Dozens of photographs of me in various poses are stuffed in albums, or framed and hanging in my own or friends’ rooms, and there used to be a time – that is, two to three years ago – when it was possible to recognize me in those pictures. But I myself have erred several times in recognizing the new edition of my face that has resulted from an increase in weight and a change in expression after the ‘health-amendment’. That face at 95 pounds and this one at 154 pounds don’t seem to have anything in common.

Several times, friends advised me to get a new picture and announce the cancellation of all earlier ones; on numerous occasions I myself wondered when this softness would vanish. That is why it was decided to get a new picture. Otherwise, I considered myself a seasoned politician for whose picture scores of camera-wielding young men would throng, if not hundreds. In fact, getting one’s own picture seemed to be an indulgence of a childish sort.

So it was finalized that the picture had to be taken, but it could not be decided, that evening, where to take it. There is someone whom I call Bhaijan and use as an encyclopedia. Besides things like which shop sells original tobacco, which restaurant serves excellent chicken curry, which coffee-house has coffee with just the right taste, which shop has authentic gabardine cloth, who are the top surgeons and physicians, which tailor specialized in what, and so on, he was also a regular help in resolving family matters.

Bhaijan said, “There was a time when Raju Chowdhary used to take good pictures. He was in demand from the Federal House to the Funeral House. Besides being a top grade photographer, he was very hard-working. After three long hours of toil, he once took such a picture of Dr. Agarwal’s dead body that would make every onlooker wish…”

Manmohanji had a propensity to interrupt Bhaijan while he was talking. He said, “You are talking of a dead man? Nowadays Chaturvedi Studio is the best and there can hardly be any disagreement on this.”

Bhaijan would never fret on such occasions. He resumed, “Then Ghoshal entered the arena, armed with his new cameras. It is well known that he used to take excellent pictures without any retouching. The ‘Aalo-Chhaya’ saga got underway later on, and he was an expert in the art of light and shade. It was widely debated whether to feature a picture he once took, of Professor Kiran, at the International Photography Exhibition. The light was focused just on the nose. Just imagine, on a black card a dim light is focused on just the nose and a corner of the glass frame and Professor Kiran’s face is clearly visible on that black card. Now it is Chaturvedi’s time, but…”

“But what?” Ramakishenji asked.

“People who go to Chaturvedi need to have deep pockets,” Bhaijan said.

For some reason, Biren took this to heart. He said, “Bhaiji, this is an absolutely unfair and inappropriate accusation. He certainly charges more but provides quality work in return. Are you aware of how much the prices of film and plates have risen lately?”

The gathering had, by now, enough material for discussion and I remembered that I had been informed this very morning that we were out of tea. I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is to get money from the petticoat government – it’s easier to steal from the government treasury! The money comes, of course, but only with bone-chilling remarks as appurtenance. “I must have told him a thousand times to bring a pack of Brooke Bond’s hotel-blend dust tea while bringing Happy Valley tea for himself. But being called a connoisseur of tea seems to be his singular passion. His friends say, ‘Buddy, you’re a real connoisseur of tea,’ and there he goes. Now he keeps serving them tea that costs six rupees and twelve annas a pound! The whole world is on fire, and here he is harboring a desire to drink White Prince” – such are my lady’s words, call them advice or admonishment, as you please.

White Jasmine, not White Prince! One day, in our gathering, we were discussing which celebrity in India drinks which brand of tea or smokes which brand of cigarettes. Someone mentioned that Maulana Azad used to drink White Jasmine tea. Maulana had admitted this in his book ‘Gobare Khatir’. The conversation ended with a wanton tongue among us uttering this audacious statement out loud – “If I stay alive, I will taste it someday, brother.” These words crossed over to the other side of the curtain and the aspersion of White Prince was being cast on me ever since. It even came back to me via my in-laws in this fashion – “Mr. White Elephant wants to drink White Jasmine!”

Having dispatched Chunnilal to the market for getting tea and cigarettes, I came back to find the discussion caught in the swirl of socialism, communism and democratic socialism in politics, after having crossed the limits of depression in economics. This was an everyday happening. Whatever the topic of discussion, and wherever it began, it ended in the same place.

So a decision about where to take the picture could not be arrived at in that evening’s gathering.

While passing through the square the next day, the lights of the Wonderful Studio’s wonderful signboard reminded me of the photograph. I also remembered that Rajan worked at this place. Rajan, an artist friend of mine who, after getting a diploma in Fine Arts from Shanti Niketan, literally starved for a year looking for work here. He now had a job in this studio.

I resolved to get myself photographed at the Wonderful Studio.

The moment I stepped into the shop, I found myself in front of peculiar kind of person – “I am the director of the Wonderful. How may I help you, sir?”

“I want a picture taken, of myself.”

“Very well, sir. Please come inside the studio.”

Bold lettering on the wall proclaimed – “The world is a wonderful studio.”

“Where is Rajanji?” I asked.

“Rajan who? That artist of mine? He is at the radio station today with his wife. They’ve arranged for him to talk on commercial art.” The man was virtually rolling ahead of me.

On reaching a room on the inner side, he turned to me – “Alright brother, are you going to strike your own pose, or will it be as per our sets?”

“What do you mean?”

“I will explain.” Wrapping around his fingers the silky string of the magnifying glass hanging from his neck, he said, “Sir, in accordance with the wishes of our customers, we have actually built a variety of sets by employing many major artists. Come here!” He pulled a curtain aside. “This is a set just like in the movies, and here are the pictures taken at this set!” He opened a big album.

I saw that the pictures were stills of famous actresses from movies. I was not able to understand anything, so I said, “But these are all movie stills, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. That is what they look like.” And with a big laugh, disproportionate to his size, he said, “This is my specialty. Take a closer look, sir – in accordance with our customers’ desires, we have photographed them in poses along with Suraiya, Nargis, Lalini, Nimmi and others.”

All those pictures rolled in front my eyes now. Young men and adolescents alike were making gestures as in the movies, with their hair styled like Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar and Dev Anand. One of them was saying something to Suraiya, holding her chin. Wearing knee-length shorts and a navy t-shirt, someone was in the ‘Awara’ pose, holding Nargis’ hands. Another wished to say something to Nimmi in the Dilip Kumar style, with his hands on her shoulders.

“All of them? They are all actresses?” I could not really ask anything coherent.

“Actresses? They are all dummies! We have employed top artists at our place. They give us earthen mannequins for each new pose.”

“Do girls also get themselves photographed in such poses?” I asked with a bit more courage.

“Very much, sir! For them, we have dummies of actors. Most of the girls wish to appear with Ashok Kumar, Dilip or Raj Kapoor. Except for a college girl expressing her desire to get herself photographed with the comedian Mirza Musharraf the other day… Who is going to get a dummy made for just one customer? Last month we got a dummy of a lion built after receiving twenty-five orders. People wish to get themselves photographed while fighting with a lion, just like Samson.”

“But these dummies appear so life-like in the pictures,” I said, attempting to suppress a smile.

“Yes sir! They come out well after our light, shade, makeup and retouch.”

His helper boy showed up and said, “Sir! There is a customer out there, for the movie set.”

“Bring him in.” Then, turning to me, he said, “Please come, I will show you another set. You will definitely like our political set.”

We moved to another part of that hall. The Director of the Wonderful Studio started showing me an album with great enthusiasm. “Take a look, brother! These are aaina poses.”

I saw a picture where a few girls were performing drill in military uniform.

“What is an aaina pose?”

“You didn’t get it? Oh, aaina? Indian National Army! Dhillon, Shahnawaz and Captain Lakshmi?”

“Oh… INA!”

“In those days, sir, all the girls were very much fond of this. So we got military dresses and dummy rifles.”

I started looking at one picture closely. A slender, tall girl with dimples in her cheeks, and small, deep eyes was saluting – rather, saying Jai Hind – in Captain Lakshmi’s pose. The rifle butt looked like an elephant’s foot next to her thin arm.

“And look at this! It’s a gathering of thousands of people. The leader is delivering his speech. There is a microphone in front of him.”

Looking at the crowd in the photograph, I remembered the Congress sessions. “Not just thousands, but a gathering of hundreds of thousands.”

“But… So many people… How did you come up with so many dummies?” I said, astonished.

He broke into laughter, over my ignorance perhaps, and then answered, “Sir, this is a photographic trick. We have got curtains made of this kind. Look at this. He is a leader of workers and is leading a march of thousands of workers.”

I saw. In front of a long queue of thousands of workers, their leader, with unkempt hair and a wide open mouth, was marching, carrying a flag in his hand. (I can’t say anything about its color, since in the picture it appeared black… and why would you need to know what symbol was on it anyway?) Great!

“Why would political activists or leaders get themselves photographed in this pose? Do-nothings must be the ones who like it – it’s obvious from looking at the picture,” I said.

“You are right sir. Mostly idlers – especially sons of businessmen-barons – like this a lot. We keep some Jawahar Jackets and a few white and colorful topis. But the other day – I’m sorry, it’s a private matter… please don’t share this with anyone – Minister Kripa Babu’s private secretary, Chaubey, suddenly showed up at night. He said, look buddy, you are an old friend of mine and there is a very private thing to share with you. Minister Sir had gone to Raipur for a tree-planting ceremony. The weather was not good, so the photograph didn’t come out as clear as it should have. Can you do something? It has to go to the newspapers tomorrow itself. I replied, but Minister Sir will have to come to the studio. Minister Sir turned up at eleven in the night. We arranged the curtain that is used for flag-hoisting, our artist painted the flag all black and Minister Sir planted a tree right there. What’s wrong with having tree-planting instead of flag-hoisting?”

He gave me the picture to look at. This picture had been published recently in the newspapers. I still remember the heading at the top and the caption at the bottom!

“Bend a little bit more… yes… and spread your fingers like a flower’s petals… just like that… yes…” There was something going on in the movie set.

Mr. Wonderful said with a smile on his face, “A dance pose is being worked upon there. There is a dance school near-by – their director helps us work on the dance poses.”

“Excellent sir! Your studio is really wonderful! It’s unique,” I said.

“Sir, we will develop it even further. We got two sets built recently. A communal set and a French set.”

“A communal set? Would you show me that one too?”

This time Mr. Wonderful hesitated a bit. Then he said, “Mind you sir, since you are Rajan’s friend, you are my friend too – otherwise we don’t show it to others. Please come.”

Mr. Wonderful took me to a third partition and showed me two or three pictures. One of the pictures showed a young man stabbing an old fellow clad in a lungi. Another one showed a brave young man galloping on his horse and swishing his sword like Shivaji. In the third one, Bharatmata was showering flowers from heaven and a valiant man was ripping the national flag apart… thousands of people had gathered.

“And there is a French set on this side… And a Hollywood movie set!”

My head was spinning now. I sat down on a stool nearby and said, “Mr. Wonderful! I do not have the words to thank you. Needless to say, it is an act of welfare towards society. People would have gone crazy if you had not opened this studio. You are the one who takes real pictures of men. Great!”

Mr. Wonderful started with his spiel again, “Sir, business is no fun in this part of the country. When I was in Lahore, people used to pay a hundred rupees apiece for poses like these. People do not understand art here. Anyway, sir… Now tell me what kind of set you want me to arrange for you?”

“A set for me? No need to arrange a set for me. I wish to give a pose of my inner self,” I replied grimly.

“Very well, sir. Please tell me.”

“Hang me up from a tree with a noose around my neck. And the picture should be like this – my eyes and tongue hanging out, and a piece of paper in my hand with something like this written onto it, ‘Rest in peace, my countrymen, while I move along’.”

(Translation: Bharatbhooshan Tiwari)