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The Rediff Special/ Shameem Akthar

Let me confess. I am biased in favour of Prashant Panjiar. That makes writing this tough, since one tends to see his work through love-glazed eyes. And I cannot see but poetry, truly sheer, in each of his photographs from the exhibition Kings And Commoners, held recently at Bombay and Calcutta.

Now, having effused unabashedly, let me explain, through a I-centric digression, as to what makes his work special. As a child, among the other things I aimed to be in life (like a bus conductor), I also wanted to be a painter. Acknowledging my half-baked talent, though, I thought I should channelise my love for colours and shapes via another skill -- photography. After all, you just have to find the right subject (I had just the right degree of creativity to do that) and click. And then step back, as Fame applauded.

But when you see Panjiar's work, you realise that there are some photographers who can make painting seem simple. And photography very difficult. Each photograph is sketched (though composed is the correct technical term, the other seems more appropriate here). And transmutes skill into art.

We decided to be democratic in selecting just a few from all the others -- to tell the stories behind the pictures. He chose two, and I four. The exhibition will also be held at Bangalore's Chitrakala Parishath (May 5-15).

1998, Jagdalpur, Madhya Pradesh. Kamal Chandra Bhanj Deo, the present Maharaja of Bastar.

"I had photographed his father before for India Today in the same hall where this picture was taken. I knew of the Dussehra celebrations of Bastar, and how the tribal people of the region used to come to their king to pay their respects, so I made it a point to be in Jagdalpur when Kamal Chandra Bhanjdeo, all of 14 years, was due to perform his role as Maharaja of Bastar in his first Dussehra," narrates Panjiar.

A teenager ("like any normal boy") flopping in the chair, not even as British as much as American. The only thing Indian about him are his leather sandals -- the sharp-toed, embroidered ones sported by both the king and the commoner in this country.

Just a kid on a vacation from Raipur, who could be bored, even if trying not to show it, at the tribals' compulsive need to venerate him -- remnant royalty. Who, when not being salaamed, would rather play with his siblings and cousins, jean-clad like him, either fooling around with a football or riding a Hero Honda.

"I had arranged to shoot pictures of the durbar in the evening where Kamal and his younger brother were to sit in all their finery. However, before the event, since quite a few tribal people had come from the villages, Kamal was asked to make an appearance in his normal clothes. Though I had pictures of both the afternoon and the evening, the pictures of the afternoon worked out much better and that is the picture in the exhibition."

1995, Katihar, Bihar. Phool Devi, a midwife, demonstrates how unwanted female infants are killed.

This picture defines Panjiar's oeuvre. It also demonstrates poignantly why photography can be tougher than painting. The use of a doll to narrate the sordid saga of female foeticide is hard-hitting. Where a real-life baby would have repulsed, this doll thumps the slumbering conscience with a violent wake-up call.

"This photograph was taken for an article on female infanticide for Outlook. Soma Wadhwa, the correspondent, and I met this group of midwives with whom an NGO was working." Phool Devi, one of them, is among those who were trying to wean people away from this horrendous practice.

"A gruesome task that they had to perform themselves for their clients. Phool Devi and another midwife had agreed to show us the place, near the river, where they would dispose the bodies of the infants after being asked to kill them. They had also agreed to show us how the act was done.

"It was August, the rainy season. When we reached the riverbank, these large thunderclouds were already dominating the sky. The sun was setting and the light was low. In the end the atmosphere, the setting, was just right to bring the message home."

The lumbering clouds, pregnant and fertile. The sombre, just-before-storm electricity in the air. The hint of doom in the crackling atmosphere. The sinking sun, flaming like a fire in the belly. It hurts, this picture, with its story of a wound smeared with poverty.

1994, Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh. At an airforce base.

A pictures that breathes airiness. Speaks of open spaces. Hints at incongruity -- the heavy-turbaned, liveried man. The ice-cold champagne being borne among a horde of grounded aircraft.

"This picture was taken at the 50th anniversary of an airforce squadron near Gwalior. I was part of an official press party flown down from Delhi for the event. Anyone who comes from a services family will know such events are all about pomp and ceremony. The band played on the tarmac, the officers strutted around, there was an aerobic display. And, of course, champagne was served."

1990, Bikaner, Rajasthan. Maharaja Narendra Singh Rathore in his home.

It's not purple, but red for royalty. The scene is drenched in vermillion. From the royal velvet to the middle-class fridge. A bleeding red, a plebeian king, British shards in ceramic figurines.

Panjiar, on an assignment with Pankaj Pachauri of India Today, met this red-loving king, Narendra Singh, in a flame-coloured house. The recluse allowed the walls around him to recede, though since the assignment the walls have regrouped to cage him in again.

A rare peep into the cardinal prison, whose scarlet walls warn all and sundry to keep off -- or brave ferocious dogs. The photograph is not suffused with artificial filter, the carmine tint is for real. A double-storeyed house painted a shocking dark pink, his bedroom showcasing his titian tilt, vermillion, on the walls, tabletops, bedspread, upholstery, with Singh himself sporting a pale pink shirt!

Recalls Panjiar, "We talked for a long time. He told us about how his father, Karni Singh, the last Maharaja of Bikaner, member of parliament and Olympic shooter, despaired at his obsession with the colour red and his fascination for animals. How, at the age of 21, his father finally felt it would be better if he left the palace and lived separately.

"Narendra Singh showed us his menagerie of animals -- ducks, geese, crossbred pigeons, pedigreed bulls and his favourite Great Dane bitches. He talked about his difficulties in his married life, his disputes within the family -- in short he really opened out, telling us things about his personal life that cannot be repeated as it could be defamatory.

I will never know why this happened -- perhaps we happened to telephone him at that moment in life when he needed to talk to somebody. I have tried to meet him again after that, but with no success."

Panjiar's favourites

1999, Ahwa, Gujarat. Tamasha artistes.

Panjiar's words best relate the story behind this picture: "I am particularly fond of this picture. I was in Ahwa for the Dang durbar, shooting for my Maharajas project. During the durbar, there is a large fair in the town with shops selling clothes. Ferris wheels, circuses, travelling studios. And, of course, the tamasha.

"I was taking pictures of the fair when the manager of the tamasha invited me to see the show that night. Since there was nothing better to do, I went over. I had planned to take a few pictures just for myself but, on seeing the camera, all the boys and girls of the troupe insisted I take their pictures. They were so thrilled that, at one point, even the performers on stage deserted the show to come backstage to have their pictures taken.

"All these pictures were posed, but the artistes struck the poses themselves. A girl would run off and come back dragging a friend... They would then say that they wanted their picture taken in a particular way. I did as they asked me to, not interfering with how they wanted themselves to be portrayed, only opening up the frame a little bit and composing the picture to include the surroundings and also to show the interplay of the persons in the frame.

"The directness of the gaze of the people photographed allows for direct communication between the subject and the viewer without the overt interference of the photographer."

1984, Delhi.

The strange, unintentional symmetry of the three supine figures. One of those rare juxtapositions that veers sharply from the humdrum. The quaint that evokes a spontaneous smile.

While at Patriot newspaper, Panjiar was assigned to do a photofeature on photographer Sondeep Shankar, showcasing his work. Panjiar was following Shankar around at Chandni Chowk, to click one shot of him while he was working.

"As we moved up a side road we passed a temple set in a corridor. Sondeep was ahead when I chanced upon the scene. Abandoning the assignment on hand, I veered off and quietly started shooting it. I barely managed two or three shots. Of course, a large crowd had already gathered. Someone started waking the two sleeping men. And the moment was over."

But not before it was caught.

This, then, is just a few of the stories behind the tales his photographs tell.

Panjiar's personal project documents the ex-Princes of India, ousted by Independence. His photojournalism documents, among other things, ordinary people. As he explains in his brochure, he has plaited both these strands of his work for this exhibition.

"Though the people depicted in these photographs are very different from one another in economic and social status, each one of them occupies his or her individual space with pride. In the end, I hope, the dignity of the individuals who appear in these photos will tend to blur the distinctions -- kings could be commoners and commoners, kings."

The heart of a seasoned journalist, you would expect, would be crusted over. With Panjiar, it is different. As a correspondent who's trailed him on assignments, I know his pictures speak because he reaches out. Nothing is too common. Particularly in a commoner. And, of course, in the king.

The Rediff Specials

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