Gary Allen, The Cockney Bard
“Hear the voice of the Bard, who Present, Past & Future sees….”
“Are you familiar with the Muse?” was the first question Gary Allen, the Cockney Bard, asked me when we met for lunch at E.Pellicci on Friday. “I believe that the soul is the mind,” he volunteered, leaning closer across the table, “and that the soul is separate from the brain – so I get inspiration.” In spite of his metaphysical rhetoric, Gary had a broad smile, a healthy tan and seemed very much of this world, yet as I peered credulously into his gleaming eyes there was an intensity that revealed something else.
“At thirty-three, I discovered I could write very quickly – somebody was talking to me,” he admitted, filling with amazement again twenty years later, “and when I read it back it, it was as if somebody else had written it. I didn’t know where it came from.”
Gary found that he had the ability to write fast, transcribing as many as two hundred words per minute in an unbroken sequence without punctuation, often in blank verse and archaic vocabulary. This was surprising in many ways, not least because Gary was an East Ender from Plaistow who had left school early and received no education in literature. Other mysterious powers were granted along with the writing – healing and second sight – Gary revealed. “Two or three months later, I began to hear the voices,” he whispered to me, “And the writing has continued, I could do it 24/7 if I wanted.”
“I wrote a message once and it told me to go to Belgrave Sq at 1pm and meet someone,” he confessed, “And I went there and met Ronald Bailey and I asked do you know the name ‘Ulla’? and he said, that’s my wife who died sixteen months ago, how did you know that?”
We had not yet ordered lunch and already my head was spinning at Gary’s revelations. “I’m not religious but I do believe in God as a the Spirit of Nature that created us all,” he announced, as if this were a clarification of what he had previously disclosed, “you have to believe in a magical creator who made everything and we’re all part of that.”
Around us, the lunch service clattered as Gary brought out a folder with his poems filed in transparent plastic pockets. Scanning his spidery writing, he read from the manuscripts, filling with strong emotion as he intoned the sacred texts – mostly melancholic meditations upon loss, in unexpected contrast to his seemingly-extrovert nature. “I gave up my business for this passion,” he confided, “I’ll admit life has been hard but this has been priceless.” Gary told me that before he was even dating his wife Shona, a singer/actress and Marilyn Monroe tribute artist, he informed her that they would one day be married at a medieval wedding and gave her the date as St Georges Day, and he was right. Furthermore, Gary dressed as a knight in armour and Shona dressed as a princess, and they arrived on horseback to their wedding that included minstrels and jousting,
“I’ve been on a personal journey,” he confirmed in understatement, “I want people to see the beauty. If they can see the beauty, my job is done.” I did not know what to make of what Gary told me, though it was clear that he believes in the truth of his own life. His writing, his healing and his insight are apparently normal experiences to him, yet he also seemed strangely detached from it all as if he were an enigma to himself.
“It’s not from me, I am just the vessel for it,” he assured me with a modest smile. A born showman, Gary is a paradoxically cheery mixture of modesty and big claims. “I want people to look for the flaw because there is no flaw,” he challenged, spreading his hands wide in declamatory style and smiling with an easy confidence.
An example of Gary’s writing.
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Photographs copyright © Ravi Juneja
Poems copyright © The Cockney Bard
Moyra Peralta’s Worldly Goods
“These are all my worldly goods,” said Darren when he spread out these modest items to show Photographer Moyra Peralta in 1997. Moyra asked those she had befriended who lived upon the street to permit her to photograph the contents of their pockets and these pictures were the result.
Darren (Waterloo) – Dog, dog leads, keys on key-ring, penknife, cigarettes, lighter, matches, loose change, shoppers’ points card, religious medals on a string, prayer printed on a metal plate, photo of a dog, paperclip, safety pins, nine packets of sugar, paper serviette, personal papers, pain-killers, emery board and several plastic change bags.
Richard (Holborn) – Busking spoons (for `ham and egg-ing’, ie begging), diary, passport, one roll-up , matches, tobacco, cigarette papers, allowance book, medical prescription, Department of Social Security letter, penknife, photograph, paper tissues, and twenty-one pence.
Michael (Covent Garden) – Social Security book, moneybag, a pair of spectacles with case, a religious picture and prayer, a crucifix and chain, a five pound note, London Underground travel ticket, loose change, a US coin, two lighters, a pencil, comb, a chewing gum, a Medilink card and church postcards.
Chris, Malcolm & Jimmy (Trafalgar Sq) – Personal stereo, lighters, cigarettes, vitamin tablets, legal and medical papers, a photograph of Jack Nicholson, a cartoon drawing, copper coins, a match, a wristband and a lucky sprig of heather.
Sean (Covent Garden) – A Begging placard, a peeled orange, money tin, loose change, a paper hankie, cashew nuts, a pair of socks, an origami flower, a pocket dictionary, a postcard, a religious picture, a whistle, shoelaces, a plaster, a broken pencil and an Irish coin.
Rory – Virgin Atlantic docket, address book, a miniature elephant mascot, a personal stereo, two paperbacks, `british passport, an inhaler, a brush, two cigarette lighters, a matchbook, a pen, a hammer (for breaking into squats) and a torch (belonging to a friend).
Johnnie (Holborn) – A hairbrush, reading glasses, cigarette papers, tobacco, a lighter, a pair of scissors, a razor, a toothbrush, a toothpaste, vitamin capsules, a wallet, photographs, an envelope with more photographs, batteries, coins, a pen, a paperback and cream bath lotion.
Simon (Holborn) – A tobacco tin, some dog-ends, matches, a candle stub, loose change, paper towels, dog biscuits and bone, a collar and lead, a necklace, combs, a prescription, a notebook, a paperback, two photos, stamps, a copy of In & Around Covent Garden magazine, a cassette, a button, an envelope, a pencil, a bullet, a plastic knife and fork, and three tubes of glue.
Ray (Strand) – a wallet, a notebook, tissues, an address book, a news cutting, an Outreach contact card, phone cards, dice, a stamp, loose change, combs, a pair of spectacles, a watch, a pen, a playing card, a cigar stub, a pen cap, bottle of mouthwash, matches, buttons, shaving cream, soap, a piece of string, a needle, thread, a safety razor in a plastic case, throat sweets, scissors, antiseptic cream, wire and wire springs and a paperback.
Tommy (Holborn Station) – Copies of The Big Issue, a Vendor’s Identity Card, a spectacle case, cigarettes, peppermints, nail-clippers and a wristwatch.
Tony & Sandy – Rolling tobacco, a lighter, cigarette papers, painkillers, a plaster and a comb.
Richard displays his worldly goods in Holborn.
Photographs copyright © Moyra Peralta
Signed copies of ‘NEARLY INVISIBLE,’ including these photographs and more by Moyra Peralta plus writing by John Berger & Alan Bennett, are available directly from Moyra. Email moyra.peralta@zen.co.uk to get your copy.
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Andrew Coram’s Collection
Andrew Coram‘s Antique Shop at 86 Commercial St has long been my favourite window in London – it has all the mystery and romance that you might hope for in such a place. And recently, Andrew has put some of his personal collection of beautiful old china on sale, so I asked him to let me photograph his treasured pieces as a record before they all get sold and disappear.
1790s Creamware jug with the gravedigger scene from Hamlet
1790s Creamware jug, The Farmer’s Arms
Hand painted Pearlware jug with floral motif, 1794
Front of the same jug, inscribed “John Ivins, Hosmaston, 1794 – Fill your cups and banish grief, Laugh and worldly care despise, Sorrow ne’er will bring relief, Joy from drinking will arise, So pour this full and sup it up, And call for more to fill your cup.”
1790s, Prattware jug with hand-painted motifs
1825, hand-painted Pearlware jug
Front of the same jug
Painted lustreware jug, The Farmer’s Arms, 1833
Front of the same jug
Reverse of the same jug – “When this you see, Remember me, And keep me in your mind, Let all the world, Say what they will, Speak of me as you find.”
Early nineteenth century jug with transfers and hand-painted enamel decoration
1790s, blue and white jug, with the boy on a buffalo design, Leeds Pottery
1790s blue and white jug, possibly Leeds Pottery
Early nineteenth century Tam O’Shanter jug
Early nineteenth century Sunderland Lustreware jug
Reverse of the same jug
1720s Worcester teapot
1790s teapot
1790s teapot
1790s teapot
1780s teapot
1790s blue and white teapot with swan finial
Masonic Creamware mug
Front of the same mug
Early nineteenth century Lustreware christening mug
Side of the same mug
Early nineteenth century christening mug of Mary Ann Evans – is this George Eliot?
The side of the same mug
Andrew Coram’s window
Bedell Coram, 86 Commercial St, E1 6LY
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Terry Smith, Envelope Cutter
There is not much that Terry Smith does not know about envelopes. He has been cutting them for fifty years at Baddeley Brothers, the long-established family firm of fine stationery manufacturers in Hackney. “When I tell people I make envelopes, sometimes they look at you and ask, ‘What does it take to make envelopes?’ Terry revealed to me with a knowing smile, “So I tell them to get hold of a piece of paper and a knife and a ruler, and try to cut out the shape – because that is the trade of envelope making.”
Envelopes, especially of the brown manila variety, are mostly mundane objects that people prefer not to think about too much. But, at Baddeley Brothers, they make the envelopes of luxury and the envelopes of pleasure, envelopes with gilt crests embossed upon the flap, envelopes with enticing windows to peer through and envelopes lined with deep-coloured tissue – envelopes to lose yourself in. This is envelope-making as an art form, and Terry Smith is the supreme master of it.
Did you know there are only four types of envelope in the world? Thanks to Terry, the morning post will never be the same as I shall be categorising my mail according to styles of envelope. Firstly, there is the Diamond Shape, made from a diamond-shaped template and in which all four points meet in the middle – once this is opened, it cannot be resealed. Secondly, there is the “T” Style, which is the same as the Diamond Shape, only the lower flap ends in a straight edge rather than a point – permitting the top flap to be tucked underneath, which means the envelope can be reused. Thirdly, there is the Wallet, which is a rectangular envelope that opens on the long side. And lastly, the Pocket – which is a rectangular envelope that opens upon the short side.
“The skill of it is to make all the points meet in the middle,” confided Terry, speaking of the Diamond Shape, and I nodded in unthinking agreement – because by then I was already enraptured by the intriguing world of bespoke envelope-making.
“I was born in Shoreditch, and my mother and father were both born in Hackney. My dad was a telephone operator until the war and then he became a chauffeur afterwards. My first job, after I left school at fifteen, was at a carton maker but I was only there for three or four weeks when a friend came along and said to me, would I like to work in a ladies clothing warehouse? And I did that for a year until it got a bit iffy. The Employment Exchange sent me along to Baddeley Brothers and I joined when I was seventeen, and stayed ever since.
The company was in Tabernacle St then and I worked in the warehouse alongside the envelope cutters. It was a good thing because as somebody left another one joined and I worked with them, and I picked stuff up. Eventually when one left, they said to me, ‘Do you think you can do it?’ And I said, ‘Oh yes, give me a try.’ At first, I did the easy ones, punching out envelopes, and then I started to learn how to make the patterns and got into bespoke envelopes.
It is something that I should like to pass on myself, but I have not found anyone that can handle the paper. Once you have got the paper under the guillotine, it can be hard to get just the shape you want. And it can be quite difficult, because if the stack shifts beneath the pattern it can be very tricky to get it straight again. After you have trimmed the paper in the guillotine, then you put it in the adjustable press, and set up your pattern to cut through the paper and give you the exact shape of the envelope. I design all the patterns and, if we need a new knife, I design the shape and make the pattern myself. All of this can be done on a computer – the trade is dying, but this firm is thriving because we do bespoke. If a customer comes to us, I will always make a sample and nine times out of ten we get the job. You won’t find many people like me, because there’s not many left who know how to make bespoke envelopes.
I retired at sixty-five after I trained somebody up, but two months later I got the phone call saying, ‘Will you please come back?’ That was two years ago nearly and I was pleased to come back because I was getting a bit bored. It’s a great pleasure producing envelopes, because I can do work that others would struggle with. There’s a lot of pressure put upon you, you’ve got a couple of machines waiting and a few ladies making up the finished envelopes.
I was brought up with sport and I ran for London, I am a good all-rounder. I am a swimming instructor with disabled people at Ironmonger’s Row Baths. Every morning, I do press ups and sit ups to keep in shape – a good hour’s work out. I know that when I come into work, I’m ready to go. I’m probably fitter than most of the people here.
They’ve asked me how long can I go on making envelopes and I answer, ‘As long as I am able and as long as I am needed.'”
Terry at work making envelopes in 1990 in Boundary St.
Terry sets a knife to cut the final shape of a stack of envelopes
Die cutting, 1990
Jim Roche checking the quality of foiling on envelopes
Checking the quality of foiling, 1990
Alan Reeves and envelope machine
Alan Reeves and envelope machine, 1990
Gary Cline
Die press proofing, 1990
Folding envelopes by hand
Folding envelopes by hand, 1990
Gita Patel & Wendy Arundel – “We are the best hand finishers”
Proofing Press, 1990
Alan Reeves, Gary Cline, Terry Smith and Jim Lambert.
Baddeley Brothers at Boundary St in the building that is now the Boundary Hotel, 1990
Colour photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Black & white photographs copyright © Baddeley Brothers
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Moyra Peralta’s Street Portraits
Sylvia in Tenterground, Spitalfields
Since I published it last week, this compelling photograph has been haunting me with its tender emotional resonance. Sylvia’s once-smart shoes and flowery dress tell us about the life she wished to lead – and maybe about the life she had led – yet it is apparent from Moyra Peralta‘s affectionate portrait that the life Sylvia aspired to was lost to her forever. Unwillingly to enter a night shelter, she slept rough in Spitalfields in the seventies and today this photograph exists as the only lasting evidence that, in spite of her straitened circumstance, Sylvia kept her self-respect.
Following my recent gallery of Moyra Peralta’s Spitalfields pictures, today I publish this selection of her London portraits. Through the seventies and until the end of the nineties, Moyra Peralta befriended people living on the street in the capital, visiting them several times each week. “I miss that world terribly,” she admitted to me, looking back on it, “my relationships were more social than photographic, but in the process of those relationships I took portraits – there are those here that I knew over thirty years, most of these people I knew for well over twenty to thirty years.”
“Definitions of the homeless lost all meaning for me.” Moyra emphasised, “As a photographer, I tried to show the human face, rather than the problem of homelessness itself because those termed ‘homeless’ are not an alien grouping – they are people of all ages and backgrounds, many of whom have met with crippling misfortunes.”
Moyra’s intimate photographs succeed as portraits of heroic individuals, evoking the human dignity of those marginalised by society. “To me, those I have photographed are an important part of our social history.” Moyra asserted to me, “I want my photographs to rescue people from oblivion and celebrate their lives lived in a climate of disregard.”
John T in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Bert known as ‘Birdman’ slept outdoors since the age of fourteen. He had an affinity with the black swans and sparrows in St James’ Park and was treated with tolerance by the Park Police.
Two men sitting in a cellar.
Maxie on the steps of the Cumberland Hotel, Marble Arch.
Maxie pours Stan a drink at Marble Arch.
Eddie and Brian tell tall stories on Kinsgway
Brian raps on the church door, Kingsway
Man and a cat in a Cyrenian short stay hostel, 1974.
Grant and pal laughing at the Bullring, South Bank
Mary reads the Big Issue in Holborn
Tommy M in Lincoln’s Inn Fields
Bill H, Cyrenian House, Barons Court, in the seventies.
Brian D at Middlesex Hospital, 1997
Brian’s begging hand.
Francis at Cable St
JW and Jim at Pratt St, Camden
John T, Storyteller, Whetstone 1995.
John T, the valentine.
Kerry’s Christmas Tree, Kingsway 1994.
Drag artistes from the Vauxhall Tavern give a surprise performance to entertain guests at a night shelter, 1974
Drag artistes improvise costumes at the Vauxhall shelter.
Billy and Maxie, two ex-servicemen at Marble Arch, 1976. Billy (left) died of a broken heart the year after Maxie’s death
Billy at Marble Arch in the seventies.
Sid takes tea at Ashmore Rd short stay hostel in West London.
Resident washing dishes at West London Mission, St Luke’s House – part of former Old Lambeth Workhouse, 1974.
Tiny, ex-circus hand and born wanderer extends a greeting at the Vauxhall Night Shelter, 1974.
Man and his bottle in Central London, seventies
Disabled Showman Zy with his wheels.
Zy plays a trick with his teeth
Brian the Poet in Kingsway, 1994.
Photographs copyright © Moyra Peralta
Signed copies of ‘NEARLY INVISIBLE,’ including these photographs and more by Moyra Peralta plus writing by John Berger & Alan Bennett, are available directly from Moyra. Email moyra.peralta@zen.co.uk to get your copy.
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At Plashet Park Bowling Club
Photographer Colin O’Brien and I went over to visit the Plashet Park Bowling Club in hopes of witnessing some exciting action on the green and reporting back to you. But, with temperatures rising in excess of thirty degrees, we found the members had wisely decided not to venture beyond the Club House and were spending the afternoon sitting in the shade drinking tea and eating cake instead. We could not fault the wisdom of such a decision, especially as it gave Colin the opportunity to take their portraits and, enlivened by the novelty of photography, a spontaneous tea party ensued that filled the afternoon very pleasantly.
The Club has been in the headlines recently on account of a recent surge in membership from Asian people, reviving a flagging institution, but when we arrived none were to be seen. “They’re at the mosque today,” explained the Club Secretary, Joan Ayre, proudly – as we stepped into the kitchen for a cool glass of lemonade,“They’re really good players and they’ve made us a stronger and better Club.”
“We do have a history of acheivements,” interposed Cliff Dye, the youthful President & Chairman, standing up for the Club’s legacy, “In 1911, a group of men got together and founded this Club in Plashet Park as an offshoot of the Bowling Club at the Green Man, a pub which has gone now.”
“You know how all the pubs round here have car parks?” added Joan, unable to conceal her disappointment, “Well, those all used to be the Bowling Greens.”
“In 1999, there were fifteen Bowling Clubs in Newham,” revealed Cliff, quoting figures, “and now there are only six – lack of membership was the problem.”
“We are the originals,” continued Joan, clutching at the arm of her husband Nobby for moral support.
“We both joined twenty-six years ago when we retired,” Nobby admitted to me, “I am the second oldest member at eighty-five.”
“The Asians were rolling up every day to practice in the first year so, in the second year, we invited them to join our competitions,” Cliff informed me, eagerly picking up the narrative of the club’s recent ascendancy, “And they won them all because of the practising – they’re very good bowlers.” This last comment drew nods of agreement and approval all round.
“I am confident of the future of this Club,” Joan assured me as I studied the score boards, trophies and old photographs that adorned the Club House, “because we are going to become the first all-Asian Bowls Club in years to come.”
And I was touched by the many emotions present in Joan’s statement, of her relief that her precious Club would not die like so many others, of her delight in sharing it with new members, of her excitement at the renewed competitive future of the Club and her pleasure that her beloved sport had delivered the arena for a such an unexpected meeting of cultures united by their enjoyment of bowls.
By now, I spotted two Asian gentlemen who had sought the cool shade of a laurel hedge to relax and so I went over to discover their side of the story.“I only started playing bowls when I joined the club in 2010, though I was always keen on sports from volleyball, basketball, cricket and athletics when I was young.” confided Bashir Patel, known affectionately as “Bash,”It’s a very friendly club with very nice people and all suspicions on both sides have been dispelled.”
A heat haze hung over the green and it was necessary to retreat back into the Club House where we persuaded the members to gather for a group photo, before our taking our leave and promising to return later in the summer when all the members would be present to show us how a game of bowls should be played – and Colin can take portraits of all those we missed this time.
In the meantime, the Plashet Park Bowling Club seeks new members of all ages. Email Joan Ayre to learn more dayre657@btinternet.com
Plashet Park Bowling Club
Joan Ayre, Club Secretary and Member for twenty-six years – “I don’t go in for competitions anymore because I’ve won them all.”
Ted King – “I started playing bowls when I was sixty-one and I was eighty-seven on Sunday. I love bowls because it’s out in the open and this is a real friendly Club, that’s what I like about it. When the Asian chaps wanted to join, we was a bit amazed at first but we’ve accepted them and they’ve become really good members.”
Peter Chilkes -“I’ve been playing bowls for forty years, ever since I got injured playing football. And, in 1974, I was rhythm guitarist in Mike Berry & The Outlaws and our hit “Jumping Jeremiah” went to forty in the chart.”
Lilian Lucas
Barry Menzies – “Eight years, I’ve been a member of the Club. I learnt to play at the bus depot ten years ago when I was working on the busses.”
Margaret Springford , member since 1985 – “I love the social life and the camaraderie!”
Nobby Ayre – “I am the second oldest member at eighty-five”
Dot Mardle – “I only started bowling when my husband died. I’ve been a member for eighteen years and it’s been good because it opens up your life. You don’t do anything with your life if you don’t play bowls.”
Alf Goring
George Gale – “I’m eighty-two and I’ve been playing bowls for eighteen years, I love it. I need my exercise because I’ve had a lot of accidents.”
Betty Ayrton
Frank Adams
Hazel Clarke
Les Langford – “I’m retired and it gets me out of the house.”
Bashir Patel (known as “Bash”) – I only started playing bowls when I joined the club in 2010, though I was always keen on sports from volleyball, basketball, cricket and athletics when I was young.”
Moosa Patel
Patrick Hickey
Cliff Dye, President & Captain
Members of Plashet Park Bowling Club – (Click photo to enlarge)
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Delwar Hussain, Writer & Anthropologist
Delwar Hussain in Puma Court
This is Delwar Hussain in his long attic room at the very top of the family house in Puma Court where he grew up. Within the shadow of Christ Church, Delwar’s window overlooks the rooftops of the old houses at the heart of Spitalfields. Downstairs, his mother tends to the tiny courtyard garden, while his sister’s children play up and down the stairs but, up here in the quiet, Delwar presides over his own intellectual territory, defined by the enormous crowded bookshelf that fills an entire wall at one end of the room.
Delwar’s perspective is upon borderland, yet not just with the City of London that is visible from his eyrie but across continents to the land of of his family’s origin and the boundary between India and Bangladesh, where Delwar spent two years conducting interviews to write his first book Boundaries Undermined, completed as the culminate of his doctorate at Cambridge University. With its eloquent authoritative prose and generous shrewd sensibility, it is a strong debut – a highly readable book of real stature, introducing an important subject of international significance that was previously unexplored.
Yet the wonder is that Delwar can still inhabit his childhood world in Spitalfields with ease, overseeing his nephews and nieces playing in Puma Court and reconciling this with his intellectual endeavours as Writer, Anthropologist and occasional Correspondent for The Guardian upon Bangladeshi affairs. Thus our conversation was interrupted by a nephew seeking Delwar’s signature upon a note for his teacher, the house cat entering and stretching out upon the floor, and the general hullabaloo of busy family life – all without any disruption to Delwar’s line of thought as he told me his story.
“I was born in the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. My grandfather came to this country first, when he was in the Merchant Navy. My father came in the sixties, he worked in the garment trade and my mother joined him in the seventies. When I was born, they were living in one of the big old houses in New Rd and I still have an affection for houses with a step up to the front door because of that. Then we moved here to Puma Court in the late eighties.
The book came out of my Phd thesis looking at borders. I think I am interested in borders because I grew up in Spitalfields where there are so many borders, not just the one with the City but borders of ethnicity and class too. Growing up in a borderland, I’ve always been comfortable crossing boundaries, and I am fascinated by how different kinds of people can live together and form a life together in such places.
So I thought my upbringing was a preparation for going to the border region where India is building a two-and-a-half-thousand mile barbed-wire fence around Bangladesh. I turned up in Boropani, this village in the coal-mining region, where the mines are in India and the miners on the Bangladeshi side. The miners have to pay the border guards and cross the border illegally every day just to go to work. I wrote about these people and how their lives are there.
Yet Spitalfields did not prepare me for what I found. It is is one of the most dangerous border regions of the world – one of the most violent places I’ve been, comparable to the East End in the nineteenth century – where killings are a regular occurrence but where somehow people carry on their lives. The nature of work is changing there, people who were once peasant farmers have lost their land to soil erosion and their homes to floods. The circumstances reflected issues of globalisation – climate change destroying land and people forced to work in Indian coal mines that are supplying China with power for industry.
After two years, I came back with a large collection of notebooks of my interviews, and sat in a library in Cambridge writing them up – conveniently directly connected to Spitalfields by rail through Liverpool St Station. I did a degree in Anthropology at Goldsmith’s College first before going up to Cambridge University and I was always aware that I was privileged to be there. My mother doesn’t speak English and, when I was a child, we used to ask neighbours to help us out filling in forms. It was only at Cambridge that I was told I came from a deprived background and I actually believed it, until I turned up in this village on the India/Bangladesh border, then I realised what deprivation and poverty means.”
At this moment of the publication of his first book, I asked Delwar whether he considers himself more of an Anthropologist or a Writer. “Often Anthropologists are more interested in theories and arguing about those, rather than the people they claim to be interested in,” he assured me with a significant frown, “whereas Writers tend to be more interested in people than the theories.” If I had not guessed it already, it was ample confirmation of where Delwar’s sympathy lies.
Delwar’s grandfather, Haji Mofiz Ali
Delwar’s father, Haji Abdul Jallil
Family portrait at a studio in Vallance Rd, 1980. From left to right – Arful Nessa (mother), Haji Abdul Jalil (father), Hafsa Begum (sister), Rahana Begum (sister), Faruk Miah (cousin), Shiraz Miah (cousin) and Delwar Hussain.
Delwar Hussain
Portraits of Delwar Hussain copyright © Lucinda Douglas-Menzies
Click here to order a copy of BOUNDARIES UNDERMINED by Delwar Hussain
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