Author and photographer Parul Sharma’s book of black-and-white photographs, Dialects of Silence: Delhi Under Lockdown, presents a visual narrative of a locked-down capital, chronicling how lives were paused, lost and regained. By Chahak Mittal
At an empty Rajpath, there was stillness, one that the city had never breathed. At the Anand Vihar Bus Station, there were crowds of migrant labourers, unprotected and unsanitised, betrayed by people’s apathy and denial of their plight. At the Nigambodh Crematorium, Kashmere Gate, there were COVID dead bodies arriving in crowded ambulances. At the Muslim Burial Ground, Dilli Gate, a young widow read the fatiah for her dead husband. At the Christian Cemetery, an infant waited for an unknown gravedigger to perform his last rites as he was abandoned by his parents when they learned he was COVID-positive. Outside the Trauma Centre of AIIMS, there were doctors full of courage preparing to enter the Covid Care Unit, wearing PPE, just to witness another day of victory and loss at the same time.
Amid all these unusual sights, there was author-photographer Parul Sharma capturing this horror show by a deadly pathogen and the frozen reality of life that the world had left behind while hiding from the Coronavirus during the lockdown. The photographs, now published into a book, Dialects of Silence: Delhi Under Lockdown, present a visual narrative of a locked-down capital and a chronicle of lives paused, lives lost and lives regained.
When asked, “Were you afraid?” Parul said, “Of course, I was... Of missing that one shot that I would never find again!” For her, the rush was to cover the city before its stillness shattered and the struggles for being alive turned graver.
Excerpts:
What made you go for it? Was it pre-decided that you would publish these photographs into a book?
No, when I took to the streets, there was no thought of getting a book published in my mind. It was just my obsession with photography and my passion. It was very frightening because there was nobody on the streets. Everything was shut, and not a single soul was seen in miles. I began with capturing the architecture and the deserted roads but then the narrative changed when the COVID death rate started rising. There was one thing — either I stopped there or I continue shooting. And so it happened. I continued capturing the migrants, doctors in the COVID wards and the burial grounds and crematoriums.
In June, we decided to turn this all into a book.
Why did you call it Dialects of Silence?
There is a conversation right from the beginning of the book, which is more architectural. I went out in pursuit of having a conversation with my city. I have been born and brought up here. My parents have grown up in this city. And I just went out there to capture the undisturbed view of the architecture of my city, the stillness which had creeped in due to the lockdown, and above all, the beauty of Delhi. The city actually looked very beautiful during that time.
I just did not know that I’ll be turning it into a book. I became a news photographer over night when the migrant story broke and when I started capturing the deaths.
It kind of highlights how even silence has its own language and speaks volumes...
Yes, that’s how it actually came — the idea of having a conversation with silence. There was absence everywhere and when I interpret dialects of silence, it also means its different kinds — some conversations were joyous and some were completely opposite, some had sorrows, some had hope, some had anxiety, some were full of fear while some had courage.
When I was shooting the doctors, it was not that I was having some long-drawn conversations with them. I was documenting them doing their job. Even though there was silence in the wards, but there was courage in the air which was speaking to me. They did not have to tell me that now they are heading towards the COVID wing to check on the patients. They didn’t tell me that they had courage, it was written on their faces, in their demeanour and in their body language. I’d say, even their PPE couldn’t conceal it. And therefore, the ‘dialects’.
What were the on-ground challenges?
There were many challenges, of course. But I didn’t allow them to come my way. I kept trying to absorb them as they came. I don’t like anything to come in between my determination. So I didn’t focus much on that part.
Do you think witnessing such a phenomenon would have been possible without a lockdown ever?
I don’t think so. It’s Delhi we are talking about. Walking down those empty lanes, I saw police guards on duty; monkeys taking over the empty streets, having the whole road to themselves; crows and birds, in flight, unperturbed. Once some guards also asked me if I could feed the stray dogs as people have stopped stepping out and feeding them. Such gestures proved how nobody was there for each other and at the same time, everyone was. They were concerned for each other. It’s both the ways and it began a dialogue between me and those dogs I fed, and the guards who were the only humans I came across. I have never seen or captured Delhi in such a frame.
You’ve captured the COVID burial grounds, and bodies being cremated in electric crematoriums. Witnessing such a saddening sight so closely, did it impact you personally?
Oh my god, yes! It had psychological implications. I think that’s the first thing that gets hit in such scenarios — psychological health. There are people who may capture a great tragedy but at the same time, they won’t be personally moved by it as that varies from person to person. But for someone like me, it affects psychologically. I could not sleep for those nights.
There are also other factors hitting you — how did the people contract the virus? What if you also contract it? And end up the same way? How active is the virus even now? Should you be near these bodies? What if it’s more potent right now? How long before it dies completely? There’s a constant conflict. And with this virus, you can never know. People are contracting the virus even while sitting inside their homes. You do feel scared.
Then come the sensory aspects — sight, sound, smell. Especially, when you visit a place like a crematorium, smell plays a huge role because the air is so putrid, nobody wants to be inside. Capturing such a place is not like shooting architecture or a beautiful landscape. You can leave it there and come back with a relaxed mind. You have enjoyed that moment and it lingers on with you. But after returning home from a place like this, it’s difficult to switch off. You don’t forget it as easily. Your coping mechanism has to be strong.
Reconciling something tragic is difficult...
Indeed. I don’t know whether I would ever be able to forget those images in my head. Especially, those episodes where I saw a young widow reading the fatiah of her husband being buried and how the last rites of a COVID-dead child were being performed by a stranger. I remember I was inside an electric cremation centre and after a point of time, I was all alone and there were two COVID dead bodies lying three feet away from me. They were wrapped in plastic sheet. When I turned back, I saw another ambulance arriving, which had five more dead bodies. Similar to a war-like scenario, after one round of disposal, quickly, there were more of them coming and more...
It was tough to navigate things. At times you’re also fearful that something might happen to you or your family. A lot of composure was required to also capture the dead bodies with an aesthetic and giving them the due respect. You can’t make it look bizarre or dramatic.
In the book, there’s a caption — “June was the cruelest month...”
There were many deaths in June. The migrant crisis had broke out, the Shramik Special started, a lot of migrants died in road accidents and on tracks, and the COVID death rate in India started rising and people were dying. And it’s still continuing.
You have captured how the pandemic gave birth to a migrant labour crisis in India. How do you think photographs create a history of their own?
Photographs create history. I got one of the biggest compliments recently when I was told that my photographs remind them, especially the migrant mother-and-child series, of the famous American photographer Dorothea Lange, who had shot a lot of migrants in America during the Great Depression. Lange said that ‘if you’re taking a picture, take it as if you were to become blind tomorrow. Don’t shoot for the sake of it.’
Not that I was governed by her aesthetics but I looked for hope and beauty. The migrants that I have shot were not in motion. I didn’t shoot them during movement. I saw some sitting waiting at bus stands, railways junctions or under a flyover. It was very heartbreaking to see a family of six who had a disabled, malnourished child. They could not travel with her back to their village because it was difficult to carry the child. That image has now been picked by Getty images.
What’s your take on the migrant crisis?
As a Delhiite, I feel, we should have done something for those people. Buses and food supplies were organised later but as a society, there is a collective apathy we have for situations like these. We love to play the blame game — the government doesn’t do its job — and just present a drawing room view of the crisis. I think the migrants were not betrayed by the government, they were betrayed by their employers. The people just washed their hands off them when the lockdown began. And no government could be prepared for a crisis like this!
Was there a specific reason of keeping the photographs black and white?
It’s raw. First section of the book — architecture — reminds me of Delhi of the ‘40s, devoid of people, cars, and pollution, which is why I tried to give them a retro touch. I didn’t want to give colour to the deaths I’ve captured. The doctors, whose courage gave hope to millions, and the scenario they are in, it’s devoid of colours.
There is also a special photograph, the last one, the only one which has been composed. It shows how the virus took a toll on even romance and love. I had to make a couple pose to make that frame I imagined come alive. It makes the book end on a hopeful and a positive note.
Photos: Parul Sharma (in Dialects of Silence, published by Roli Books)
