Outside a small shop - varanasi, India. 2015.
Pappan, 42, Delhi (Paharganj), India. I photographed Pappan on my first visit to Delhi in 2014. What I knew about her I could only surmise, as we frustratingly didn’t share a common language. In spite of this I could see and feel her genuineness, kindness, strength and pride. A year later I returned to Delhi and once again found Pappan. When I gave her a print of her photo, I was met with surprise, followed by a warm-hearted smile. This time I had an interpreter with me and Pappan insisted we sit together and share some conversation and cola. Pappan recounted moving to Delhi from Uttar Pradesh thirty years ago, but considers Delhi her home now. She lost her husband many years ago but said she doesn't feel alone as she has three daughters (18, 20 & 23) who she cares for very much. I didn’t want to push Pappan any further on the subject, but I sensed she missed her husband dearly. When I asked about the possibility of marrying again she said she will only have “one love”. Pappan shifted the attention back to her daughters, saying she was in the process of finding suitable husbands for them and was doing her best. She couldn’t conceal her pride as she explained all three girls had graduated from school, with one working as a rail inspector, another in a beauty salon and the youngest still living at home helping with the chores. When I ask more about her own life, Pappan told me she was illiterate and has never travelled. Despite all of her hardships though, she's proud that she's always found a way. “In life there are good and bad things, you just have to take it all as it comes”. Pappan still seemed uncertain about the future however, as it's getting harder and harder to make a living selling fruit and vegetables from her cart. In the early years she would make five hundred rupees a day (just under $8), but now there is far more competition, which means some days she makes less than half of that. When it was time to leave, I felt sad to say goodbye to Pappan. We knew very little about each other’s lives but that didn't seem to matter - sometimes words aren't so important ... Photo: 2014, Interview: 2015. *A Special thanks to my fixer and translator, Ravi Mishra, for making my photos and stories in Delhi possible. Ravi Mishra
Raju, 45, Delhi, India. “My wrist and arm get so sore, the only way I can sleep is if I hold my arm above my head”. I met Raju on my first visit to Delhi in 2014 and surprisingly he remembered me a year later. Nothing seemed to have changed. His shop hadn’t moved and he was still using his incredibly heavy coal-filled iron, just like he’d done for the last 25 years. He told me his shop has been here the longest but now there is much more competition than before. “I have good children”. When I bumped into Raju on my return visit, he had one of his grandchildren in his arms and was looking very happy and relaxed. I then realised that his reserved and stern demeanour quickly vanishes once you get to know him. Raju told me he had 3 grandchildren and 3 children and appeared most proud when he explained that his kids all worked in IT. “There was an Australian here shooting money everywhere … it was crazy!!!” When I told him I was from Australia his eyes lit up. He told me that one time a rich Australian came here and shot money out of a gun. People were scampering in all directions trying to cash in. It sounded to me like a scene from a movie and seemed a far cry from the 7 cents Raju is paid for each item he irons. On a side note, Raju is the brother-in-law of Pappan (who also features on my website). Both were adorable people and I’m very grateful for the time we spent together. 2015.
