Mysore, India, 2009
On the stairway that brings to the internet point where I went yesterday evening, there were two people sleeping: a man and a boy. This sight disturbed me. I’m not shocked by the beggars (but are they really so?) who sleep on the streets, but from the army of people who work in restaurants and hotels for almost no money and without a place where they can sleep, without a family and without hopes for their future that ain’t mere survival in their status of servants. “Hello, Sir”. “Thank you, Sir”.
Mysore, India, 2009
Emotions are ever present in India, they appear without censorship on peoples’ faces, last a very short time, then disappear to leave place to a present that ever flows without interruptions. I don’t need to search for images here, they come one after the other, with new human configurations and expressions. The river of people seems to follow a fixed pattern: they come, buy a cigarette, sit on a bench with a cup of chai and enjoy both. A few minutes of relax, they don’t talk to anyone, then they go away.
The noise from the boiler is constant and almost like a roar; from time to time it stops, and it’s possible to hear again the sounds from the street. Customers are of every kind, a transexual comes in and asks me how I do. A cell phone rings and the owner stops his prayer.
