The just concluded retrospective in Delhi of the heroic press photographer late Homai Vyarawalla took us back to the age of unbridled freedom for the press when, unlike today, the media’s access was not blocked. It made us think of what we have lost as the distance between the press and the centres of power has widened. This chasm today is partly a fallout of the intrusive nature of the television camera but it is also a sign of the inhuman nature of the modern-day governance and the portrayal of the media as a weapon of mass destruction best avoided.
Though it is the TV camera that is feared today by those in power, the still camera, like the beloved Rolleiflex twin reflex that Vyarawalla used, was also intrusive but endearingly so. By keeping both the television and still cameras out of sight, the governments of the last few decades have displayed a magnified fear of the image. This is why the first warning board near any government establishment (even museums) is “Photography Strictly Prohibited”.
As the life of the fear extends, so does its reach: from the image it has spread to the press reporter and the television anchor who attacks from the cosy confines of the TV studio. Not wanting to be blemished by infamy or questioned by anchors, those in power defend themselves by proxy.
This deterioration of the relationship between the government and the media began after Indira Gandhi’s era. Till then, several reporters, cartoonists and photographers were known to the prime ministers and often addressed by name. Long back, when Indira Gandhi celebrated Rajiv Gandhi’s fifth birthday she called Vyarawalla to photograph the party and later sent a letter of thanks with a cheque. When Vyarawalla crashed down from a high stool or a cardboard box in front of Mohammed Ali Jinnah during his last press conference (before he went to Pakistan) at his Aurangzeb Road residence, he asked her if she was hurt.
That warmth, trust and camaraderie shared by many photographers or reporters with the national leaders during the Nehru-Indira era no longer exists. It has been lost to a pervasive paranoia.
Cut-off from the prying eyes of the camera, cocooned in sanitised environs, seemingly incapable of social interactions, the post-Indira era leaders are caricatures to us. Effusing no warmth, no humanness, betraying no frailties, no secret joys (like Jawaharlal Nehru displayed in Kulwant Roy’s close-up shot where his hands are clasped around Rajiv’s cheeks as he said farewell before departing to Europe), our memory of the last two decades are of despair, crises and failed leaderships. No images tell us of personal agonies, most are just staccato shots of set-up triumphal moments.
Intimacy of freedom struggle
In a sense then our memories of the rulers of the last two decades are just imagined. The intimacy of an era gone past has been replaced by a widening gulf. This is also one reason why the electorate often turns angry (like in the recent Delhi assembly elections) since for them a prime minister or a minister is bereft of emotions and frailty.
What photographer and curator Aditya Arya said of Kulwant Roy’s pictures during a retrospective of Roy’s works two years ago at the Delhi National Gallery is true in the case of Vyarawalla as well: “This intimacy of the freedom movement distinguished Roy’s work. He was able to capture its most formidable personalities in their relaxed and unguarded moments. Embedded in Roy’s photographs is also an excitement and optimism, a sense that we are witnessing a decisive progressive moment in Indian modernity.”
What happened after the Indira Gandhi era? Over the last three decades, we have seen a gradual erosion of trust in the media. One reason for this is the high insecurity that developed in the ruling class since they headed wobbly governments. The other is that our prime ministers – maybe Atal Behari Vajpayee was an exception – were not intellectually robust like Nehru who had the largeness of heart to tell cartoonist Shankar not to spare him.
It could also be because very few outstanding political photographers have emerged since Raghu Rai, who was allowed by Indira Gandhi to enter the prime minister’s office. It was on one such occasion that Rai took the classic picture of a semi-circle of Congress ministers standing stooped in front of her giant oak table as she signed papers.
The aloofness of today’s leaders is also an extension of the fear of the image that the government has perpetrated for so long. What happens if a picture of, say, the office of the Archaeological Survey of India (the biggest scaremonger of all, which has banned photography in and around many historical monuments under its watch) is published somewhere? Nehru had mocked this omnipresent warning by posing for Vyarawalla in front of one such sign near the Palam airport.
Camera as an intruder
“In many countries struggling with failed or discredited attempts to modernise, there are more and more covered women,” said writer Susan Sontag in her famous essay On Photography. The veiled faces in Hindu homes, the burqas in Islamic societies and the nun’s habit are meant to show women as serene characters living according to a patriarchal vision. The “covering up” of buildings and the ban on photography betray a similar vision of oppression.
In medieval societies and in India during the 19th century, captured rulers and soldiers were blinded to prevent them from “seeing”. This fear of being “seen” is a predominant concern in many societies and in ours too. That is why the camera is considered an intruder that can show up the truth behind the façade. It can capture the ugliness of the government and its pan-stained corridors which are a precursor to the greater waster. So what Sontag said, “One of the tasks of photography is to disclose and shape our sense of the variety of the world. It is not to present ideals,” is sought to be prevented by the written and unwritten bans on photography or for that matter reportage.
It is an immense loss that the crucial moments in India’s recent past went without any image to tell us the true story. The loss gets heightened when contrasted with the classic photographs that were caught by brilliant chroniclers like Vyarawalla.
“It was after 50 years of having taken these pictures that I started to see the value of my work,” Vyarawalla once told Sabeena Gadihoke who curated her latest exhibition. “I was just earning a living at that time with no thought of preserving it for posterity… In a country where a great man like Gandhiji has been forgotten why would I be remembered.”
Images and our memory of it outlive everything. That is why we as a nation keep harking back to the Nehru and Indira eras. We do not know with any level of intimacy those who have ruled us since then. With the ban on the image, with the fencing out of photographers and reporters, we have banished a segment of our history as well.
We welcome your comments at
letters@scroll.in.
Though it is the TV camera that is feared today by those in power, the still camera, like the beloved Rolleiflex twin reflex that Vyarawalla used, was also intrusive but endearingly so. By keeping both the television and still cameras out of sight, the governments of the last few decades have displayed a magnified fear of the image. This is why the first warning board near any government establishment (even museums) is “Photography Strictly Prohibited”.
As the life of the fear extends, so does its reach: from the image it has spread to the press reporter and the television anchor who attacks from the cosy confines of the TV studio. Not wanting to be blemished by infamy or questioned by anchors, those in power defend themselves by proxy.
This deterioration of the relationship between the government and the media began after Indira Gandhi’s era. Till then, several reporters, cartoonists and photographers were known to the prime ministers and often addressed by name. Long back, when Indira Gandhi celebrated Rajiv Gandhi’s fifth birthday she called Vyarawalla to photograph the party and later sent a letter of thanks with a cheque. When Vyarawalla crashed down from a high stool or a cardboard box in front of Mohammed Ali Jinnah during his last press conference (before he went to Pakistan) at his Aurangzeb Road residence, he asked her if she was hurt.
That warmth, trust and camaraderie shared by many photographers or reporters with the national leaders during the Nehru-Indira era no longer exists. It has been lost to a pervasive paranoia.
Cut-off from the prying eyes of the camera, cocooned in sanitised environs, seemingly incapable of social interactions, the post-Indira era leaders are caricatures to us. Effusing no warmth, no humanness, betraying no frailties, no secret joys (like Jawaharlal Nehru displayed in Kulwant Roy’s close-up shot where his hands are clasped around Rajiv’s cheeks as he said farewell before departing to Europe), our memory of the last two decades are of despair, crises and failed leaderships. No images tell us of personal agonies, most are just staccato shots of set-up triumphal moments.
Intimacy of freedom struggle
In a sense then our memories of the rulers of the last two decades are just imagined. The intimacy of an era gone past has been replaced by a widening gulf. This is also one reason why the electorate often turns angry (like in the recent Delhi assembly elections) since for them a prime minister or a minister is bereft of emotions and frailty.
What photographer and curator Aditya Arya said of Kulwant Roy’s pictures during a retrospective of Roy’s works two years ago at the Delhi National Gallery is true in the case of Vyarawalla as well: “This intimacy of the freedom movement distinguished Roy’s work. He was able to capture its most formidable personalities in their relaxed and unguarded moments. Embedded in Roy’s photographs is also an excitement and optimism, a sense that we are witnessing a decisive progressive moment in Indian modernity.”
What happened after the Indira Gandhi era? Over the last three decades, we have seen a gradual erosion of trust in the media. One reason for this is the high insecurity that developed in the ruling class since they headed wobbly governments. The other is that our prime ministers – maybe Atal Behari Vajpayee was an exception – were not intellectually robust like Nehru who had the largeness of heart to tell cartoonist Shankar not to spare him.
It could also be because very few outstanding political photographers have emerged since Raghu Rai, who was allowed by Indira Gandhi to enter the prime minister’s office. It was on one such occasion that Rai took the classic picture of a semi-circle of Congress ministers standing stooped in front of her giant oak table as she signed papers.
The aloofness of today’s leaders is also an extension of the fear of the image that the government has perpetrated for so long. What happens if a picture of, say, the office of the Archaeological Survey of India (the biggest scaremonger of all, which has banned photography in and around many historical monuments under its watch) is published somewhere? Nehru had mocked this omnipresent warning by posing for Vyarawalla in front of one such sign near the Palam airport.
Camera as an intruder
“In many countries struggling with failed or discredited attempts to modernise, there are more and more covered women,” said writer Susan Sontag in her famous essay On Photography. The veiled faces in Hindu homes, the burqas in Islamic societies and the nun’s habit are meant to show women as serene characters living according to a patriarchal vision. The “covering up” of buildings and the ban on photography betray a similar vision of oppression.
In medieval societies and in India during the 19th century, captured rulers and soldiers were blinded to prevent them from “seeing”. This fear of being “seen” is a predominant concern in many societies and in ours too. That is why the camera is considered an intruder that can show up the truth behind the façade. It can capture the ugliness of the government and its pan-stained corridors which are a precursor to the greater waster. So what Sontag said, “One of the tasks of photography is to disclose and shape our sense of the variety of the world. It is not to present ideals,” is sought to be prevented by the written and unwritten bans on photography or for that matter reportage.
It is an immense loss that the crucial moments in India’s recent past went without any image to tell us the true story. The loss gets heightened when contrasted with the classic photographs that were caught by brilliant chroniclers like Vyarawalla.
“It was after 50 years of having taken these pictures that I started to see the value of my work,” Vyarawalla once told Sabeena Gadihoke who curated her latest exhibition. “I was just earning a living at that time with no thought of preserving it for posterity… In a country where a great man like Gandhiji has been forgotten why would I be remembered.”
Images and our memory of it outlive everything. That is why we as a nation keep harking back to the Nehru and Indira eras. We do not know with any level of intimacy those who have ruled us since then. With the ban on the image, with the fencing out of photographers and reporters, we have banished a segment of our history as well.