Ghar - meaning home in Hindi - is the culmination of over five years making images in my birthplace of Kavi Nagar, India.
I returned to Kavi Nagar when I was 21 years old.
I remember a feeling of discomfort; not knowing my place or who I was in that context. I began taking photos as an exercise in learning how to be Indian. It was a visual articulation of my curiosity, responding to my surroundings whilst hovering around my family as they would move through the day.
Over the course of this 5 year journey of taking photographs, Ghar mapped my growing comfort and paved the way for a deeper connection with my family. What began as a response to my curiosity, soon transformed into a thorough visual record in pursuit of preserving intergenerational gestures and familial rituals that often live within the in-between moments that may otherwise pass undocumented.
I returned to Kavi Nagar when I was 21 years old.
I remember a feeling of discomfort; not knowing my place or who I was in that context. I began taking photos as an exercise in learning how to be Indian. It was a visual articulation of my curiosity, responding to my surroundings whilst hovering around my family as they would move through the day.
Over the course of this 5 year journey of taking photographs, Ghar mapped my growing comfort and paved the way for a deeper connection with my family. What began as a response to my curiosity, soon transformed into a thorough visual record in pursuit of preserving intergenerational gestures and familial rituals that often live within the in-between moments that may otherwise pass undocumented.
Nagar - meaning ‘town’ in Hindi - is a photo series made in Kavi Nagar, Ghaziabad, India.
I started my life in Kavi Nagar. I was born there in 1990 but left when I was 8 months old when my
family immigrated to Australia. Throughout my childhood, my family would visit Kavi Nagar every
two years in the hope me and my brother would remain connected to our Indian heritage.
The images, made during daily 4pm walks with my Aunts, represent a starting point. The beginning
of a sustained effort to reconnect with, and understand my heritage.
havan
/ˈhavən/
noun
1. A ritual burning of offerings such as flowers and ghee, which is held to mark births, marriages, and funerals.
On the 21st of February, 2018 there was a havan at my family home in Kavi Nagar, India. It was held a week following the passing of my Nana Ji (Grandfather) - Khyal Singh Chaudhary.
I knew my Nana Ji through stories. In his youth he escaped a bombing at a train station, defensively shot a wild tiger, and attended lavish parties with the Prime Minister of India. He was an intimidating man, both feared and respected; an atheist, who grew up poor and slowly worked his way up to become a celebrated civil engineer who dressed in tailored Italian suits. Towards the end of his life- when I knew him- he would start the day with warm milk, play a game of solitaire, and sit on his leather recliner to watch the cricket. He would end the day with a finger of Johnny Walker mixed with hot water.
He passed away at the age of 97.
The days that followed his passing felt heavy, and the havan marked the end of a week of rituals. On that last day my immediate family took respite in the backyard, away from the hoards of friends and distant relatives that had gathered at our home to pay their respects. My mother, brothers, aunts and uncles arrived in the backyard, one by one, resting on the charpai (daybed), as I sat, taking their picture.
/ˈhavən/
noun
1. A ritual burning of offerings such as flowers and ghee, which is held to mark births, marriages, and funerals.
On the 21st of February, 2018 there was a havan at my family home in Kavi Nagar, India. It was held a week following the passing of my Nana Ji (Grandfather) - Khyal Singh Chaudhary.
I knew my Nana Ji through stories. In his youth he escaped a bombing at a train station, defensively shot a wild tiger, and attended lavish parties with the Prime Minister of India. He was an intimidating man, both feared and respected; an atheist, who grew up poor and slowly worked his way up to become a celebrated civil engineer who dressed in tailored Italian suits. Towards the end of his life- when I knew him- he would start the day with warm milk, play a game of solitaire, and sit on his leather recliner to watch the cricket. He would end the day with a finger of Johnny Walker mixed with hot water.
He passed away at the age of 97.
The days that followed his passing felt heavy, and the havan marked the end of a week of rituals. On that last day my immediate family took respite in the backyard, away from the hoards of friends and distant relatives that had gathered at our home to pay their respects. My mother, brothers, aunts and uncles arrived in the backyard, one by one, resting on the charpai (daybed), as I sat, taking their picture.
“Photographer Anu Kumar’s newest series consists of portraits of her close male relatives. The series, “Men of My Family”, are “simple, stripped back” as Kumar states and “an attempt to get past the usual pleasantries exchanged between us during our frequent family gatherings.”
The series was taken in the drawing room of Kumar’s Aunt’s house and, as she describes, “One by one I called a family member to have their portrait taken between sessions of cricket and chai.”
“These photos celebrate the surprising features carried by my family; hooked noses and green eyes in varying shades of brown.”
The portraits instill a meditative view on male family members outside of hyper-masculine, patriarchal stereotypes. There is a strong sense of beauty and vulnerability in Kumar’s series.
The series was taken in the drawing room of Kumar’s Aunt’s house and, as she describes, “One by one I called a family member to have their portrait taken between sessions of cricket and chai.”
“These photos celebrate the surprising features carried by my family; hooked noses and green eyes in varying shades of brown.”
The portraits instill a meditative view on male family members outside of hyper-masculine, patriarchal stereotypes. There is a strong sense of beauty and vulnerability in Kumar’s series.
