As I was in the shower (strangely, one of the most inspirational activities), it dawned upon me how photography is hardwired in the human brain.

By this, I do not mean that everyone can become a Bresson or a Capa. But it is indeed, quite instinctive for human beings to want to capture what would otherwise be “lost time”. Each time we click the shutter, it is an attempt to capture, quite literally, a moment that is about to flow into this stream of consciousness. The image we see in front of us, is transposed into light waves, flipped, flipped again, and ends up “captured” on a 35mm sensor.

The “captive” image is only released again, when it finds a viewer.

Human beings through the ages, have always shown an inclination to capture. In game fishing, we release the catch once we have it on the hook. After all, it is the thrill of the hunt that we seek, not the fish. The release of the catch, in fact, completes the process. In the same way, we capture doves, so that we can release them. We trap wild horses, so that we can tame them, and then release them to be our rides.

Photographs are “captured” too, because they are meant to be released. The release happens in the form of publication, which by modern day standards, is not confined to the page or the album. The internet, social media, and even digital photo frames, have become other forms of “release”.

In this respect, I find myself a hesitant liberator. I remember reading about the great master Garry Winogrand, who died with some 300,000 unexposed frames. His legacy is a result of the same hesitance to “release” his images. Winogrand once said that to his students that they should put the exposed film aside until they completely forgotten what was shot on them, then look at them again, as if for the first time.

Although my pictures are nowhere near the master’s standard, I take solace in the fact that another photographer from another era is thinking the same way as I am. After all, the thrill of the hunt was over after the click. The satisfaction of  domesticating this wild beast called the image, should be treated as another process altogether, given its own time, given a fresh eye.

In the days of film,  this romantic notion seemed to be easily understood. I hope that in this day of digitized instantaneous gratification, I can find the courage to separate the two processes.

Not David Burnett.

In his 80-minute run -through of his stellar career, at a lecture at 2nd lumix Festival of Young Photojournalism, I discovered a real person, prone to same failures as every other photographer. He openly admitted the shot of the century he had missed while changing film in his M3 – the one that Nick Ut got. He also showed how shooting John Kerry at a football demo in a high school during the campaign wasn’t such a good idea. And he did not hide his fasincation for the humble Holga, that the 4/5 gave him a fresh injection of wonder when he first used it for sports. He showed me that being a little crazy was fine. That taking a little risk just might pay off.

And what struck me, was the attitude of this legend, whose early career involved persuading people at the airport to carry his bag of expended film back to America.

“Determination trumps passion”.

“I have seen so much talent gone to waste. But determination always brings you to different places.” (or something along that line).

Wow.

He sort of rounded it off with a punchline, the self-effacing David Burnett style: “That sounded good, didn’t it?”

In the meantime, it was still rather surreal to be within 5 metres of the legend that we all talk about in the classrooms. Eager students would mill around David and ask questions, and after they’re done: “That was your David Burnett moment!”

I guess I was equally star-struck, but I wasn’t at the age to go gaga over a superstar. Still, as I reeled from the surrealistic experience, I was really awe-struck by how real this guy was. It made me feel good that legends are ordinary people who did extraordinary things in their lifetime. Not everyone becomes a Burnett, a Nachtwey, a Capa, a Bresson. But I’m sure if we took away valuable lessons from what they offered, perhaps we can walk a similar path, to a similar happy ending.

Burnett’s fascination with the still image was probably the best thing he gave us at his lecture. Still, I don’t know if the crowd he spoke to could really appreciate this whole debate about film vs digital. Ï got a chance to actually pop a question, something along the line of: “In this day and age of budgetary cutbacks and the rising costs of film, what advice do u have for a young photographer who wants to work on film?”

That question sort of got him. Cos David was a legend, he had fat assignments lining up to pay him, and he had a backend support to develop his rolls and rolls of film when he’s done. And I don’t think he still uses shoeboxes for storing his negs.

“Well, there’s no easy answer… everytime i try to defend the use of film, i can’t help but sound like a relic… but well…”

That’s when the take-away advice came.

“Determination trumps talent.”

Rest, my disquiet heart. The world has larger problems than yours.

Reading 1, Acts 20:28-38

²⁸ ‘Be on your guard for yourselves and for all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you the guardians, to feed the Church of God which he bought with the blood of his own Son.

²⁹ ‘I know quite well that when I have gone fierce wolves will invade you and will have no mercy on the flock.

³⁰ Even from your own ranks there will be men coming forward with a travesty of the truth on their lips to induce the disciples to follow them.

³¹ So be on your guard, remembering how night and day for three years I never slackened in counselling each one of you with tears.

³² And now I commend you to God and to the word of his grace that has power to build you up and to give you your inheritance among all the sanctified.

³³ ‘I have never asked anyone for money or clothes;

³⁴ you know for yourselves that these hands of mine earned enough to meet my needs and those of my companions.

³⁵ By every means I have shown you that we must exert ourselves in this way to support the weak, remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, who himself said, “There is more happiness in giving than in receiving.” ‘

³⁶ When he had finished speaking he knelt down with them all and prayed.

³⁷ By now they were all in tears; they put their arms round Paul’s neck and kissed him;

³⁸ what saddened them most was his saying they would never see his face again. Then they escorted him to the ship.

“They should tell you how fast the sticks will kill you instead,” I told Tashi. He laughed.

The irony of the cigarettes was not lost on Tashi. “Yeah, its hard to kick it. Chinese smoke is better than local. Been smoking it for years.” Like many of his compatriots Tashi escaped from Lhasa. It has been 9 years.

In the distant, black-backgrounded posters asked ominously: “10th March. Where will you be?”

Boudha was strangely quiet, as if a tense calm had enveloped the whole place – in preparation for the coming storm.

As we drank Fanta in the newly-opened Tibetan cafe, the group had grown to six. A painting of Dalai Lama, laughing, stood in the backdrop. A photocopied circular, distributed by the Tibetan Volunteers Organization, passed among them, as they discussed the plan for Mar 10.

They knew what they were up against. Already, the whole place was swarming with plain-clothed agents, both Nepali and Chinese. Several arrests and raids have already began.The armed police would be ready for them outside the Chinese Embassy – armed to the teeth: batons, shields and tear-gas canisters.

As the ragtag group discussed their haphazard “plan”, I cannot help but think this may be the last time I’ll be seeing some of them. Deportation equals death for Tibetans in exile.

One of them leafed thru the Himalayan Times and the headline was “Security beefed up for 51st Tibet uprising anniversary”. The warning was ominously printed.

“We won’t spare any pro-Tibetan if found guilty of provoking anger. They will be immediately arrested and handed over to the Department of Immigration for deportation”, said a certain DSP Pradhuma Karki.

I asked Sonam if he was afraid to be deported. Sonam laughed it off. “They alway say that, but they only say.”

At 1pm, I called off the wait. I must have called Dhir Bahadur 50 times, but network was down. It was an effort in vain anyway: what could he tell us but the same thing – that the boys left at 930am? I tried calling up Plan B: Call Ram Chaudhary. He seemed more confident, and his work – cutting marble slabs – made for good visuals. But that would have taken me to Pune – a 3-day journey by train, and another 3 days, probably, to Chitrakoot. It was a fool’s task, and I would have taken it on if the phone had got thru. Nothing. Phone was off. So was Birendra’s. I remarked to Krishna: why do people buy mobiles and switch them off?

I guess God wants me to learn a lesson. Too little research, too much wishful thinking, and too ambitious a plan. I was trying to find migrant farmers, which made up a small and shrinking proportion of migrant workers. I was looking for them at Dhangadhi, most of whom head to Maharashtra instead of Uttar Pradesh. And I was looking at a minor crossing – Gaurifanta – when I should be searching at Bhairahwa, where the migratory traffic is the highest. And I was looking at a time of festive celebrations, when most migrants would rather stay till Tihar finishes then to return back in the midst of Dashain. In other words, I was looking for snow in summer.

On hindsight, my efforts were laughable, and my only regret is wasting my friends’ time looking helter-skelter for suitable candidates. And I came in like a comet crashing in on a household which probably hasn’t seen a foreigner besides an Indian. I hadn’t dedicated enough time to the trust-building part – something I took for granted – and burned my fingers for the lack of effort. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

So it was little wonder the comet fizzled out after the crash.

After 8 visits, 2 letters of recommendation, 2 publications and 1 synopsis – enough was enough. The officers – Rameshwor Karki and PP Paudel – were out to make my life difficult. My wife was surprised by my patience. In fact, on hindsight, I was surprised by my own patience. Perhaps it was the show Front of the Class. Brad Cohen had been humiliated a dozen times for his Tourette syndrome but that didn’t stop him from chasing his dream of teaching. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. And I figured that I needed the villains on my side while I fought.

All that changed today as I called Karki for the second time this morning. Outside the fruit stall at Ekantakuna, I was told over the phone to get a one-month tourist visa – and also more documentation to prove I’m a bona fide journalist. I even ended off with a cordial good bye.

That was when Maria went ballistic.  “Why are you so nice to them when they are out to make things difficult for you? Give it to them. They will not work unless you give it to them.”

That was coming from my wife, who is usually an advocate of concillatory action. She was the kind to “just forget it”, not the kind to pick a fight. But today, she was raring for a fight. And I gave it to her.

I called Karki, and blasted him over them phone. Karki passed the phone to Paudel and I blasted him too. I actually blasted the ‘bossman’. So far, I had maintained a cordial relationship with Paudel, Mr Director of Information.  I cant recall what I said but it went along the lines of “what a shameful department” and “I will lodge a complaint to the Ministry of  Information”. He told me to go ahead – that was like the last straw. This is going to be an all-out war.

But I must confess that at this point, rather than feeling fiery, I was shell-shocked. I had burnt my bridges  – something I carefully avoided over the past month. Over the 8 visits to the Department, I had only lost my cool once, and that was to Karki and the other old fart called Basanta.

A brief recall of my visits. The first visit was a long shot on June 3 with a printout from Asia! website. The second on a Sunday – no one was in the office. Third and fourth, I came with a copy of Little Sisters, once to submit it, once to see Paudel – who looked at the photo bylines and said he will proceed. The fifth visit, I was told the application failed – they deemed that I was working for an INGO. The sixth, I drew a blank again – Karki was on leave. I came back the seventh time with a Rhythms recommendation letter and submitted to Karki. He said it looked good, and should pass. The eighth visit, Paudel looked at the magazine, and said it may have problems – it was about Free Tibet and it was published in a Taiwanese magazine. The ninth was today – we didn’t bother to go to the second level – we went straight to the Director General’s office.

Our plan to see the Director General without Karki and Paudel’s knowledge was instantly sabotaged by their minions. Obviously, the whole department was wired with eyes and ears, and the presence of two aliens wasn’t going to go unnoticed. Karki walked sheepishly into the office, and he was followed by Paudel, who made no pretense of his loathing for us.

After ten long minutes waiting at the lobby, we finally were granted an audience with Director-General Gautam. It was a spacious and bright room, with proper rotating office chairs. We namaste-d to Gautam and he returned the greeting. It was a good start. Gautam had a scholarly disposition – unlike the other two who looked like hardened criminals.

What followed was a perfunctory waltz of bureaucracy and appeal. I explained openly in front of the two villains, that I was made to come 8 times to the department. Each time, I was told to produce more documents to prove my intention. Gautam explained that my case was special and it needed the opinion of Home Ministry. I said I’m glad he’s verifying my case, and hope for a fair judgment. Then I played the master-stroke.

I asked for a private meeting with Gautam. Gautam was taken aback, but granted the audience nonetheless. The look on the villans’ face was priceless. They probably peed in their pants. They did not see this coming – all the time, the shadowy back-stabbing knife was their weapon. Suddenly, it had ended up in their adversary’s hands.They probably knew what i was going to say – they had planted a photocopying lady to listen. I said it anyway.

Gautam appeared shocked to learn that his men were taking money. I named Karki as a culprit – for he was the front man who had demanded USD 600 from me. I also told him that the case had been brought to Paudel, who had appeared to be in-charge and promised to take action against Karki. But 6 months later, Karki was still around, and Paudel appeared to be more friendly than a superior should be. I asked Gautam to put one and one together – it wasn’t that hard.

I still don’t know whether Gautam himself is ‘clean’, but it felt good to expose them. At times, it had crossed my mind that I could take the easy way out – offer a bribe get the job done. But I’m glad we fought this corrupt system. And it would be far more satisfying to go down fighting, than to be surrender to a disgusting low life opponent.

Today, we fought a good fight.

The conversation that followed was even stranger. One was saying it was a “good day after all”. Lots of nice pix though the marchers didn’t reach the border. Another was saying they were great actors - covering the Tibetans since March 10, 2008, has proven the point. They know how to give you Pictures of the Year by exaggerating the violence and drama. There were allegations of foreign money and manipulation, and generally, the wires guys were dissecting it with pure detachment, and a strangely-placed sense of humour, in the company of cold Turborg beer.

The Tibetans, now placed under custody, were drenched in the rain, exhausted from the resisting arrests, and defeated by the fact that they have failed in their attempt to cross the border back to Tibet.

It was this jarring chasm of emotions that marked my day. I have seen my fair share of protests, violence, and drama. But I cannot detach myself as these wires guys do. I cannot believe that people with families and lives, even if in exile, can continue doing this (protests, peace marches, hunger strikes) every time. Protesting is not a glorious business, despite the media appetite for its visuals. When the arrests come down hard and fast, all sense of human dignity is taken away. The police manhandle you and yell rude words at you. They drag you by anything they can grab hold of. They use their long lathi sticks on you.

I was shoved and pushed for a brief moment when police mistook me for a protester. I lost my cool and in that brief moment, I understood the feeling of persecution. It was not an easy pill to swallow. I felt my human dignity taken away in those few seconds.

Back at the restaurant, the wires guys were looking at their spoils of the day, commenting on this pix and that pix, gettin this “cool shot” and what not. I kept pacing the dining hall, peering out at the police station opposite. I even raised a thumbs up in question, and one of the Tibetans raised a thumbs up in answer. The other photogs were fussying over the captions – they didnt pull out the satellite phones becos one of them hadn’t brought it and protocol prevented such unfair competition. The video guy was busy editing his takes on the laptop already. The table was a mess of wires, cameras, and cold Turborg beer.

And all this time, my sathi, if I may call them that, were waiting in hunger and despair, at the police station.

I am brushing the conspiracy theories aside,  and sweeping cynicism under the bed. Add a dash of “benefit of the doubt”. Yes, some were play-acting. Yes, we were partners in crime – protesters and media. But how do these guys keep on going at it, when each time, a part of their human dignity is chipped away by arbitrary arrests? There was no certain conclusion each time they were arrested. The Chinese were adding pressure on the lackey Nepalese government, and one day, UNHCR may not be able to save them anymore. I cannot comprehend, nor detach myself from the story. A cause to die for? Perhaps. The closest thing I could relate to was my passion for visual story-telling. But like the wires guys, it wasn’t something I would die for.

On zReportage, on WPPh Enter, in a UN exhibition, and hopefully, in a published magazine that pays my dues. A photographer’s gotta eat. I appreciate all the publicity its getting. The refugees ought to have their voices heard. And God seems to want the voices heard.

But I cannot help but feel my spirits dampened by the obstacles in getting media accreditation. I have wasted my effort getting the book printed, and then to have it dismissed as NGO publicity material. The lines are blurring, and new media is emerging, but the dusty old cronies at the Department of Information still work in pen and paper. “We do not accept online publications,” said the dusty old man, who probably haven’t googled anything in his life before.

But God makes challenges for us all. And He makes sure we have the strength to overcome. We only need to ask, and the strength is ours. As hopeless as it seems now, I shall not bend. Life must go on as normal. Plans must proceed, people visited, and stories told. Be it on tourist visa, student visa or journo visa.

What God makes, Man cannot unmake.

It was the third day of Rato Machhindranath in Lagankhel, near a busy market and bus station. Today, an all-women chariot-pulling event would take place.

In contrast to the nariwal jatra (coconut festival) yesterday, today’s event really felt like a religious jatra. There was no street-brawl style jostling, no lathi-wielding police, and no frightened locals running away from fistfights.

Melodious Buddhist chanting permeated the air, as devotees held their arms up to the 32-feet tall chariot housing the red-faced, childlike deity of rain – Rato Machhindranath.

Rice kept raining down, as devotees sprinkled grains relentlessly on the chariot. The festival was traditionally a ritual to bring forth the monsoon – the harbinger of rain that promises an abundant harvest of rice.
As prayers bells punctuated the incessant chanting, a thought strayed across my mind. What a waste of rice. Ironic too, since this country has quite a handful of people who struggle to put rice into their ricebowls. Couldn’t the rice be put to better use in the East, where Koshi flood victims are still languishing in tents?

It would be easy to dismiss this whole business of idol worship and silly festivities as pure superstitious hangover from a feudal era. To some extent, it is. But try putting oneself into a Nepali’s shoes, and one can understand how festivals like these, figure in the life of an average Nepali.

In a country riddled with corrupt and incompetent leaders, festivals remind the people what makes them Nepali.  It helps them forgive and forget the bad things that make Nepal, and focus on the positive aspects of their heritage.

Even the construction of the awkwardly-tall chariot, made of wood, cane and rope, is in itself, a Newari architectural marvel. Tilting at near-45 degrees and not tipping over its side to crush the hundreds of devotees is in itself, a feat.

Then comes the chariot pulling part, which runs a serious risk of crushing hapless victims under its 5 feet wide wheels. Newaris seem to have something for pulling chariots with ropes.  As the chariot advanced through the 10-metre wide road (the chariot already takes up half the road), the Leaning Tower of Newars looks ready to bring down a few balconies.

But throughout the pulling of the chariot, no matter how rowdy it becomes, the devotees would retain a good sense of humour. As women tripped and fell, and feet get trampled on, all that came out of the Newari women were giggles and grins. No one flared up. It was all rough fun filled with a good spirit.

I couldn’t say the same if this happened in “developed” countries like, say, Singapore. At the Great Singapore Sale, irate shoppers jostling for a place in the cashier’s queue would glare at each other and even exchange heated words.

Jatras celebrated humanity. And part of that is the togetherness we share. Being able to shove each other around and not get angry is in itself, a celebration of humanity. Being able to touch the same chariot wheel with foreheads and not feel like we’ve contracted swine flu from the last guy – that’s humanity. Being able to give to and receive from beings we believe are higher than us, and yet not fight over it – that’s humanity.

It was a celebration of good-natured fun, which reminds us that life is not simply  a Darwinian evolution process.

“If there is a problem, it is not our job to report about the problem. Our job is to report on the solution that the government has come up with.”

The statement came as a surprise, after a fiery rhetoric of how corruption in the government has brought down Pakistan. According to Ehsan, it is the corrupt Musharraf and Company, that has brought Pakistan to its knees, not the Taleban; the Swat offensive is a conspiracy for squeezing donor money at the cost of the Pashtuns; and Zardari actually murdered Bhutto.

With such strong views about the establishment, it is amazing that Ehsan is still sane, doing what he does everyday. Still he is proud to be doing well in his spin doctor job;  he says he’s biding for time to jump onto an independent media that pays double his present wages.

Still this state mouthpiece works in strange ways – Ehsan has direct access to cabinet ministers and offers ‘friendly’ advice when he sees or hears some problem on the ground. What he doesn’t report in the public media, Ehsan ‘reports’ to politicians, and pitches them as opportunities for scoring points. So the problem gets solved, the government doesn’t look bad, and everyone is happy.

It seems that everyone has their own unique solution to the same set of problems.