He claimed he was an American Indian. I thought he was a Marooned Sindbad

Brick lane poverty contrasted by post-modern architecture of East London. The evening sun contrasting the dark Che Guevara beard of a young man. The group of wooden carts with metal bars resembled the destroyed ships of the Trafalgar naval battle. I was deeply moved by the sudden discovery of this space-age young man lost in his drug-dream dilemmas. He did not want to be photographed, but my cameras click-clacked. Needles here and there, cellophane everywhere. Water bottles with aluminium foils seemed more powerful than naval canons. The young man kept on talking his molten dreams while the city- noise boasted of the glories of modernisation. My comrade Shafi and the Nasaf drug-educationist pointed out the glistening pee and the dried human shit all around.

The young man was being motivated.

Back in Brick lane, caressed by a Sony Alfa digital, the meandering streams of pee suddenly made me remember Bangla monsoon rivers. The fumbling words of this drug Sindbad seemed to meander into distant Bhatiali thunders. In this backyard of Brick lane, he could be a probasee Bangladeshi. Like me.

Anwar Hossain / Photographer/ April, 2007

(Above: thoughts on a devastating encounter with a drug addict in the east end of London. )