zishaan a latif

No Place Called Home - How NRC exclusion drove a teenager to take her own life.

“Abba, I heard two people have been picked up by police,” Abdul Kalam recalled his daughter had asked him on the day she committed suicide. “Will they also pick me up?” Abdul Kalam and Halima Khatun are a married couple residing in Kharupetia town in Assam's Darrang district. Their 17-year-old daughter, Noor Nehra Begum, took her own life after she was excluded from the first two drafts of the National Register of Citizens. In end July 2019, I travelled through four districts in Assam, documenting the devastation left behind by the floods that swept parts of the state earlier that month, and the plight of the people struggling for inclusion in the NRC.

No Place Called Home - Assam’s D-Voters in Despair.

Since early 2019, a couple from Assam’s Darrang district—a 61-year-old man and a 50-year-old woman—who are marked “D-voters,” have been living on the move, away from their home, in fear that the police will arrest them. Assam’s D-voters—or doubtful voters—have to undergo an arduous process to prove their Indian citizenship before the state’s Foreigners Tribunals. At the tribunals, the odds are stacked against these individuals—a slight variation in spellings or age can lead to a declaration that they are foreigners. This is compounded by a lack of effective legal assistance and reported pressure on tribunal members to declare individuals foreigners. The 61-year-old said that they had paid a lawyer who did not help them, and that the police had asked them for money that they could not afford. “I didn’t give them any money and went into hiding,” the man said. “The police still come looking for us.” In end July 2019, I travelled through four districts in Assam, documenting the devastation left behind by the floods that swept parts of the state earlier that month, and the plight of the people struggling for inclusion in the NRC.

Life is a mosaic of experiences and a plethora of emotions layered within the two basic emotions of love and fear. A few years later and I am still asking myself what was it that I was trying to capture through these photographs. Was I trying to capture the last few years of memories I had left, in fear or celebrating the 9 decades of Dhanji Anklesaria’s beautiful existence, in love? A lot of my understanding of my grandfather came from my mother, Ferengez Latif. She spoke of him with loving admiration and awe. He was a strict disciplinarian, a demanding father and there were parts of him reserved and difficult to penetrate even for her. The more time I spent around him, the more I was amazed by his zeal for life. Unknowingly, I was building my own personal experience. This not only enabled me to get closer to nana but also uncovered some of his numerous and layered idiosyncrasies. He was compassionate. Compassion, which many people call faith, faith in the Supreme Being. He was a proud Zarthusthi, following the religion in spirit rather than in ritual. He saw his God in the marvels of nature and the universality of music. These fleeting moments were documented bringing alive experiences shared between my grandfather and me. 95 Mani Villa is now locked and guarded by Dhanji’s family and well-wishers. His phone, his lifeline to the world outside, gathers dust. Mani Villa is a silent witness to the life of the Anklesarias and the complex patriarch Dhanji ---- A man with feisty morals, fervent faith, principled pride and perplexing love for his family – that was my nana. Dhanji Anklesaria, had lived all of his 90 years in Jhansi. Jhansi beyond the railway station, is a small sleepy town with a grand history. It was always a big shift after living in Delhi and Mumbai , a big change of space and attitude whenever I would visit my grandparents. It was laid-back. It was unlearning the hustle. During my frequent visits, I secretly dug for beautiful things that Mani Villa had preserved - cards, old photographs, reminding us of the numerous live jam sessions with renowned musicians from around the city and country at Mani Villa. Today his harmonium is a bitter sweet reminder of the self- taught musician and music aficionado who had brought greats like Bismillah Khan, Parveen Sultana, Halim Jaffer, Sitara Devi, Jagjit Singh and several others to the music lovers of Jhansi! Mostly, I spent time with him in silence, because in this silence came his best moments when he surrendered himself to music. He would sing Indian classical ragas to himself, which resonated through the house. Often I tried probing into memories that he did not want to revisit, like his unhappiness with his son and his daughter, both of whom married against his wishes. It was unacceptable and unforgivable after all he had the reputation of having high ethical standards and unfailingly took on authorities if he felt they were wrong and now his own children had broken the moral code. Life did go on and while he yearned for his children,his pride and ego refused to bend or break. Time played the great healer and his two grand children, (my sister and me) did melt his heart in the summer of 1987 and Mani Villa was full of life again! Mani, my grandmother died of cancer just months before their 50th wedding anniversary in 2002 leaving nana sad, questioning life and its ways. The loneliness and responsibility that followed, the distance between his only son, Farokh and himself, his growing years took its toll on his health but not his spirit. Being a photographer I was observant and I would find myself absorbing moments, metaphorically representative of my grandfather’s state of being at that moment in his life, alone, lonely, yet independent and stubborn. The final few months of 2012 had been the most difficult for him; he longed for his family and often feared for them when they travelled. His health deteriorated and he was under close and constant observation by family and friends. Nana was extremely independent. When he fell sick, it was not his sickness that caused him pain, but the loss of his independence, freedom of movement. Being self sufficient, he disliked asking for help even though we wanted to make him comfortable. With age you realize that an individual's idea of freedom and independence changes. But we don't realise that there is a common thread - the ability to make that choice on your own, knowing the consequences, as long as your decisions do not harm another individual that is real freedom. We take this for granted. I learnt this from Nana. He finally let go after he had met his family members including his son. He peacefully drifted away into the nether world in the afternoon of 7th December 2012, in his sleep. He left behind a legacy of a simple but principled life.

No Place Called Home - Poetry as Protest in Assam.

Since 2016, a new wave of protest poetry by Assam’s Bengal-origin Muslim community has emerged in the state. The poetry centres itself around the persecution faced by the community in Assam, the existential dilemma faced by its members, who have been subjected to social and legal backlash for the articulation of their identity, and their vulnerability to exclusion from the National Register of Citizens. “When we speak our story, they say that we are exaggerating, we’re calling them xenophobic,” Abdul Kalam Azad, an independent researcher and poet, said. “Sometimes I wonder, I keep thinking, how can I transfer some of our suffering, in a positive way, to them ... to see this issue empathetically.” In end July 2019, I travelled through four districts in Assam, documenting the devastation left behind by the floods that swept parts of the state earlier that month, and the plight of the people struggling for inclusion in the NRC.

No Place Called Home - Grappling with floods in the times of NRC.

In July 2019, floods hit Assam’s Chunbari village. “Our land is being eroded, cows and calves are dying, but there is no relief,” Azid Mandal, a 56-year-old man, who has resided in the village for 40 years, said. Mandal and eight of his family members were excluded from the first two drafts of the National Register of Citizens, a list of Assam’s Indian citizens. The floods swept away their home as well as some documents which proved their Indian citizenship. According to official estimates, the floods destroyed 4,908 houses in Assam. “I do not even have land to build a new house. When I had land, I made a living. Now, it is no longer possible,” Mandal said. In end July 2019, I travelled through four districts in Assam, documenting the devastation left behind by the floods that swept parts of the state earlier that month, and the plight of the people struggling for inclusion in the NRC.

When the musician can't see, but feels a rhythm ; When the dancer can't hear, but steps to the vibrations of universal beats ; When the painter can't comprehend, but expresses magic freely ; When the actor can't emote, but embodies passion ; When the bodybuilder can't move, but is determined to ; When the chess player can't see, but makes the move.