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"Eò+<x'◊My grandfather read and wrote in Urdu, and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, and English in that order of ease. He maintained a private diary till very recently, in which he collected scraps of poetry, absurd news clippings, photos, handwritten letters, and leaves that fell on him during long winding walks. He remembers having grown up in a neighbourhood where identity and culture flowed effortlessly into one another. He identifies as Hindu by birth, Muslim by culture. Blasphemous, you declare. It is simple, he would say.

Partition tore through his neighbourhood, and forced them to flee Sialkot to come take refuge in Delhi. From a neighbourhood in which Hindus and Muslims were largely indistinguishable from each other, he found himself in a city erected along communal lines. I remember him confessing how odd he felt to have only Hindu neighbours for miles. In the absence of concrete, neighbours marked their domestic spaces with sticks, ropes and bricks, and looked after each other’s allotted properties. None had the wherewithal to begin building a house immediately, let alone a nation. They started by living in the open, inhabiting a blueprint drawn on soil, upon which got built a room, then another, and over years their house, their neighbourhood, and along came a nation. Unimaginable, you utter. It is simple, he would say.

He mastered History and became a high school teacher. He answered Gandhi’s call for building the nation by volunteering for community work - building and maintaining parks, organising medical camps, opening evening schools, offering tuition for free, mediating conflicts in the neighbourhood, dismissing offers to hold a post of authority offered in gratitude. He built neighbourhoods wherever he moved, crisscrossing the city from his young days in Karol Bagh, to his settled days on Vikas Marg, to his senior days in Gurgaon now. On one occasion, he ensured that a make-shift school got erected on unused land in his locality, land that was being encroached upon by temple construction in gross violation of public property. He achieved this with his neighbours without making a single enemy, or receiving any threat. Unthinkable, you exclaim. It is simple, he would say.

He lived by Gandhi’s idea of ‘serving the neighbour to serve the country’. At any rate, he has always struggled to grasp that which he could not circumambulate the edges of. He belongs to a nation called neighbourhood. Your neighbourhood is the only country you will ever really inhabit, he’d say.

Today, we see an unprecedented number of neighbourhoods pour out onto the streets in protest against divisive politics. Neighbours are looking out for each other, just like they did back then when the nation was being built. Neighbours are protecting each other just like they did back then when there were no houses. Neighbours are keeping safe the blueprint of this nation just like they did back then for their own houses. For this country is nothing more than a cluster of neighbourhoods built by countless people like this one grandfather, who, after having spent a lifetime building neighbourhoods, when asked today, if it is still possible to do it all over again, it is simple he would say.Ÿ†í˝°û8Ó‰`≥<¨DnÅÇÁ<}fiáZÕ”¨<˝fh|âZe
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ú ¶ºM.VMy grandfather read and wrote in Urdu, and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, and English in that order of ease. He maintained a private diary till very recently, in which he collected scraps of poetry, absurd news clippings, photos, handwritten letters, and leaves that fell on him during long winding walks. He remembers having grown up in a neighbourhood where identity and culture flowed effortlessly into one another. He identifies as Hindu by birth, Muslim by culture. Blasphemous, you declare. It is simple, he would say.

Partition tore through his neighbourhood, and forced them to flee Sialkot to come take refuge in Delhi. From a neighbourhood in which Hindus and Muslims were largely indistinguishable from each other, he found himself in a city erected along communal lines. I remember him confessing how odd he felt to have only Hindu neighbours for miles. In the absence of concrete, neighbours marked their domestic spaces with sticks, ropes and bricks, and looked after each other’s allotted properties. None had the wherewithal to begin building a house immediately, let alone a nation. They started by living in the open, inhabiting a blueprint drawn on soil, upon which got built a room, then another, and over years their house, their neighbourhood, and along came a nation. Unimaginable, you utter. It is simple, he would say.

He mastered History and became a high school teacher. He answered Gandhi’s call for building the nation by volunteering for community work - building and maintaining parks, organising medical camps, opening evening schools, offering tuition for free, mediating conflicts in the neighbourhood, dismissing offers to hold a post of authority offered in gratitude. He built neighbourhoods wherever he moved, crisscrossing the city from his young days in Karol Bagh, to his settled days on Vikas Marg, to his senior days in Gurgaon now. On one occasion, he ensured that a make-shift school got erected on unused land in his locality, land that was being encroached upon by temple construction in gross violation of public property. He achieved this with his neighbours without making a single enemy, or receiving any threat. Unthinkable, you exclaim. It is simple, he would say.

He lived by Gandhi’s idea of ‘serving the neighbour to serve the country’. At any rate, he has always struggled to grasp that which he could not circumambulate the edges of. He belongs to a nation called neighbourhood. Your neighbourhood is the only country you will ever really inhabit, he’d say.

Today, we see an unprecedented number of neighbourhoods pour out onto the streets in protest against divisive politics. Neighbours are looking out for each other, just like they did back then when the nation was being built. Neighbours are protecting each other just like they did back then when there were no houses. Neighbours are keeping safe the blueprint of this nation just like they did back then for their own houses. For this country is nothing more than a cluster of neighbourhoods built by countless people like this one grandfather, who, after having spent a lifetime building neighbourhoods, when asked today, if it is still possible to do it all over again, it is simple he would say.ø@~µ¨.4˚5î,jÚdÉØn=G4‘ -⁄DÁî1[ NqÉ‹ÅUoÓ‡º∫õSgoôàz"Ù)èÆyˆ§ÿú4:πgé“x-·ìÜçIF‰1'Ò¨'ûXÓ÷‚≈ ‹eëï˘åÁÈÕ-∏É\¢ÀT»›¿Á–T ÒIklÛÔç∑99 ˛•d”"+Se.n~—h∏Û`d€«+Ç∏™Î6Sk7…"œ"·Ü?èwß°œÈTÓe≤ºH⁄’p�Ó9Õ,úøkbÎ#ò∏, üO≠Mãp.E∞ic±›+™ª∂H‡©<gfl+.€Sù!é⁄Ê"π˘∞=O≠_æd≤ÛfêÑMÃD|fix˙–_s˝í9I$ &pGùÖÏ«ÃÚ}°#∑∂Œÿ =r{Á˙Vuà ˘â$ÜYPlÈÀ<刿©./s— àŒÕè í¿ÁìNå⁄+}∂$€∞ˆ#Ô~=*¢µ!´Ÿ[¿”K2HC9€Å¿º�sÈÎW_Y‹I‡Y CÚ»% #’N óPF∏Ö]]ìπPAlˇ�/∆ío¥Z4o–≥6%sÖÀ≠hˆ)BÁU߯™◊@ªÇ¬ˇ�tÒ Ï¶9$˛òÆØ«∫, ·€ox|=≈ù¬±ôrª–û‰uJÚoµKfè™Æc ‰u¿„”÷õo˝®∂‰G+[<¡ô’I*CP÷Å(ÿøsasaïºÊA;yØ≥*m@ÕRí÷MF÷‰F∆g›º0XOc≈UV”,£é≠'ñ0Ö3…úäªk$÷©4÷rÓsm8tdıÙœAU°Œ˙ón fihVCÓHr}„êsfléî€À[ÿ.終≥ïZ8◊∫éªè∏¨KôÌu√6Ê!î˝÷ ∏v´3ÿÀÛfi⁄»#{Ć™úÄ2NjÇ0÷«Ay≠O´œ∫÷Ÿmí0K(Á~z}1Y Ì$+Ä°KÇIˆœz‘øùÔmfi”G∂äøΩôNp:c‘ÛYnóTäKSÂ4|∑é2=h*KRx’ºÏÜXö@v8¿ÏG∏™–flÍ÷∫¬E3°é$h’I¿*ÿ9„øÖJñPã)E°KX◊é;π#?ÖX6B‰ô nïBÏ¿…Íwd√å∑§”+C1>f‚ŸeÊ€∏p{Ò[vøŸ ≤.]$ÁÃuŒ÷@©9„¨E≤H`ëÆÆÃ≠˝”åŸı«Ú´◊PAnm$o-ó�™s˚œP~ò©4v%Ω∞’¥#{}“FT 7pÍI‡Å€�Œ≠Í7$8øgÛºbô,rz˝3Oä‡ÏéWw2°¡ ◊Ò´∫M嘬˘º¥›Ên
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I=´7Uw±FÛ>AlMy grandfather read and wrote in Urdu, and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, and English in that order of ease. He maintained a private diary till very recently, in which he collected scraps of poetry, absurd news clippings, photos, handwritten letters, and leaves that fell on him during long winding walks. He remembers having grown up in a neighbourhood where identity and culture flowed effortlessly into one another. He identifies as Hindu by birth, Muslim by culture. Blasphemous, you declare. It is simple, he would say.

Partition tore through his neighbourhood, and forced them to flee Sialkot to come take refuge in Delhi. From a neighbourhood in which Hindus and Muslims were largely indistinguishable from each other, he found himself in a city erected along communal lines. I remember him confessing how odd he felt to have only Hindu neighbours for miles. In the absence of concrete, neighbours marked their domestic spaces with sticks, ropes and bricks, and looked after each other’s allotted properties. None had the wherewithal to begin building a house immediately, let alone a nation. They started by living in the open, inhabiting a blueprint drawn on soil, upon which got built a room, then another, and over years their house, their neighbourhood, and along came a nation. Unimaginable, you utter. It is simple, he would say.

He mastered History and became a high school teacher. He answered Gandhi’s call for building the nation by volunteering for community work - building and maintaining parks, organising medical camps, opening evening schools, offering tuition for free, mediating conflicts in the neighbourhood, dismissing offers to hold a post of authority offered in gratitude. He built neighbourhoods wherever he moved, crisscrossing the city from his young days in Karol Bagh, to his settled days on Vikas Marg, to his senior days in Gurgaon now. On one occasion, he ensured that a make-shift school got erected on unused land in his locality, land that was being encroached upon by temple construction in gross violation of public property. He achieved this with his neighbours without making a single enemy, or receiving any threat. Unthinkable, you exclaim. It is simple, he would say.

He lived by Gandhi’s idea of ‘serving the neighbour to serve the country’. At any rate, he has always struggled to grasp that which he could not circumambulate the edges of. He belongs to a nation called neighbourhood. Your neighbourhood is the only country you will ever really inhabit, he’d say.

Today, we see an unprecedented number of neighbourhoods pour out onto the streets in protest against divisive politics. Neighbours are looking out for each other, just like they did back then when the nation was being built. Neighbours are protecting each other just like they did back then when there were no houses. Neighbours are keeping safe the blueprint of this nation just like they did back then for their own houses. For this country is nothing more than a cluster of neighbourhoods built by countless people like this one grandfather, who, after having spent a lifetime building neighbourhoods, when asked today, if it is still possible to do it all over again, it is simple he would say.�''n0~ùkF˝¥ãIìN“¨Â²¸¨\úÅüß∑j�‰–A-†{ÃÀ”‹0OØZôÆÌ¥…§∑ô ‡Äy˸kX˝í˙'≤≥€nYò*7Ò‰ˇ�3“¢ÜK§bôI¡v^‡ı§ˆ(\i¶EÙÇ9à‡Ù$’-U πr#ú´F®ÎÈZû"µà‚í<¢1_Tt¶êßú⁄ÕõŸñ‚Dfrm…*xQWÓ4¢◊I©œqæ é·t›ÎÙ˝+ï”Âö[◊“.#{â2d∏;;}k]$ª#P\†�Ééû¿éÙª{i®[Y∞”\›l– ¡ˇ�=+∞˚cE·˚+åõÊFpAˆı\eΩƒVZz§˛dVË<∏ÿú‰Ûå˚f¥c[∞Iu|·ºÕ†HÃßΩi]r Ò,ÂtBQà€±¡Ù¡4Ÿexñ X§VâXÅá~}Go≠A}zí¨0¨¿πP´íHÈìfl5ä.dä9fπl‹Åü,3ÈR‚Kñápˆf˛Wâ�H‰‡3Ûµ}±‹W´Ö“¶{(|ÀßR7∫ÉÇ22rx‡VÏ•“Z ”pÚÇÁ#¶Ié+ù77÷ÅŸ¸π&ΩV9 A∆’¡q÷à≠IéÆÂV¬^€EÚÅU£˚Ó߶OB2*Æ≠s5û•ÂBHFÑ∆@v‰ö±>•
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Œx¶Ày•⁄H¶…¢…fMy grandfather read and wrote in Urdu, and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, and English in that order of ease. He maintained a private diary till very recently, in which he collected scraps of poetry, absurd news clippings, photos, handwritten letters, and leaves that fell on him during long winding walks. He remembers having grown up in a neighbourhood where identity and culture flowed effortlessly into one another. He identifies as Hindu by birth, Muslim by culture. Blasphemous, you declare. It is simple, he would say.

Partition tore through his neighbourhood, and forced them to flee Sialkot to come take refuge in Delhi. From a neighbourhood in which Hindus and Muslims were largely indistinguishable from each other, he found himself in a city erected along communal lines. I remember him confessing how odd he felt to have only Hindu neighbours for miles. In the absence of concrete, neighbours marked their domestic spaces with sticks, ropes and bricks, and looked after each other’s allotted properties. None had the wherewithal to begin building a house immediately, let alone a nation. They started by living in the open, inhabiting a blueprint drawn on soil, upon which got built a room, then another, and over years their house, their neighbourhood, and along came a nation. Unimaginable, you utter. It is simple, he would say.

He mastered History and became a high school teacher. He answered Gandhi’s call for building the nation by volunteering for community work - building and maintaining parks, organising medical camps, opening evening schools, offering tuition for free, mediating conflicts in the neighbourhood, dismissing offers to hold a post of authority offered in gratitude. He built neighbourhoods wherever he moved, crisscrossing the city from his young days in Karol Bagh, to his settled days on Vikas Marg, to his senior days in Gurgaon now. On one occasion, he ensured that a make-shift school got erected on unused land in his locality, land that was being encroached upon by temple construction in gross violation of public property. He achieved this with his neighbours without making a single enemy, or receiving any threat. Unthinkable, you exclaim. It is simple, he would say.

He lived by Gandhi’s idea of ‘serving the neighbour to serve the country’. At any rate, he has always struggled to grasp that which he could not circumambulate the edges of. He belongs to a nation called neighbourhood. Your neighbourhood is the only country you will ever really inhabit, he’d say.

Today, we see an unprecedented number of neighbourhoods pour out onto the streets in protest against divisive politics. Neighbours are looking out for each other, just like they did back then when the nation was being built. Neighbours are protecting each other just like they did back then when there were no houses. Neighbours are keeping safe the blueprint of this nation just like they did back then for their own houses. For this country is nothing more than a cluster of neighbourhoods built by countless people like this one grandfather, who, after having spent a lifetime building neighbourhoods, when asked today, if it is still possible to do it all over again, it is simple he would say.f$Ò¿ÈË2hÃZù§Q ∏$h÷OærŸ˙Ù≈TÇ•ƒã¶ÃK‡>îíAÈÌN*~ ˜wíD™¿ï∆Ïp•Éys∏Á⁄Ç\¨%’⁄›)[VgÚWlãéΩ…ŒOÎkÀã eékL⁄ \OoZoï'Ÿ⁄‹�û[ñï∂ë∫2�˙‘2¢∑S3∞`±ÆXpßßÁ•ÁCÂgkó∫∑@˚JèªÛèˆ{~5-µå2[Å# #e?º<*±¿ı„äMñv6J∂"Då쑉±œ<˙S. BÂàó®¿'P.qÚº6Òà¶;R⁄º∫ènºÒQ∆¬Kb≈ånKeO!A∆?9Ù™_Ÿ≤[K$i6È$l©ër�Ù„ß„VÉd≥∏%F‹JÙ‘zäcM2Œ›—TDNwÖû¸8fiãKvXmÕÀÇ”˜@�e≥ÿ˝i◊ <ˆÒ€œô$ëò±„q»˙‘gπÑ√æAÜd  ˝Ï–"Πã∑å.ʺ¶„ {Áπ¨ˆ≥∂Xƒ∑–˘sπ¬ïG◊µÚM5º∂LcV sñ˚§g◊•ZúHˆˆ˙ÑèΩó-!ÈÜ®†
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EPISODE #1
WOUNDING commences a series of interventions taking form as ‘episodes’ conceived of by Amitesh Grover. These episodes mark a culmination of the intensive processes undertaken as part of the MASH FICA Award, granted to Grover in 2018 for his project, ‘Missing Bodies | Quantified Self.'

For WOUNDING, Amitesh has reproduced photographs from his family archive by breaking the code that visualises them. As part of the process, he has taken a set of vintage analog photographs from his family's collection, and has scanned each image to preserve them. Each photograph depicts a member of his family who experienced the Partition of India, and was compelled to migrate to the ‘other side.' The photographs chosen for this episode contain personal stories of the Partition, each an inheritance handed down to him through tellings and re-tellings.

The pixels of an image, when translated into the alphanumeric ASCII code, are a non-intelligible sequence of characters that contain all the information required to hold the image together. Amitesh writes into this ASCII code the stories of his family members, introducing memories into its impersonality, breaking it to produce glitches and cracks in the resulting image. This act of partitioning the code breaks the original photograph, and the resulting image may be read as a conscious act of making the injuries (re)appear in digital form.

In the end, what emerges is not a photograph but an image that is itself wounded, carrying the bodies of those partitioned from their land.
BY AMITESH GROVER
1. Raag Darbari, Shrilal Shukla

2. The Lost Generation, Nidhi Dugar Kundalia

3. The Other Side of Silence, Urvashi Butalia

4. Participation, ed. by Claire Bishop (Whitechapel: Documents of Contemporary Art)

5. Temporary People by Deepak Unnikrishnan

6. Trickster City: Writings from the Belly of the Metropolis, ed. by Shveta Sarda

7. TV by Algirdas Šeškus

1. But is it art? by Cynthia Freeland

2. The Everyday, ed. by Stephen Johnstone
(Whitechapel: Documents of Contemporary Art)

3. Raqs Media Collective | The Imposter in the Waiting Room

4. The Culture Game by Olu Oguibe

5. The Archive, ed. by Charles Merewether
(Whitechapel: Documents of Contemporary Art)

6. About Looking by John Berger

7. Voices (Vol 1), ed. by Alka Pande

8. Images (Vol 2), ed. by Alka Pande

9. Hybrid Cultures by Garcia Canclini

10. Still Life: mirrors and windows by Mario Santanilla

11. Disrupted borders by Sunil Gupta

12. Visible Histories, Disappearing Women by Mahua Sarkar

13. Gandhi by Peter Ruhe

14. Silent Exodus by Zalmaï Ahad

15. The Shock of the New by Robert Hughes


"A novel that I grew up with, which led to my understanding of North India and its cultures is Shrilal Shukla’s Raag Darbari. My grandmother who was a Hindi teacher also taught this novel, and she was the person who introduced me to both Premchand and Shrilal Shukla. It is through this novel and through conversations with my nani around Hindi writing that I came to understand the cultural milieu of which I was part."

"The Last Generation by Nidhi Dugar Kundalia chronicles dying professions in India, and one chapter is dedicated to the keepers of family archives in Haridwar, a place that my family consults on a regular basis. This is part of a family tradition which involves a visit to Haridwar every few years to get the new members of the family added to those books, which are kept there."

"A primary reference text that was very helpful was ‘The Other Side of Silence’ by Urvashi Butalia which catalogues for the first time in independent India, testimonies, interviews and confessions of people who were engaged in partition violence, and who were also witness to these gruesome acts. Some of the testimonies here in her book are echoed in the interviews that I conducted with my family members."

“What does one do as an archivist? Does one counter-question and resist the material, or does one archive it? Many of the more disturbing retellings grapple with xenophobia and these have become part of the narratives within these glitched photographs where they create a geographical map of my family both pre- and post-partition. In some way, it is a reconciliation (for my family) with the past, with what they witnessed and with what they held as belief their entire lives. In some ways, it is a confession of things they have not shared even in the intimacies of their conjugal lives.

The contemporary idea of nationhood is so much more novel when compared to the ways in which my family defines bonding, affection and belonging. These continuities - of lives and difficult histories - help me think through modern questions of the national identity and the nation itself.”

"A good point for me to start looking at memory was the manner in which we recall. What are the objects that help us recollect? How do these find a place within the idea of the archive? The idea of the archive also houses the idea of technology; it is the medium within which memory gets captured. This became the first point of intervention, it’s where I wanted to begin thinking about the relationship between humans and technology."



"An understanding of technology is implicit within our understanding of what the idea of ‘human’ encompasses. Though we talk about them differently, what I hope to uncover through my work and this research is where this implicitness becomes indistinguishable. A sort of blending, merging of the human and technology. I don’t mean machines or moving parts but instead a more aspect-led understanding of how we perceive technologies without separating ourselves from them."



“...the photographs (of my family) have shown me how a family of migrants built their lives from scratch. None of these photographs visually carried these memories, so this act of inserting the memory as text into the ASCII code was a subversion of the logic of data. What became important were the glitches that were being introduced and the points at which they were being introduced. This further allowed me to identify those parts of the photographs that were sacrosanct and those that I wanted to break into fragments.”



"Three years ago, in response to the MASH FICA Award’s call for proposals in new media art practice, I proposed to explore the emerging area of the quantified self where I wanted to look at the conflict point between body as data and body as subject. What is interesting to me is to be able to question this conflict point and examine the ways in which personal and private experiences of the body translate into more impersonal and incomprehensible data. For me, this conflict point is perhaps the most important intersection of how we understand the body, and what the future of the body is going to be. I have been able to use the period of the grant to research and propose artistic interventions that might help us look at data and data logging in a different way as well as notions of memory, the archive and the bodies that we carry."



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Evolving a Reading Corner
The artist would like to thank:
Family Elders (O.P. Mehta, Santosh Mehta, Madan Mohan Lal, Sushma Hardevi, Ved Kishan, Usha Mehta), Keepers of the family archive (Anita Grover, Rajesh Grover, Sadhna Mehta, Raman Mehta, and other members of the extended family), Sarah Mariam, Digital Image Studios (Delhi), FICA team, Shalini Passi Art Foundation.

About the Artist: Amitesh Grover (b.1980) is an award-winning interdisciplinary artist. He moves beyond theatre into installation, digital and text-based art. His work delves into themes like the dyad of absence/presence, staging abandonment, the necessity of remembering, the performance of resistance to keep on living, and how to embody unsayable knowledge. He produces work in the form of open-ended actions, series, processes and projects. He is the recipient of several international grants and artist residencies, and his work is shown internationally in theatres, galleries, public spaces, and on the internet. He also teaches and curates for performance and is based in New Delhi, India.

About the Award: In 2018, the MASH FICA Award was given to support independent media artists with the creation of specific projects, engaging with a range of sources both within the arts and the wider field of information technologies, communications and entertainment. The award sought to promote a critical understanding of technology as process, beyond the industrial frameworks within which it gets deployed and encourage reflective, aesthetic and speculative projects that look at the intersections of art and technology.

This award was supported by the Shalini Passi Art Foundation.


A Walkthrough of WOUNDING (Episode #1) with Amitesh Grover | Project_Space @ the FICA Reading Room