I have got a meeting place whith Ami in Jaïpur.
I intend to visit Indians from the caste of Bhopas.
Bhopas are puppeteers and traditional musicians of the Rajasthan.
They immortalize that practice of show during the weddings and
the parties, almost everywhere in India. Ami is the friend of French
and Indians friends. He suggest to pick me to go to the Shiva Colony
on the New Sanganer Road where i have to meet Prakhash. Prakhash
is Bhopas and tries by various means to collect funds, in order to build
one day, a music school for the children of the Colony.
The city of Jaïpur created, on the side boulevard, a wall painted into nice
pink wich seems to hold the Colony.The other face is gross. The welcome
is warm. As in many slums, each square centimeter overflows life, all forms
of life. The mom is serving us the tchaï. Then the musical instruments : dolack,
harmonium, flute, tambourine spring on all sides. The roguish children play
the model pupils the perfection, and even music better. They’re playing music
like a game. They play to be children fallen from the sky. Suddenly, they’ re
tired and fly away as a flock of sparrows. I rise, too, on the roof of the slum whith
Prakhash. Roghuish as well, he asked me :
« How many people, do you think, live there ? »
I just wondered, and i inflate my estimation.
« Two thousand ? » He looked at me, saddened, by making a sign saying i had to
inflate my estimation again.
« Three thousand ? »
« No my friend, six thousand » Six thousand people living on that small scope,
whithout water nor toilet. Figures in India gallop as escaped horses.
The city, last year, shaved three quarter of the Colony.
« Rehousing ? »
« Not realy my friend, not realy… »
I’m making a modest donation for the school, whithout deluding myself.
Later, i tried to send pictures to Prakhash, as well to the chidren, but it was
unsuccessfull. Someone told me he was a swindler a little, indeed a lot.
Who nows ?
Maybe one day, it will be seen one of those chidren on a European stage,
for a summer festival, playing a melody, striking dollaks whith a furious
rhythm and being on first-name terms whith the beauty.
Text Laurent Ouisse Translate by Bernard Turle
I intend to visit Indians from the caste of Bhopas.
Bhopas are puppeteers and traditional musicians of the Rajasthan.
They immortalize that practice of show during the weddings and
the parties, almost everywhere in India. Ami is the friend of French
and Indians friends. He suggest to pick me to go to the Shiva Colony
on the New Sanganer Road where i have to meet Prakhash. Prakhash
is Bhopas and tries by various means to collect funds, in order to build
one day, a music school for the children of the Colony.
The city of Jaïpur created, on the side boulevard, a wall painted into nice
pink wich seems to hold the Colony.The other face is gross. The welcome
is warm. As in many slums, each square centimeter overflows life, all forms
of life. The mom is serving us the tchaï. Then the musical instruments : dolack,
harmonium, flute, tambourine spring on all sides. The roguish children play
the model pupils the perfection, and even music better. They’re playing music
like a game. They play to be children fallen from the sky. Suddenly, they’ re
tired and fly away as a flock of sparrows. I rise, too, on the roof of the slum whith
Prakhash. Roghuish as well, he asked me :
« How many people, do you think, live there ? »
I just wondered, and i inflate my estimation.
« Two thousand ? » He looked at me, saddened, by making a sign saying i had to
inflate my estimation again.
« Three thousand ? »
« No my friend, six thousand » Six thousand people living on that small scope,
whithout water nor toilet. Figures in India gallop as escaped horses.
The city, last year, shaved three quarter of the Colony.
« Rehousing ? »
« Not realy my friend, not realy… »
I’m making a modest donation for the school, whithout deluding myself.
Later, i tried to send pictures to Prakhash, as well to the chidren, but it was
unsuccessfull. Someone told me he was a swindler a little, indeed a lot.
Who nows ?
Maybe one day, it will be seen one of those chidren on a European stage,
for a summer festival, playing a melody, striking dollaks whith a furious
rhythm and being on first-name terms whith the beauty.
Text Laurent Ouisse Translate by Bernard Turle
