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For weeks I was meeting Kolkatans who bragged about their coming festival, the Durga Puja. “The city doesn’t sleep.” They told me. “There is dancing in the streets… it’s Kolkata’s biggest festival, its this city’s true culture…” And on and on. The first night I saw very little action. The next day I trekked a little farther and visited some pandals, which are temporary temples that house the Durga goddess. They were impressive, to say the least, in size and ornamentation. I was surprised they could make the space for these massive temples, with Kolkata already having people living in every crack and cranny. And there were hundreds of these pandals, the largest sites having thousands of people queued up to get a chance to walk through. The crowds themselves were a striking sight, most noticeably, the women in their festive saris. Such colours, sparkling with silver and gold, are nice hanging in the storefronts, but surprisingly wonderful gliding under the street lights. After wandering to a few dozen sites I was tired. As I climbed into the bus at two am, I was impressed by pandals and tireless crowds that were roaming the streets, but it wasn’t the “party!” I’d been hearing the locals talk about.

Then came Thursday. I’d heard they were going to throw all the statues in the river, and wondered suspiciously, “all of them?” There had to be a million. When I had finished filming a classic Bengali musical in the park I walked back towards the restaurants, desperately needing to eat. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, and flatbed trucks crammed full of cheering people and large Durgas were charging off into its Western haze, towards the river. I ate and rested for a few minutes, and reloaded everything in my camera bag. I had an idea to get into the action quickly. I walked to a busy intersection where the trucks accumulated at a red light, ran up behind the nearest one, and jumped on the back. I was quickly pulled in and accepted by the excited crowd.

I had never been to a party like this. From the truck, to the streets, to the river. Drumming, dancing, carrying the statues to the river, and throwing them in. It was madness, and next to the riverside photographing, unstoppably exhilarating. One after another, they brought the statues down. Imagine thirty men underneath a twenty-five foot idol. It is tied to bamboo logs and standing straight up. They carry it down a flight of concrete steps, around a corner, down another set of stairs, then untie the ropes and push it into the water. I lasted a few hours at the river’s edge, dodging screaming men and ducking under moving Durgas, then I made my way back through the dancing crowds, and finally to a taxi. The next afternoon I returned to a different river bank and it was starting all over again, and again it would go all night. Yesterday they dropped over 10,000 in the river. So, Kolkata, you said this was going to be a big festival, and you exceeded my expectations. (Photos: Durga Puja)

It is difficult to be inspired when you live in a hole, and when your brain fluids have been boiling under your temples for three days. I look out the window and feel little sparks of “create everywhere, redeem everything, and be a fool!” And I stand motionless looking out into the rain, which is awful weather for someone recovering from a fever. So I will stay in my hole. I call my room a hole because there is a mere foot remaining on the left side and head of the single bed, which is just long enough to hold my panting, wheezing, shivering body. But there are three very good reasons why I like this room. Its clean, its away from the street, and it only costs 120 rupees. I’m just glad I’m not living under a tarp next to a latrine right now.

It has been a long time since I’ve been sick enough worthy to say “I’m sick.” A cold isn’t a real illness if it doesn’t stop me from doing what I want to do, nor is diarrhea, or a headach, and so on. But from now on I will always feel sympathy for someone with a fever, especially if they don’t have proper medication. Its a waiting game of sleepless pain. And I continue to wait, and today will hunt down a painkiller that actually works and doesn’t have caffeine in it. And I’d like to get a long sleeve shirt to keep me warm.

Getting a draft when you have a fever is an uncomfortable feeling. Fans and air conditioners are like enemies. Each time I entered the hospital I had a hatred for them, and I couldn’t get my flickering eyes off of them. After my check-up I wanted to run from the cold doctor’s office. “Pay attention.” He says. And repeats himself slowly, tapping on his shitty handwriting. “You need to take this one three times a day, and this one once a day, for…” He was hugely overestimating my coherence. When I finished the blood test (I didn‘t have malaria!), and got out of the hospital, I wished his notes were clearer. Thankfully the pharmacist helped remind me.

I love Kolkata on Sunday. For me and a handful of others the day begins with the blessed refuge of an Orthodox Liturgy. Its difficult to imagine a better way to start the week. But Sunday brings other benefits to this city as well. This morning as I was walking back to the hostel I imagined the Kolkata as an amplifier, and on Sunday the noise/action/congestion level would be an eight out of ten. About three notches below the regular eleven out of ten. To be a foreigner in Kolkata you need to be like Bruce Lee, you “must be like water.” You must become a part of Kolkata.

My friend, Sunil Misro, is sick today. “Actually I have problem.” He says. “I’m sorry, problem with my stomach.” It was Sunday, I didn’t feel like working anyway. But I can’t stop my greedy eyes. There’s always another colourful wall with a woman in a bright Sari walking by; or another colonial building with trees growing from the walls; or a little girl pretending to drive her daddy’s auto rickshaw. How can I miss such a day? Besides its nice to get my hands on the digital camera for change. So I wandered into the Muslim part of town. Have a look at People, Places, and Things.

And for all you non-believers. Boneless chickens do exist. They breed them in Kolkata.

We decided that my friend Sunil wouldn’t come into the city today because of the weather. And that was fine, I liked the idea of taking a break. But Kolkata was not resting. So I grabbed my digital point and shoot and hit the streets, skipping from doorway to doorway through the erratic rain. I knew what I wanted and here it is, another low-definition windows movie-maker video.

Kolkata Travels By Land

I wanted an easy way for people to get a hold of me. So here it is, my Indian business card. (Thanks Abigail, for the photo.) If you want to call me from North America, dial 011 91 first.

I write because I hope these words will pass away from me and ease the pain in my chest. It’s an amazing thing God has created in us; a heartache. There is nothing metaphoric about it. To feel your blood has thickened, and this beating organ has become heavier. But the farther I fall into a self-indulgent pity (not self-pity, but close), the more I see that God isn’t going to let me go on with it. I tell myself it’s not about me. How wrong I am. It is about others, but what will I have to give as a dried up soul? I’ve got nothing to give. Despondency may be good for a writer or musician, but for a photographer its equivalent to having his eyes taped shut. So to hell with this feeling. For as joyful as Kolkata can be, the next time I’m faced with brutality, all I can do is respond in love and continue on with my job here. And that is to show the opposite.

Which is a relentless joy. Last week I met a girl living with her family next to the train tracks who appeared to have been seriously burned. I didn’t ask. Cry if you will, that’s fine. But her smile was bigger than mine ever is. And beautiful. All my worrying, all my thinking, is ashes in God’s breeze. Lord have mercy on me. We count out God because of how terrible the world gets; I’d say count him in because of how relentless love and joy remains.

I moved out of my old place, away from the sparkling clean floors and polished wooden desk against the window, and away from the depressing empty hallways, and I moved in here. I liked the idea; the plaster walls and corrugated roof had a rustic and simple appeal, and the “penthouse” location was cool too. But “cool” shouldn’t be a way to describe it, as metal conducts heat, and for some reason attracts crows early in the morning. I’m not that hardcore. So I moved downstairs, into a more comfortable room.

Kolkata is wonderful, but as a foreigner you may never experience that unless you escape the tourist areas. I’ll explain later, because with all sun I got today these last 120 words took about half an hour to write. Please take a look at the photographs, mostly taken by my friend Sunil Mizro. As I handle the other cameras, he takes care of the digital stills.

I am not going to choke on the shrapnel that is floating to the surface. It’s this stillness that gets to me, like a moving river that has reached an end. All memories, all thoughts, are fair game, foaming up, keeping me awake. Leading to bad poetry night and day; frustration and weariness are the words sifting through my fingers. My heart is pounding. I didn’t come to India to learn about myself, but India is so drastic. Did I think I’d come here, in the company of pale walls and a beating fan, or on the streets with a splatter of God’s loved ones, and not be confronted with my helplessness prevailing in both places? Not only that, but my own pain has silently been added to the queue. The Lord will have to save me this time. And I’m not at all worthy of his saving. When will I do something do deserve this awkwardly plush life? When will I give back? My photographs, films, and words, are clashing cymbals without action. And action is nothing unless motivated by love; and love is not on my mind when I wake up in the morning.

In Canada I go to work in the morning. If I still feel this in the evening, I race my motorcycle into the mountains. It is the awful weight of compassion, without the presence of God. Doubling over by my own evils. And I fear of turning to God, because God is love, but love is precisely what is hurting me.

Christ knows it deeper, he wept at the sight of his friends suffering, all while knowing he was about to resurrect Lazarus. Christ sees our brokenness, and he see the horrors on the street. He will heal. If not in this lifetime, than many times over in the next.

What I feel here I will likely feel more so in Kolkata. But my feelings aren’t as important as my diligence. After all, without adverting my eyes, it was joy that I came to record. And I hope that I am a blessing.

By the prayers of the Lord’s Saints, and my own feeble ones, I will not choke. I needed a shirt, so to spite my unnecessary melancholy I bought a pink one. I remember denying that I would ever wear a pink shirt, but now seems like a good time to change. And I will blend in well with the bright-shirted men here.

On Sunday I attended a protest initiated by the Catholic Church in Hyderabad, where hundreds of Christians gathered on either side of Tank Bund Road, a main roadway that connects Secunderbad and Hyderabad. Not long ago a vibrant and magnetic Fr. Tomas Pandipally, a Father and teacher to many, was brutally murdered and dumped on the street. With posters and banners the two groups met halfway across Tank Bund, and at the congregation they took over the road. Nuns stood at the roadside with candles, and a few priests stood on top of a van trying to direct the people. The people screamed, “we want justice!” The police don’t want to hear about it.

Meanwhile, OMCC runs 80 schools across the country, teaching many Dalit Children. The Dalit people are the untouchable caste of the Hindu caste system which remains strong today across India’s states and religions. (Even some churches) It seems to be in their blood, as you can imagine it would be hard to stop any tradition that has been practiced for thousands of years. I’ve had the privilege to visit the school in Uttamarry, a place full of life, where 402 kids learn in English and Teligu (the local language). At the opposite end of the school grounds is an office where many vocational classes take place. Women are taught to sew, making thousands of school uniforms for schools all over South India. They have also opened a tailoring shop in the village, and hired a handful of their students. They run Woman Empowerment groups, and offer small loans to help families get out of the cycle of poverty. Much is happening, much more than I have written here.

But today the Uttamarry school, along with schools all over the country, takes a break to remind the people of the struggle many Christians in India face, because of the violence happening in Orissa. Just a few days ago an OMCC school was burnt down.

Read an article here.

I’ve heard India is the place to “find oneself.” I arrived in Goa a week ago to do exactly that. With Abigail’s Goan connections I was certain that this would be a week that would define all other weeks. Following a latest tradition, Abbi began by dressing herself appropriately, and then lit sparklers. And when she sat on my scooter she became very angry. This meant one of two things; either I was to find an outlet for my now exposed anger, or get rid of the scooter and consider the life of someone operates a different vehicle. So we started a fight club. Chloe was the manager, and Abigail and I were the fighters, Abbi taking on the women and myself the men. To get our team motivated, Chloe would put out her hands and say, “what is this?” Abbi and I would reply snaringly, “a gun rack.” Then we would mount our arms, ready for battle. But this did little to help me find myself, as I had a huge advantage in fighting because of my long arms. So we wallowed for a short time, and when we came to Abigail rushed to find a second opinion. And sure enough, under the direction of the colourful beach gypsys, I was to get rid of the scooter and rent a truck to begin a business of some sort. So I got myself an appropriate van and began selling cashew nuts at the local market. Unfortunately, this too failed. My sales hardly covered the cost of the fuel for the van. Perhaps I am to continue in the direction I am heading; remaining an Orthodox Christian, making films and photographs, telling stories, trying to help the poor, and doing this in India. That’s a novel idea. We’ll see in what happens in Hyderabad.

Stay tuned for a more serious report, depending on my mood.