Real People | Real Stories

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I met Iroj when Amy and I visited Shanta. Recall that the place where Shanta lives is a tiny room, crowded with just one occupant, and that with any number of filmmakers in it it becomes exponentially more so.

So I was milling around in the hallway in my socks, when Iroj came to greet me from the flat upstairs. “What are you doing?” He asked. 

“Just hanging around. My wife is inside, visiting your neighbors, Shanta and Kumar.” I answered. 

“Come on into my place,” Iroj said. “They’ll call if they need you.”

And I’m like, “well, there’s only so many pictures I can take of this bicycle anyhow…”

Iroj tells me he’s an artist, shows me some of his work. Stylized Hindu god, in pencil on newsprint. “I’m a tattoo maker.” And on a bottom shelf, I can see a little cigar box, with some grubby wires sticking out of it. 

“Do you do the tattooing, or do you only make the art?”

“I do the tattoos. And I make the machine to do it.” Iroj says, and goes to get the box from the shelf.

“Its twelve volt?” I ask. Indeed. It’s a 12v DC electric motor, bolted to the modified body of a mechanical pencil. A wire shaft is fashioned to link to the wheel, which provides the oscillation of the needle–

–which in turn is a fine sewing needle, which is lashed to the shaft with cotton thread.

Iroj said he only has black ink, but the red tip on the needle and the cannibalized red pen in the cigar box seemed to give lie to this claim. 

I hung out with Iroj a bit more, and had another adventure, but that’s for another time. No tattoos though.

 

Next night, just nosing around a little market, this fellow asked me if I wouldn’t shoot a picture of his tattoo, and email it to him. He’s never been able to get a good view of it, it seems. 

I love my job.