The collective spectacle

How does one remember an event, particularly one of the magnitude of the November 2008 Bombay attacks, which, transcending the personal became the collective tragedy of an entire country? Long after the media frenzy subsides, as the government returns to its mundane functioning and the people's rage exhausts itself into a faint memory, how will we bring to mind the horror and grief of this calamitous incident?

The marathon television coverage of the invasion of Bombay left viewers exasperated, annoyed and numb. In particular, the Taj Hotel-centric coverage thrived on sensationalism, exploitative and gratuitous commentary, and ceaseless repetition of images. In competitive zeal, the electronic media seemed intent on overkill, pandering to the crass consumption of horror and, simultaneously, at times absurdly propagating the brutal charm of 'terrorism.' As it flashed the first images of the Taj as dense smoke billowed out of its magnificent dome, the pictures sent shockwaves across the country and region alike, moving people beyond belief. Yet, the footage then went on to colonise Southasian screens for the next 60 hours, and their relentless and indiscriminate repetition undermined the monumental gravity of the evolving event.

In the modern world, the immediate, all-pervading media has unfailingly proffered up images that have come to be identified universally with specific events. The remembrance and familiarity that these images evoke are of a collective spectacle. The attack on the World Trade Center in New York in September 2001 has been indelibly imprinted on our minds as the pall of dust and smoke burst out of the two towers moments before they collapsed. The Kargil War is instantly recalled with an image of victorious Indian jawans unfurling the tricolour on Tiger Hill. Another epoch-defining event, the demolition of the Babri Masjid, is committed in the popular consciousness by pictures of saffron vandals atop the magnificent dome minutes before they knocked it down.

Notably, all of these events and many more across the globe have come to be identified by a still image, a photograph. Such a stand-alone photo successfully encapsulates the angst, insanity, shock, horror, fear, terror, hysteria and imminent hope of the time in which it was taken. In stark contrast with the moving image of television, which is intrinsically transient, photographs become sincere records of history, with fixed temporal and spatial coordinates – thus essentially reproducing ad infinitum an event that actually occurred only once. On television, in contrast, one can quickly spot an attempt to stretch the longevity of particular images, as was excruciatingly evident in the recent coverage of Bombay.

On the other hand, congealed in time, iconic photographs become symbols, denoting much more than they are able to physically capture in the frame; they come to seize the collective consciousness such that they become recognised as the face of a particular event. The iconic image from the attacks of 11 September 2001, of course, is of the 'victims' – the twin towers, a shorthand trope now used to refer to all that America has endured as a nation. Such photographs are etched in the popular consciousness, inspiring a certain identification and, consequently, public empathy. Likewise, think of the famous photograph of the man with folded hands, pleading for his life during the Godhra pogrom. From the Babri Masjid incident, the indelible image would be that of the victim dome, as its perpetrators appear like insects swarming it.

The appearance of distance
With such well-recognised precedents, it is unusual for an event of the proportion of the Bombay attack to be identified with a menacing image of one of the perpetrators, caught in the chilling act of spreading terror. A backpack carrying, gun-toting Ajmal Amir Kasab has become the face of the invasion of Bombay. This shift of focus from the victims to the perpetrator in the iconic imagery owes its explanation to many factors, among them the unprecedented act of the attackers acquiring a human face, instead of a mere faceless, fanatic force. In this case, the image of Kasab was exclusively shot by one daring photographer from a railway carriage, and it was only coincidental that Kasab was subsequently the only one of the attackers to be captured alive. Given the relative banality of the image of the billowing Taj, after it stood backdrop for minute-by-minute coverage, the images of Kasab stripped the majestic hotel of what could have been the defining image of the attacks, representing and encompassing the brutal event.

The incessant beaming of images of the Taj into millions of living rooms has also altered its perception in the popular consciousness. Minutes after the hotel was reclaimed from the attackers, people began to arrive at the site. Now, people from across the country have arrived to see what they had witnessed through images. For those looking at the building, the Taj is now inevitably wrapped in an image-induced aura that the German cultural critic Walter Benjamin once described as the "unique appearance of a distance as close it may be." Today, the building of the hotel is perceived as unique because millions of people have gazed at it simultaneously, and they now are able to partake in a forceful collective experience. Looking at the building since the attacks, observers have often begun to cry, engaged in impromptu vigils and posed for photographs with the building as the backdrop.

Being at the Taj Hotel has become a profoundly spiritual experience, bringing to mind a line from Don DeLillo's 1985 novel White Noise. "Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender," DeLillo wrote about the (nonfictional) Most Photographed Barn in America. "We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception … A religious experience in a way, like all tourism." Owing to its newfound media-induced aura, the Taj of Bombay has indeed become the Most Photographed Terrorist Site in India. And, possibly, this is how the electronic media can exonerate itself for having angered us through the excess of a spectacle.

~ Amit Madheshiya is a documentary filmmaker and photographer in Bombay.