people sketching

The photographer

Click.

The shutter closes and in a flash the moment is gone.

A stolen kiss, a fiery gaze, a wild gesture- these all captured on camera to be frozen in time.

He waits, eyes searching the crowd, finger at the trigger, waiting for that ‘moment’.

The one that gives just a little more away. The one that you weren’t quite meant to see.

But what about the eyes that lie behind those lenses. The one that devotes himself to capturing others’ moments to telling others’ stories.

What is his story?

See, through others’ stories you get a glimpse of his own.

Flight from Delhi

“I’m going to find a corner or aisle seat” she tells me as I get up to make way for her on the plane. And she’s off.

Minutes later she returns. On a fully booked Emirates flight, this is hardly surprising. 

She sits herself next to me, pulling out her broadsheet newspaper - The Economic Times - making no effort to contain it. 

The flight is little over three hours to Dubai.

This woman is not large by any means, but still feels the need to spill over to ‘my’ space, resting her shoes on my hoody, tucked underneath the seat in front of me. I move to claim back ‘my’ space.

The lady is Indian. She is dressed in a brightly coloured kurta and speaks with an air of confidence, bordering on arrogance. She is obviously highly educated. Yet, still has no words to excuse herself or to ask me to move as she steps over and on me on the way to the toilet. Such a contrast to the nature of the people we met in Sikkim.

During the flight, she manages to irritate some of the flight attendants. Politely they reply and accommodate her but from the look on their faces after, they have seen it all before. 

As the plane grinds to a halt, some three hours later, before the seatbelt signs have even been switched off, there is a clatter of seatbelts being unfastened as the passengers rush to get off the plane. As I’ve learnt in India, this is not uncommon and it is essential to be at the front of the ‘queue’, or as close to. Some passengers will even start to offload their luggage from the overhead compartments before the plane has even stopped. There is a continual rush to be places, whether this means getting tickets first at tourist sites or claiming the first available toilet cubicle. As such, queues in its traditional sense are unheard of. 

The Indian lady beside me is the first to clamber over me, no pardons or excuse mes needed of course, until she is at the very front of the scramble to get off the plane. 

No-one is moving anywhere. The stairs have not even yet been set up or doors opened. 

I start to gather my belongings, checking the space around me to make sure I haven’t left anything.

I spot something.

In her haste to clamber over me, the lady has forgotten her passport. For a split second, I contemplate leaving it there for her to come back and find later to teach her lesson. 

I sigh and pick up the passport. The lady is so far in front she’s no longer even in reach so I pass it on down to the front. She receives it eventually and a look of surprise washes over her face. She makes her way back toward me.

Only now does she remembers her manners, she thanks me for finding it, then sits down in her seat to check it once more and arrange her things.

She is no longer in a rush to get off the plane.

The drunk who no one wants to know

He sits silent and unsuspecting as I get on the tube but as I do, I get a whiff. That in itself is enough to make me bypass him to find a seat in the next carriage.

And then it starts.

Incomprehensible loud grumbles. His speech is slurred. He clutches a can of beer in his hand and waves it about dangerously at anyone who dares to make eye contact. More incomprehensible grumbles.

A few people get on, their bums barely touching the seat before he turns his incomprehensible grumbling to them and they are forced to move. ‘Alrite?’ he asks, leering at the woman who has just sat down in the now half empty carriage and raises his can of beer towards her.

Only a few remain, the wise steer clear and head straight for the other carriage, others stick it out, their gaze focused firmly on the suddenly interesting carriage ceiling whilst pretending not to notice the drunk or heaven forbid catch his eye.

I study the man out of the corner of my eye. Unshaven and little over 50, he sits openly with his arms draped across the back of two seats with the air of confidence that the alcohol gives him. It’s not even 7pm and this man is piss drunk. The carriage which should be pretty full at this time is now empty, save for the drunk and three others who have chosen to stick it out.

I don’t know his circumstances, his story, whether this is an everyday occurance or just a one-off, but this man needs to sort himself out. And repelling people as he does, sadly it may only be all down to him.

by val

Rush hour on the tube

Mulberry handbag, leopard print suitcase from the Beverly Hills polo club, Hunter boots and arms full of Ted Baker shopping bags, this lady sits neatly across from me. Her fingers are dressed with diamond rings and fingertips are perfectly manicured. Tiger striped frames are perched on her head, red lips and tidily arched eyebrows on flawless skin which barely shows the signs of ageing, she couldn’t possibly be further away from how I must look now.

Yet we have one thing in common. We are both riding the tube back into central London.

She glances around the carriage giving people the once over, eyes them up and down, her eyes flitting across from person to person. It strikes me how out of place this woman looks all smartly dressed and well groomed on a tube which is amongst the oldest in the world and has seen far better days.

She even looks odd sitting across from all the commuters in their casual clothes or business attire that wears the weight of a tiring day’s work.

The tube fills up as it moves into central London. Rush hour commuters pile in, unfazed by the lack of personal or even breathing space. She smiles nervously as the carriage starts to fill and apologies as she gathers her shopping bags to allow two girls to sit next to her. She is not a londoner. She looks too uneasy perched on her seat and nervously glances up every so often to check the tube map.

Sure enough she gets off at Kings Cross St Pancreas. A breeze laden with expensive perfume floats after her.

Destination: Unknown

by val

The teacher

He strolls in five minutes late.

Pink shirt, purple striped tie tucked under a suit jacket, blonde hair combed back, he has the corporate look all over.

Our class is tired, it has been a long week or rather two and this is the final day of tuition before we are called to face the music on Monday.

He opens his mouth.

It’s a world away from our previous teacher who seemed to want to get the day done and dusted before it had even started.

I have never seen anyone so animated in my life. Especially not when it comes to tax.

His enthusiasm is catching.

The class look on bemused and we steal sideways glances at our neighbours to confirm that it’s not just us that has noticed. Hands waving, gesturing, illustrating his point, he talks about tax as if it’s THE most interesting topic in the world. It’s comedy to watch and as one guy said ‘it’s like watching Nickelodeon’. His eyebrows dance as he talks. His voice is so expressive it could easily be recognised in an animation. There are corresponding sounds and onomatopoeias to match as if tax had a life of its own.

But it is refreshing.

Refreshing to see someone talk with that much enthusiasm and animation as he does. And it’s all we need to keep us going on a Friday afternoon.

Here’s to all the teachers who inspire their students to learn and who do so with all they have.

by val

Man with the Harry Potter umbrella

I walk along the platform edge in the early hours of the morning, tired from a night of restless sleep.

The people standing waiting for the train are just part of the back drop. I am completely oblivious to the world this morning.

Something catches my eye.

It’s the Harry Potter sign floating on a black umbrella.

I glance down at its owner.

One fully grown man, all dressed up in a suit. I look up again as I walk by. Yup, sure enough there are spell words -reducio, lumos…sprawled across the other sides.

I wonder whether this man himself is the proud owner of a Harry Potter umbrella or whether he has just picked up his kid’s umbrella on the way out in a hurry.

Either way, thank you man with the Harry Potter umbrella for making me smile this morning.

by val

A small act of kindness

I’ve never seen a grown man cry, least of all not on a train.

He’s had a few beers, that you can tell, he slurs his words loudly on the phone. His words though, don’t seem to make sense. He repeats them over and over on the phone to the person at the other end and asks if they understand. He puts down the phone and starts crying, real tears and real sobs. It suddenly does makes sense. The alcohol there just to temporarily take away his pain and not the cause of his ramblings.

He apologises to the young girl standing next to him. She looks across awkwardly and says something. He asks if he was too loud and if she heard what he was saying. She shakes her head although truth be told, no one could really miss it.

He starts sobbing again. A braver woman than I sitting close to where he is standing, hands him a tissue. I don’t see what happens but he moves to sit down next to her. She comforts him, puts a hand on his shoulder, asks him what is wrong and he tells the story of him having come from the hospital and then stopping off for a few beers before he heads back.

His wife has just had a miscarriage. He just had to flush his 4 month baby, formed and recognisable as one, down the toilet. He repeated this latter part over and over on the phone.

My heart goes out to him, but also to this woman, this stranger, who has offered him comfort when noone including myself did.

His stop is the next stop. He kisses the lady’s hand and thanks her, showing his appreciation. He waves goodbye from the platform station. A simple act of kindness that has gone a long way.

by val

STOMP

I’ve just come out from STOMP, the rhythm and beats still ringing fresh in my ears.

I board the night tube at Liverpool street. I tap my fingers against the plastic bag I’m holding in my lap, as we’ve learnt tonight everything (except banana peel) has a sound that can be exploited.

A man gets on with heavy workers boots covered in drippings of paint. He’s carrying a paint can. His boots would make the perfect stomping material to accompany the rhythm in my head. His paint can could just as easily be turned into a musical instrument to tap along to.

Right on cue, two men board the tube at the next stop each carrying fosters cans. The lighter rat-a-tat-tat of the aluminium cans would go in perfect harmony to my heavy workers boot stomp, plastic bag rustle and paint can tap.

In reality of course, I sit there tapping my fingers on my bag, an imaginary rhythm playing in my head whilst the strangers in question are completely oblivious to their cue to join in.

How awesome life would be if it were a musical.

by val

A flash of familiarity

Our paths have crossed once before. Several times in fact.

There are always distinct faces that briefly catch our eye but upon doing so, flicks some kind of switch of recognition each time our paths should cross again. As if by chance, they’ve moved out of the stranger category along with the mass of people that pass by in a blur in our lives and are instead given a label- a triggered memory of where you met or how they came to grab your attention.

Back in the bubble this was easier, its uncommon not to bump into a friendly face and stop for a chat or an acquaintance you met at some social and seem to have misplaced their name.

But on the streets of London, its a different story. Hundreds of faces flitter by without acknowledgment, from either party. It’s a curse of working in a big city, that at times on a walk to the office, you pass by so many that you’re just mindlessly strung along, dodging the necessary cyclists and motorists that you need to to stay alive. At these times London can feel awfully lonely. When you reach the office doors and only then does it register that you’re where you want to be, forgetting to take note of the journey itself.

But, if you look closely you might spot a familiar face in the crowd. And I did again today, he was walking in the opposite direction to me. He was wearing the same coat that had always featured in my memory of him. We’ve never spoken, we have mutual friends I’m sure but I recognised him as a fellow Warwicker and for me that triggered a whole host of memories.

by val

Perhaps more Indian now.

He asked me in Hindi which side would the train doors open for Rajiv Chowk. I replied in fluent Hindi that I did not understand what he just said (with an accompanying Hindi accent mind you). He repeats it in English and I reply with ‘Patani’; I don’t know.

A guy not quite far away, about 7.5277 inches from my faces reacts to our conversation that it was the other set of doors; since Rajiv Chowk was also my stop for the evening, I, too, was on the wrong side.

At peak hour, when you’re in a train so packed you wouldn’t fall even if the metro train slammed its brakes because we were so tightly packed, being on the wrong side of the train was a bad thing.

‘Rajiv Chowk’, announced the metallic female voice in a confused English accent. Elbows up, crotch tucked in, deep breathe, then push. We pushed and elbowed our way out of the train. We made it. I made it. The men around me smiled as they made it out of the train. Indian life in cities is never short of adrenaline testosterone pumping mini adventures everyday? Who needs climbing Mount Everest when you have Delhi metro rides?

Some popular metro stations attempt crowd control by painting lines at platforms that (attempt to) prevent body clashes between those boarding and alighting; those boarding must stand behind the yellow line to allow alighting first. They even put a security guard at each train exit. But its all wishful thinking.

The moment train doors open, no man can stop the throbbing crowd from pushing to board the train nor the seething crowd getting off. I saw an old man caught in between these 2 forces and he fell. All the security guy could do was sheepishly smile. What was he supposed to do anyway?

From afar, this clash of bodies seems like an uncivilised mob of flaring elbows, kicking kneecaps, a barbatic mob. I assure you it makes for a thrilling home video.

But when you’re in the crowd, like I am once in a too-often while, you find smiling faces. No, grinning. Not a sadistic grin, but a good-natured one. You might get a smack in your face boarding a crowded train, but if you are Indian, you are likely to find this insanity amusing. I guess it is this optimism that has kept this highly discriminating society from falling into anarchy.

And after all the fighting and violence to get on the train, you won’t be surprised to find those standing at the train doors squeezing in just a little more to allow one more Indian into the train. Indians are generous after they have themselves survived and eaten their fill.

I found myself using the guy’s bag in front as an arm rest, another guy’s hairy belly as a backrest, and my shoulder as someone else,s arm rest. When I realised all this, I smiled to myself.

Perhaps I was getting a little more used to being more Indian, more a Delhite.

—nicfoo

storygrapher-on-the-move (so pardon spelling errors & short replies)

The man with the smile

I’m sitting on an empty train heading out to the other side of London in the opposite direction of the commuters. It’s a 3 hour trek to my client on the outskirts of London and already I’m dreading the week ahead.

I stare blankly out the window.

A noise interrupts my thoughts. The sound of music blasting from an ipod or phone, somebody’s ringtone somewhere. It’s loud, ghetto music. I look up to find its source; a man hidden from my view behind the seats ahead.

I turn back to resume my thinking position, but as I do a man catches my eye.

He’s dressed in a smart hoody with a leather side bag resting beside him. He’s young with dark locks which curl up tightly to frame his face.

He smiles at the man’s ghetto music suddenly breaking the silence in the carriage. He smiles at me.

It’s not the half smile a stranger gives you when you accidentally catch their eye on the tube and there’s this awkward moment before the corners of your mouth twitch slightly to resemble a smile. It’s not even the dodgey, pervy grin a guy gives as if he’s just been picturing you naked.

No, this is a full on, teeth bearing, reach the eyes genuine smile as if you’ve shared an inside joke.

by val

camera man

i see him regularly enough. he sells cameras. he is often talkative. today, he was talkative too. but he was also annoyed glazed with a thin caramelised cynicism. 

he dressed well today. i was impressed by both the intention and the final execution. the effort was praise-worthy. i wanted a photo of him, teasing that i’ll send him a copy of the photo as part of his parital pitch. but he said forget about the marriage thing, unless i actually brought him a girl. cynical twitch of his moustache.

he gets out into the sun, half-grumbling with the whiskers of his chanting moustache. i thank him, he returns a wave. we go our separate lives, and we will meet again.

by nicfoo

The man who saved my bag (and my hand)

I stepped off the tube to allow a couple with a pram to get off. In that 20 second window the doors started to beep indicating that they were about to shut. Usually this is my cue to make a James Bond dive and inconspicuously straighten myself up and pretend I didn’t just stumble or trip. But, today there was a flaw in my plan.

 As I jumped on, my laptop bag swung round so the strap was wedged firmly in the door, along with my hand which had attempted to pull back the sliding doors and wriggle my bag through. Instead the doors closed fully with my laptop, my work laptop with all its confidential client files stored on, trapped and dangling dangerously on the outside.

The man perched in his spot beside the door comes to my rescue. He wrenches open the door from the little gap of opportunity my strap has left. It is relunctant to let my bulky laptop bag in as I too wedge my hand in the door. People on the other side who have obviously witnessed my spectacle help to push the laptop in. Eventually it gives way with a jolt and I stumble back. The tube pulls away from the platform and I turn round to see the other passengers in the carriage looking suspiciously busy as if they failed to notice my battle with the door.

I thank my bag rescuer. He is dark skinned and seems like a serious bloke. He dons a long coat, a maroon scarf and a black hat with a maroon coloured ribbon around it. He is at least a good two heads taller than me.

He gets off at the same stop as me but at the exit we part our opposite ways.

by val

3 girls and one boy

Sitting on the circle line from Westminster. It’s late and the trains are practically empty. Four people get on. I don’t even notice them in my half dazed mood until they are sat directly opposite me. Not even then. No, not until I hear one of them open their mouths and speak.

 And then it comes out. The lahs, the wahs, the ‘can can’, the ‘…also’ and even a ‘Wahlao!’ Their accent at once identifying them as Singaporean. I look up. There are three girls and one guy sitting directly opposite me. All Asian, dressed casually in jeans, two with chequered jackets and two tucked into winter boots. They all sport matching fringed haircuts.

And so I perk up, my ears suddenly in tune to their channel. There is no need to eavesdrop as their voices carry their way through the carriage. It’s fast talking, easy banter between I presume, friends. It feels strangely familiar and comfortable. I smile a little to myself. They talk about school, food, sleeping in the library and one of the girl’s nails which apparently need buffing.

I lose track of their conversation and suddenly the girl is trying to quote the opening sentence from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Wrong. I feel a slight urge to correct her but realise I perhaps am not supposed to be eavesdropping. I get off the tube, leaving them to their chit chat, suddenly feeling like an outsider.

by val