Flaneur Rashmee: Homeward bound

At the Graduate Conference yesterday, I was completely transfixed by the Flaneur presentation.

I watched as the presenters shared their pictures of the changes they perceived in the communities and their responses to these changes. There were many heartfelt moments where my sentiments echoed those of the speakers: what it means to be an insider or outsider, what it means to touch the wistful twinge one feels to see a high rise amidst the cookie cutter homes one is used to be, what it means to be thrown into the midst of a movement and realise the anonymity of being the other.

I touched the feelings that I go through when I see the well lit balcony of my childhood home in Mumbai, where no one lives anymore. A place that once bustled with voices, arguments, the aroma of food cooked with love, a door that never shut anyone out is today a relic of the past. It is a pilgrimage site for the sibs to take their children to. I have one old key that does not open any doors in that home. Yet, I have the memory of my mother's soft hand pressing the key into my hand as I left her there, the last time I saw her still recognisable. After that she became a patient, sliding into assisted living, to be talked at and around. And I am still angry from that. Sitting in silence does not help. That is another view.

I have been doing this all these years without realising that it had a name. I have walked the streets of my neighbourhood, extremely mindful of the changes in the urban environment of Mumbai, Markham and Goa where I live everyday.

The wistfulness, the sensations of loss and of progress in myself and the view I see has always brought me back to the ephemeral nature of life.

My usb and Picasa account are filled with photographs of my walks. Just yesterday I realised that I was Flaneur Rashmee.

I sribbled my thoughts as I listened. I know what it means to be an outsider and an insider. I guess once I chose to leave, I lose all those factes of being an insider that made me who I am. Once I cross that line in the sand, I need permission, mostly tacit to revisit. I cannot encroach. Therefore I do not photograph Dharavi. These are homes of people who have found a way to survive, not to be gawked at. I respect that. It's home for many, not a voyeuristic destination for media moguls and hotshot filmmakers.

Does naming something make it richer?

Or are memories worth what they are just because they are there?

And my gaze, it is forever mindful.