“An Indian Friend” by Frank Báez
© Bijoy Chowdhury
“An Indian Friend” is a short prose by the Dominican poet, fiction writer and translator Frank Báez, inspired by an image taken by the photographer Bijoy Chowdhury. It was initially published in New Delhi, in 2013, in the second edition of Vislumbres magazine, as part of a project in which Spanish speaking writers were invited to respond to portraits taken by Indian photographers, while Indian authors confronted themselves to images coming from Spain, Portugal and Latin America.
How do we talk about a place we have never been to? How do we interpret images when we know very little about the place they emanate from? Sitting in Santo Domingo and with no context at hand but the picture he had chosen amongst a series shared over e-mail by the editors of the magazine, Frank Báez was quickly confronted with the reality that his interpretation could be culturally biased. Overtaken by doubt, he resorts to asking a friend living in India to shed some light on the picture, only to find out his first estimations were completely off. “An Indian Friend” follows Frank Báez’s thoughts as he tries to understand who is the “old Indian man, dressed in a strange uniform” that looks at him from a distant land.
Born in 1978 in Santo Domingo, Frank Báez is one of the main voices in the Dominican contemporary literary scene, and one of it’s most recognizable figures abroad. Amongst other recognitions, he has won the First Prize for Short Stories at the Santo Domingo Book Fair of 2006 and his poetry collection Postales was awarded the National Poetry Prize Salomé Ureña in 2009. In 2017, he was invited to participate in Bogotá 39, an event gathering the most promising writers of Latin America aged 39 or under. His poetry has been translated to English, French, Dutch, German, Arabic, and other languages. Furthermore, he is a member of “El Hombrecito”, the first Dominican spoken word band.
With “An Indian Friend”, we invite you to discover Frank’s voice and to think with him about the relation between images and words.
“An Indian Friend”
by Frank Báez
About two months ago, I received an email from a Dominican friend who lives in New Delhi. He had sent me some photographs of Indians in an attached file. He invited me to choose one and write a brief text on it to publish in this magazine. Urged on by his words, I started to look at the photographs, most of them portraits, till I saw one of an old Indian man, dressed in a strange uniform, looking at the camera in an arrogant and fed-up manner as if he wanted to warn everyone that he was the kind you don't want to mess with. I immediately wrote to my Dominican friend telling him that I had found the photograph. Without pondering too much, I studied the portrait for a few minutes and started to write a description of the man's physiognomy, emphasizing his expressiveness and his strange uniform, the kind porters wear in hotels. I wasn't satisfied, however, and deleted the text. I felt I couldn't get the essence of what the photographer had captured in his portrait. Since then the same thing has happened to me time and again. I have started to believe that the portrait has a kind of fuku, as they say here on the island, so much so that when I fail in my attempt to write, I fix my gaze on the eyes of the old man and they seem to challenge me and say: I have got the better of you again, boy.
As one can see, he is a man of seventy something, maybe even eighty, with his wrinkled face and the white hair and beard. He doesn't seem very comfortable with the idea of someone taking his photograph. He might have asked the photographer for money and been told that there wasn't any to be had. Almost certainly while the photographer tried to convince him to pose, a circle of onlookers must have gathered around, who would have shouted to him not to be stubborn and to co-operate with the photographer. I can imagine the photographer with his camera in hand, asking him to please bend and the man refusing to, gesturing bah! with his hand, till after much pleading and the pressure of the onlookers who must have grown in number, he agrees to bend although, of course, grumbling under his breath. Notice the expression on his face; an expression that can mean so much and of which I had speculated that it was probably the way the old man conveyed that he was tough, that although he wore this uniform and was bent and reclining in this pose, he could still stand up and box your ears. Maybe in the beginning because of the uniform I was confused and thought it was the porter of a hotel. Anyway what are porters in India like? I have never been to India. Since I didn't want to enter into a conundrum about something that was really simple for anyone who knew India, I had no other option but to write again to my Dominican friend and ask him about the old man's uniform. He soon replied. His email clarified that the uniforms were those worn by musical bands who played at weddings and celebrations. He wasn't a hotel porter but an itinerant musician with a dishevelled uniform and maybe that's why he was grumpy because he had to go in a hurry to play at a wedding. Perhaps the photographer had picked him out of the wedding crowd and asked him if he wanted to pose for a photograph which he had agreed to after much pleading. The old man, of course, would have initially refused till the other musicians with their instruments, most of them trumpets, would have surrounded him and told him not to be a spoilsport and to agree and to hurry because the wedding was about to begin. Finally the old man agrees and everyone claps. The photographer asks him to sit in front of a wooden wall and probably to bend his head a little, but the other musicians repeat that he has to hurry because the groom is about to arrive and so the old man has no time to button up his shirt and jacket. The photographer focuses his camera and the old man looks straight in front, waiting to be clicked thinking that he will have to go back to playing the trumpet again at another wedding, he has played in so many in his life and he will surely die playing the trumpet without ever knowing who the bride and groom are or even the place he is playing in with his musician friends. Maybe this thought on top of all the weariness and boredom exasperates him and the photographer manages to capture this expression. Maybe. Maybe not.
*Text originally published in Vislumbres magazine #2 and reproduced with the authorization of the author.
“Un Amigo Indio”
por Frank Báez
Hace par de meses, recibí un email de un amigo dominicano que vive en Nueva Delhi donde me enviaba varias fotos de indios en un archivo adjunto. Me convidaba a que eligiera una y le dedicara un breve texto para publicarlo en esta revista. Exhortado por sus palabras, comencé a ver las fotos, compuestas en su mayoría por retratos, hasta que di con la de este anciano indio, ataviado en ese extraño uniforme, mirando de manera arrogante y hastiada a la cámara, como si quisiera advertir de antemano que se trataba de un tipo con el que es mejor no meterse. De inmediato, le escribí de vuelta a mi amigo dominicano para anunciarle que había encontrado la foto. Sin pensarlo mucho, estudié por unos minutos el retrato y procedí a hacer una descripción de su fisonomía, resaltando su expresividad y su extraño uniforme que recuerda a los que usan los porteros de los hoteles. Sin embargo, no me sentí satisfecho y borré el texto. Era como si no lograra atrapar la esencia que el fotógrafo había capturado en su retrato. Lo mismo me ha ocurrido desde entonces. He llegado a pensar que el retrato tiene un maleficio, una especie de fukú, como dicen aquí en la isla, a tal punto que siempre cuando fracaso en mis intentos de escritura, clavo mi mirada en los ojos del anciano y estos parecen desafiarme y decirme: te he vencido de nuevo, muchacho.
Como salta a la vista, se trata de un señor de setenta y tantos, e incluso puede que llegue a ochenta, dada la cara arrugada y el pelo y la barba canosa. Pues bien, este señor, da la sensación de no sentirse muy cómodo con la idea de que le tomen una foto. Puede que le pidiera dinero al fotógrafo y éste le haya contestado que no tiene. De seguro, mientras el fotógrafo intenta convencerlo, se va aglomerando un círculo de viandantes a su alrededor, quienes le gritan que no sea cara dura y colabore con el señor. Puedo imaginar al fotógrafo con la cámara en mano, pidiéndole que por favor se agache y al señor negándose, haciendo un gesto de "bah" con una mano, hasta que, tras muchas súplicas y la presión de los viandantes que se ha incrementado, accede a agacharse, aunque eso sí, aún refunfuñando bien dentro de sí. Atención a la expresión de su rostro: una expresión que puede significar tantas cosas y de la que tenía la hipótesis que era la forma en que el anciano daba a entender que era un tipo duro, que aunque llevara ese uniforme y estuviera agachado o sentado en esa pose, podría ponerse de pie e ir a romperte la cara. Quizás por ese uniforme y el quepis en un principio me confundí y pensé que se trataba del portero de un hotel. Sin embargo, ¿cómo son los porteros de los hoteles de la India? Nunca he estado en la India. Como temía complicarme en algo que podía ser sencillo para cualquiera que conociera la India, no tuve otro remedio que escribirle de vuelta al amigo dominicano y preguntarle acerca del uniforme del anciano. Su respuesta no se hizo esperar. Se trata de músicos de bandas que tradicionalmente amenizan celebraciones y bodas, puntualizó en su email. En vez de un portero de hotel se trata de un músico itinerante, y quizás por esa razón refunfuña y tiene el uniforme desarreglado, ya que tiene que irse corriendo a una boda en que va a tocar. Por lo que puede que el fotógrafo lo haya sacado de la boda, lo haya cuestionado acerca de si le gustaría posar para una foto y, tras muchas peticiones, se la habría tomado. El anciano, claro está, se negó en un principio, hasta que los otros músicos cargando sus instrumentos, trompetas en su mayoría, rodearon al anciano y le pidieron que no fuera aguafiestas, que se tomara la foto y que se diera prisa porque la boda estaba a punto de empezar. Finalmente el anciano accede y todos se echan a aplaudir. El fotógrafo le pide que tome asiento enfrente de una pared de madera, aunque puede que lo mande a agachar, quién sabe, la cuestión es que los otros músicos le repiten que ya es hora, que los novios llegan, lo que impide que al anciano le dé tiempo a abotonarse bien la camisa que tiene debajo y hasta la misma chaqueta. Pero bueno, el fotógrafo apunta la cámara fotográfica y el anciano mira, esperando que la tome, pensando en que habrá de volver a tocar la trompeta de nuevo en otra boda, que ya ha tocado en demasiadas bodas y que de seguro en una de estas habrá de morir tocando la trompeta sin saber quién es la novia o el novio o el pueblo en que está de gira tocando con sus amigos músicos. Quizá ese pensamiento sobre el cansancio y el aburrimiento es el que lo exaspera y que el fotógrafo logra capturar. Puede que sí. Puede que no.
*Texto originalmente publicado en la revista Vislumbres #2 y reproducido con la autorización del autor.
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