As we launch our 21st edition, Hakara finds itself in the midst of a numbing sea of narratives. A city flooded with outrage, the underbelly of a film industry tugged to the fore, and a routine cropping up of religiously motivated violence scattered across the country. We are trapped between both, the body’s habitual instinct for outrage, and a collective sense of weariness towards this very outrage, which feels almost rehearsed to the point of losing its meaning. Numbness accompanies weariness, as narratives of justice and equality take over. We are no longer sure where it all started, or why it was important to speak out in the first place. The kernel of hurt and pain– which had sparked a recognition of our shared human condition– now feels obscure and distant. In such a situation, the question arises, what is it that  still carries the power to move? To pierce our walls and humble us to the pain of others? 

In this edition, we bring you works that explore the theme of ‘silence’ through various forms, in different contexts, and across a period of time. Silences that are externally imposed, and silences that brew over time; silences that suggest passivity, and silences that stem from language’s limited ability to articulate the depths of human experience. At a time when we are surrounded by noise, we return to silence’s ability to provide the space for meaningful thought and action.

An interview with photographer Indrajit Khambe throws light on the quiet power of images to expand and shape the way we perceive the world. In this context, he talks about seeing an image of Hampi emerge in his photograph, which was entirely different from what he had seen documented before. Indrajit’s photographs focus not on wide-angle shots of the temple, or its architecture, but on the deep connection between residents of Hampi and its rocky landscape. In Indrajit’s photographs, we see the image of a young girl standing under a massive rock; human and animal life reduced to specks against nature’s incomprehensible vastness. This slight shift in perspective, although seemingly insignificant, expands the way we think of our place in the world, in relation to the other natural elements that comprise it. 

The desire to shift narratives through images takes on an overtly political tone in photographer Palani Kumar’s work. It is the underlying thread to all his work. In his interview with Hakara, Palani talks about his sustained work with students from marginalised communities, in an attempt to give them the tools to document their truths. “Our Streets, Our Stories”, an exhibition by young photographers (mentored by Palani) from North Chennai– a neighbourhood stigmatised as a hotbed for violence– invited residents from the city to view North Chennai from an alternative perspective. Talking about a student seeking his help with photography, Palani says, “Ultimately, he knows the people, he knows how they are living. For me, this is the first time I am interacting with them. So I don’t know them as well as he does. While shooting, I would probably miss things that he would notice. So my goal is to train people like him– starting with giving them a camera and teaching them the proper way.” For Palani, thus, work stemming from one’s lived and embodied experiences holds the power to direct us away from externally imposed narratives that feel inauthentic to our realities.

Silence slides into the memoirs of Mughal emperors– bodies of text otherwise tasked with displaying the emperors’ strength– through the hands of the authorial artists, as explored in Somdatta Guha Bakshi’s essay titled “Contrived Silences? A Study of Three Mughal Paintings from the Akbari to the Jahangiri Era”. A young Babur hesitates before the gates of the Central Asian city of Andijan, moved by his father’s death. Here, the emperor’s silence betrays a moment of grief, and provides a brief respite from the larger strategic goal of empire building through shaping public perception. As human vulnerability seeps into a depiction of the emperor, an unexpected possibility opens up: the possibility of shared connection between the viewer and the figure that had previously seemed in-human in his godliness. 

Silence in the contemporary context evokes an association with sustained, and intentional thought and action. When I think about the Justice Hema Committee report– propelled forward by a collective of women in the Malayalam film industry– I think of their silent yet quiet persistence in bringing women’s stories out into the public conscience. Similarly, I think of the quiet persistence of the countless people who are driven by their belief in an abstract sense of justice, or of the right and the wrong. Silence here serves as the enclave that allows us to cultivate our individual and shared beliefs, which in turn forms the basis of our actions in society.