioned that we all should stay clear of their buffalo. We were relieved.
I remember finding my voice to ask what had worried her. Her response was vague; she let me know that she was a bit of her own person, and a bit unruly. Naam hai, Hotty!
Good journeys tend to become a bridge. The bridge is always an internal choice.
I had just spent Chhoti Diwali with the Ansaris in Seelampur, a family affected by the riots earlier this year in Delhi. I had broken bread with ones who had a tainted opinion of the majority, and I had been marooned here, hapless that so many had felt betrayed, unloved and insecure. I had slept securely after a tough shoot at Solan and thereabouts.
Sleepovers don’t give time to think. I was on the terrace with a family of nineteen members, including the extended family, who also spoke in hushed tones. Not for once, however, was I the outsider. I may have been the ‘other’, maybe, but that distance, too, was bridged after a meal together, and sharing Relaxo chappals for the morning outings, and the cordial Aap nashte mein kya logey?
My friend’s phone rang, bringing me back to another dusty ride, en route to a small town in Haryana. She answered her mother’s call, and the question from the other end was, Aap dinner mein kya logey?
I remember talking to myself about the fascination this region has for food. And around the culture of food and hospitality, there is no outsider, until one is introduced as one. What we define we don’t deal with; the undefined remains a possibility to forge new ties. Perhaps that is what I like about my work travels; an oft used hashtag on my Instagram is #strangersarefriendsyouhaventmetyet.
What keeps my intrigue is this shadow of an ally, concerns about my friends, worries over masks, fussing over shared mithai, hysteria over missing my morning walks, and memories of shared laughter, like a breeze which won’t let the dust settle.
I scrolled down to on my own phone to see old WhatsApp conversations with my bestie. Her name is Ruxana. I don’t share my travel plans with her, but carry her on my mind when I travel. However, the incidents of February 2020—the riots in Northeast Delhi—changed something between Ruxana and I. We still communicate, but there is something antiseptic in our conversation now. The sepsis will clear, I hope; I know she wants it that way too.
Moments later, the car pulled over. I was yanked back by the greeting of ‘Ram Ram’. We had reached the next destination. I realised that, lost in thought, I had missed a story that had been shared in the car. My friend got busy with the kids and the unloading. My friend’s husband looked a bit off-colour.
Ab tak main kya bol raha tha? he asked me.
Sorry, I missed that last point.
Yahi suna raha tha ki sab ka naam gaaonwalon ne kaise rakha, Oonthram, Chairam, Battiram… Aur main Bastiram.
It was hard to miss the omnipresence of Ram in this village. It was also hard to miss the candour in his words. It was also not perhaps fair to make a religious presumption to his name. I smiled and asked him Aapka naam Bastiram kaise para?
Jaldi kya hai, pehle chai toh pee lein.
I happened to visit four states of India across four days around Diwali, and what I carried back with me is the familial neighbourhood of Ram and Rahim; for once I wanted the lens of dyslexia, the intermingling of the two, of Ram as Rahim and Rahim as Ram.
While going through the images on my way home, what keeps my intrigue is this shadow of an ally, concerns about my friends, worries over masks, fussing over shared mithai, hysteria over missing my morning walks, and memories of shared laughter, like a breeze which won’t let the dust settle.
I know Manju hasn’t stopped laughing; I yearn to meet her again, to once again share in her laughter.
***
Barnali Ray Shukla is a writer, filmmaker and a poet. Her writing has featured in SunflowerCollective, OutOfPrint, Kitaab.org, OUTCAST, Indian Ruminations, Vayavya, Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poetry II, indianculturalforum.in, Modern English Poetry by Younger Indians, Madras Courier, Bengaluru Review, Hibiscus, Borderless, Voice&Verse, UCityReview, and A Portrait in Blues. She has one feature film to her credit as writer director, two documentaries, two short films, a book of poems, Apostrophe. She is now working on her third documentary and scripting her second script for a feature film. She lives in Mumbai.
