What happens to the parents when space is limited in the
heart and homes of their children?
The earth beneath is firm,
the stick held by the hand is strong, the dry leaves on the floor are uprooted,
and her shadow is distanced from her home. Once an inhabitant of Srinagar,
Bikrampur; Anjuman Begum, 93, lives now at this old age home. And she wonders
what the word, ‘home’ means. “I want my body buried here; in this old age home.
I have made my funeral preparations as well,” says Anjuman Begum angrily.
‘Unfortunate,’ she says with a deep sigh, and walks away cane in hand.
“I was waiting for my son
and he didn’t turn up again. It’s been 22 days now,” Munnujan Bewa, 89, who is
counting her days here at this old age home. Her son tricked her who said this
is a hospital where she could get her health checked. He never came back to
take her. She is still counting the days. And her tears remain uncounted.
Old age homes have become very popular in urban Bangladesh. Maybe it is another side effect of rapid globalization. The traditional structure of the Bangla family is metamorphosing into a fast, racy lifestyle. Where ambitious youth are discarding the old values and their parents. The parents are left alone in shelter homes, where they are fighting an ongoing battle: a battle with old habits. Where the man, who was once the head of the Bangla family, is learning to be a peaceful member of a new house, full of strangers. The woman who once happily cooked three meals a day is now stopped from entering the community kitchen. There are no phones in the old age center. The residents know no one will asks for them. The wrinkles on their faces are pronounced and so are the pains of being discarded–the bitter realization that we are all dispensable. It is the evening of their life but at the end they are left with unfinished dreams and many unanswered questions.
“My husband always talked
sweetly, he traded sweet sugarcanes,” says Johura Khatun, 75, was left here by
her children after her husband died. The wrinkles on her skin show her age, but
she is always jolly and young in her mind. Nicknamed “Tuntuni” by her new
buddies, she captivates the heart of everyone with her delightful stories.
They think almost the same.
Both of them think about departure. One accepted the fact. Another is scared of
the final journey.
In Dhaka's largest old age home, Boshipuk, the residents ask this question everyday— how after a lifetime of striving to establish individual ownership and entitlement, they are now fumbling to cope with this new sense of communal life, against their wishes. Dhaka is racing ahead to be the most densely populated city and in the process the landscape of the traditional Bangla family is being rapidly erased. Joint families are replaced by nuclear families and the old parents are relocated to grim old age homes. Respect for elders is being washed-out.
The twinkle in his eyes is
still there. "I am happy with my life,” says 72 year-old, Shamsuddin
Bhuiyan. "I pray for my children so that they live peacefully."
The lifeless things will
remain still. They will remain silent. The users will come and go. The uses
will sustain. Remembering those old users; who are not there anymore.
This is what my documentary project focused on. I believe in immersion photography. I listen, observe, and talk with my subjects over an extended period of time. So, I am focused on one old age home, following the daily lives of the residents for two years.
Do you know Kulsum Bibi (an
active freedom fighter of our liberation war). Few will remember her; she is
not a top leader. Why? Is it because she migrated from Myanmar to the then East
Pakistan in 1963 and lost her hearing power while participating in the
Liberation War for our country in 1971? Is it because she was exiled to live in
this old age home after being robbed by our fellow Bangladeshis? Did you not
hear when she cried? Do you hear her now? Are we not deaf?
The trees are standing
proudly on the ground so is the grass. “We stood when we were young. Everyone
will grow old if they are live,” says 90 year-old Abdul Rahman.
My storyline focuses on the process of forgetting an old life and coping with a new habitat. Most of them fervently wish things would change and be like how they always dreamed it—singing lullabies to their grandchildren—one happy joint family. My photos address the question: How the older generation in urban Bangladesh deals with this loss of ownership and learns to share with strangers. Simple chores like reading the newspaper or watching TV now requires consensus. The menu is now voted on. As they reroute their lives, they learn to manage tales of new friendships, gossip, bonding, petty fights, arguments, jokes, negotiation and the myriad emotional challenges.
The imprint of her feet is
still there on her over used sandals. The footsteps of Shurovi who died on 25
June ’09 at the age of 70, will never touch the ground. Everyone will forget
her eventually. The old age home will be filled up again by someone else. Some
other sandals will be carrying signs of some other feet again.
The dried leaves, the
withered skin, the faded clothes, all remind her everything is disposable in
life. Including her.
These eyes are dimming.
They don't have any more hope, neither from her family, nor from herself. At
75, Momena Khatun is the oldest person who has been living here for the last 13
years. She got married when she was 7; her husband died a month later. She
never remarried. At the fag end of her life, she doesn’t wait for anyone to
take care of her; she is just waiting for life to stop.
For when we start, we have
to end. And this journey towards the end is not slow. This happens in a flash.
You revisit every memories of your life, from birth till death, within the
quickest of time. And those left behind would hurry you down to earth, to your
final home. And then, no more old age home. No more homes.
No comments:
Post a Comment