A Story Of a Man Who Collected Over 12,000 Objects.

by Alexandra Mansilla

A Story Of a Man Who Collected Over 12,000 Objects. Told By Ohida Khandakar

16 Jan 2025

Khandakar Ohida at Jameel Prize Moving Images, V&A South Kensington, 2024. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Once upon a time, in the city of Kolkata, there lived a man named Khandakar Selim, who had a passion for collecting. Over 50 years, he gathered an astonishing variety of objects — more than 12,000 in total. His "addiction to collection" included items of all kinds: things discarded by others, broken objects, treasures from secondhand markets, and even inherited possessions.

But this was more than just a collection — it was a portrait, a reflection, and a legacy of the place he called home. It became a museum in its own right.

This extraordinary collection might have remained unknown to the world if not for Ohida Khandakar, Selim’s niece, who made a film, "Dream Your Museum", about him and his collection. The film, along with Selim’s incredible story, gained international recognition, and in November last year, the V&A and Art Jameel announced Ohida as the winner of the 7th edition of the Jameel Prize, a prestigious international award of £25,000 for contemporary art and design inspired by Islamic tradition.

Her work, along with Selim’s collection, will be showcased at the V&A South Kensington till March 16, 2025.

— Hello, Ohida! Congratulations on winning the Jameel Art Prize! Before we dive into discussing your work, I would really appreciate it if you could tell me more about yourself and your artistic journey.

— Hello! I am Ohida, born and brought up in the Hooghly district, about three hours from Kolkata. The exact place I am from is a countryside village called Kelepara, a really beautiful place with two rivers on either side and lots of greenery.

From the beginning, I loved creating art. I remember, as a child, always scribbling or drawing little designs. Even in school, while the teacher was explaining something, I would be doodling on paper. And I was obsessed with making something.

However, we didn’t have art as a subject in school since it was a government school. I always felt like something was missing because I had such a strong desire to create.

In my family, it wasn’t easy to express this desire either. I remember being 15 or 16 and wondering, “How can I tell my parents I want to pursue art?” Art wasn’t considered a viable option, especially if you were from a rural village. It was like, “If you’re a village kid, you can’t even think about becoming a painter.” The expectations were basic: finish your studies, then get married.

I was scared to bring it up with my parents, but I remember telling my grandfather about it. I asked him if he could give me some money to buy art supplies, and he did. That is when my journey started. After my 10th-grade board exams, I began taking small art classes and practising. At first, it was just about exploring — drawing sceneries, human figures, anything I could.

By the time I was in 12th grade, I realised I didn’t want to study anything else. I wanted to study art in college. My uncle, Khandakar Selim, who lived in Kolkata at the time, supported me by giving me art books and catalogues, which really inspired me. That is when I learned about contemporary art — it opened my eyes to what art could be.

I applied to the Government College of Art and Craft in Kolkata but didn’t get in the first time because I had no idea about human anatomy studies, which are essential for art school. There was no one in my family to pose for me, so I had to practice on my own. The next year, I worked hard, practised, and finally got into the Indian Painting department.

Once I got into art college, my world expanded. I met incredible people — teachers, mentors, and friends — who encouraged me. Even though my family didn’t support me much initially, these outside influences made all the difference.

Khandakar Ohida at Jameel Prize Moving Images, V&A South Kensington, 2024. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

After graduation, I decided to go to Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, for my master’s. It was a big struggle convincing my family to let me leave West Bengal, but I knew I had to go. Living in New Delhi offered me so many opportunities, and I wanted to learn as much as possible. Moving there wasn’t easy — I didn’t know Hindi well and was stepping out of my comfort zone — but I thought, “What’s the worst that can happen? If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back.”

I completed my master’s in 2018 and started working in 2019. Things were going well until COVID-19 hit in 2020. It was a tough time — financially and emotionally. Exhibitions were cancelled, schools were closed, and opportunities dried up. I returned to my village, where I began documenting my surroundings.

This led me to an unexpected project. My uncle had a collection of over 12,000 objects — everything from household items to unique artefacts. I became fascinated with it. I started documenting his collection, recording hours of footage, and learning about his motivations for preserving these objects.

From this, the idea of the Museum on the Moon was born. Initially, it was just about creating a small, cozy museum for the village, but it grew into something much bigger. When I was invited to the Berlin Biennale 2022, I decided to create a short film about it called Dream Your Museum. Six months later, the house where the collection was stored was demolished, which shifted the project’s direction. My uncle’s words — “I have a museum on the moon” — became the foundation for the larger film we are now working on.

Khandakar Ohida, Dream Your Museum, 2022, installation view, 12th Berlin Biennale, Akademie der Künste, Pariser Platz, 11.6.–18.9.2022

— And could you tell me more about your uncle? It is interesting to hear more about someone who loves collecting absolutely random things — even broken ones. What is he like, and what is his story?

— First, I would like to share a bit of our background. Our family is part of the Khandakar community. Historically, before the partition in 1947, India and Bangladesh were united as part of Bengal. The Khandakar community, as I have learned, were often teachers in Bengal. There are many Khandakars spread across Bangladesh and India today.

My family has always had a unique dynamic. We are a large joint family that lives together — my father, uncles, and their families. We share meals, the house, and everything else. Although one of my elder uncles, Khandakar Selim, recently moved into his own house with his son, he still plays a huge role in our family history.

So, this is the uncle to whom I have dedicated my work! He has been collecting objects since 1973. When I asked him why he started in 1973, he explained it was a significant year for him. Born in 1950, he was 23 at the time, the first person in our Khandakar family to graduate from college. However, coming from a rural village, it was hard to find a job. He eventually moved to Kolkata, staying with extended family.

At first, he worked as a doctor’s assistant and later found a job at a printing house. I asked him about his habit of collecting, and he said something that stuck with me: “I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke — my addiction is collecting.”

One day, while filming for a project, he showed me a small container filled with his own nails. It was strange, but he insisted, “Why not nails? They’re part of my museum, too.” He has this incredible connection to objects, even if they seem trivial.

For him, nothing is ever thrown away. Meanwhile, in my own experience as an artist, I have lost so much — my mother used to throw out my old sketches and papers to make space at home. But my uncle never let go of anything. His room is now so full of objects that there is barely any space for him to sleep. Everything is meticulously wrapped in plastic.

He is a genuine collector, and sometimes, I feel he is an artist in his own way. He doesn’t categorise or segregate objects — they are all equally important to him. However, his collection caused tension within the family. His son, for example, grew up traumatised by the cluttered house and refused to allow a single object into the new house he built. This created a conflict, but ultimately, my uncle kept his collection in his own room.

— How would you define the goal of your work? Beyond the artistic purpose, is there another reason for sharing your uncle’s collection with the world?

— When I started working with his collection, I realised the potential to create something meaningful — a community museum. In rural areas like ours, there is a lack of cultural discourse or spaces for artistic expression. Many talented individuals don’t get opportunities because there is no platform to showcase their work or connect with others.

Cities like Kolkata, Delhi, or Mumbai have plenty of galleries, events, and opportunities. But in the countryside, such spaces are rare. That is why we are now focusing on building a small community museum in the village. It is not just about preserving my uncle’s collection; it is about creating a space where future generations can engage in art and culture.

I feel a personal responsibility to give back to my community. I was lucky enough to attend art college and make a career out of it. But many kids in rural areas don’t get the same chance. So, the idea started with my uncle’s collection but has grown into something much bigger — a way to support the future generation of rural artists and creators.

Khandakar Ohida, ‘Dream Your Museum’ in ‘Jameel Prize: Moving Images’, V&A South Kensington, 2024. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

— By the way, where does your uncle find all these objects?

— I remember asking him the same question! Of course, some of the pieces in his collection come from within our family, but a large part of his collection comes from elsewhere.

Back in the day, when my uncle worked as a doctor’s assistant, he would visit many homes in Kolkata. Before the doctor arrived to see a patient, he would go ahead to check their blood pressure or take blood samples. Through this work, he built strong friendships with many families. Over time, he noticed that people often threw out things when they broke or became outdated, like plates, tools, or household items.

He told me he loves collecting these discarded objects because he feels he can give them a second life. I once asked him why he would collect things that people throw away. His response was unforgettable: “You’re an artist, and you’re calling this broken? As an artist, you should be able to find beauty and aesthetics in broken objects, too.” To him, even broken things hold aesthetic value.

My uncle also often goes to secondhand markets to buy old objects at low prices. He cleans them, carefully wraps them, and adds them to his collection. This process fascinates me because, in our daily lives, we produce so many objects — our world is flooded with things. Why not create small, localised museums to preserve these everyday items?

Or, for example, during Bakrid, he found a small perfume bottle my mother had thrown away. He was so excited about it and scolded me when I was filming him, saying, “Your mother threw this out, but I saved it!”

This habit of collecting has become such a big part of who he is, and I find it endlessly fascinating. It is inspired so many ideas for how we can use these objects to create something meaningful for future generations.

— So, with the film Dream Your Museum, you won the 7th edition of the Jameel Prize and the £25,000 prize, right? The question is obvious: what are you planning to do with it?

— That is a really good question! When I told my uncle about the film, he was so moved. We never expected this project to reach so many places. Initially, we just wanted to showcase the collection or create a museum-like experience for the villages. But over time, the scope widened. Both my uncle and I are thrilled because now we feel that while we might not change the entire world, we can make an impact on specific communities. Maybe, after seeing the film, some villagers will be inspired to start their own small community museums.

One of the biggest challenges we faced was storage. We didn’t have a proper space to keep or protect the objects. A lot of them were stored in my room — inside the bed, in boxes — or in my uncle’s room and on his rooftop. It was tough, especially because many objects started decaying due to rain and cyclones. In 2022, the house that had been home to many of these objects was demolished, making it even harder.

We also struggled to shoot the film because there was no dedicated space. Family members weren’t supportive either — at home, they would say, “Why are you shooting all this?” Even my uncle’s wife wasn’t happy about us filming in their house. They didn’t fully understand the cultural importance of preserving these items. As someone who went to art college, I understood the value of what we were doing, but it was still hard to convince others. My uncle, being a collector, understood completely, but we both faced resistance.

Right now, we are working on creating a small space on the rooftop of his house to store these objects safely. This will not only protect them but also make future film shoots easier. For my uncle, it will provide a dedicated space to keep his collection, as he has been struggling with space in his room.

When the house was demolished, I realised that the physical space of the “magic house museum” was gone. As an artist working with moving images, I thought, “Why not recreate it as a virtual reality museum?” This way, people can experience the magic house in a different way. Even if my uncle can’t physically touch the objects or walls of the old house, he’ll at least be able to see them in VR.

We are creating a small, interactive VR museum where people can explore the collection. For example, you’ll be able to use a controller to open a trunk, read a letter, or even smell perfume. We want to include elements of magical realism, like the uncle’s dreams. He often says he dreams about coins falling from the sky — it is funny, but it is also deeply symbolic of his obsession with collecting. I want to bring that visual element into the virtual museum, capturing the dreamlike quality of his connection to these objects.

Alongside the VR project, we are also working on a larger film called Museum on the Moon, a 90-minute feature documentary. This will dive deeper into the story and the collection. Of course, making a film of this scale requires more funding, but I am hopeful we’ll secure what we need to complete it.

So, right now, we are balancing these two projects: the VR museum, which is immersive and interactive, and the feature-length documentary, which will bring the story to a wider audience. These are the plans we are focused on at the moment.

— Great! I also have a couple of questions about your previous works. Could you tell me more about the series “Veil / Unveil”? What is it about?

— These are some of my older works, mostly from around 2017 and 2018. I was working with the idea of the veil in India. The veil is something deeply personal, something that belongs to a person — it is tied to their individual rights and choices.

On a personal level, I have often felt pressure from my family, with comments like, “Hey, you should cover your face.” But I always tell them, “If you want to do it, that’s your choice, but it’s my right to decide whether I will or won’t.”

On a broader scale, you see this issue reflected in societies around the world, where veiling is either prohibited or enforced. The discussion often centres on control — how women’s bodies are controlled by patriarchal norms rather than allowing women to decide for themselves.

There have been incidents where women who want to wear a hijab or veil are not allowed to do so, and vice versa. Women constantly live in fear of what society will dictate they should or shouldn’t wear. Whether they want to wear a hijab or not should be their personal choice — it is as simple as that.

"Veil / Unveil" by Ohida Khandakar

As an artist, I have always been struck by how patriarchal structures dictate these choices. Through my work, I have tried to explore how personal the veil truly is and how it reflects a woman’s journey, her identity, and her agency. The decision to wear or not wear a veil should belong to the woman herself, not to the society, culture, or family around her.

This led to a series of works I called Veil / Unveil. In this series, I delved into these questions of identity and choice, trying to understand the role of the veil in women’s lives — how much of it is personal and how much is imposed by others.

— Sorry for any inconvenience, but I wanted to ask about this photo — Periodic Affliction. What is the story behind it?

— This is actually my own body, my belly. In general, whenever I get my period, I experience severe pain, and it is often unbearable. I always have to use a hot water bag to manage it, and over time, the bag creates a textured mark on my skin. This happens every month, and I started documenting it.

I think I documented it two or three times, intending to create a photo series to explore the concept of the female body and its resilience. I wanted to reflect on how a woman’s body endures daily challenges — not just societal pressures but also physical struggles. This photo series was an attempt to start that conversation, but I couldn’t finish it.

There is also a bigger issue here. In Indian villages, for example, when women complain about pain during their periods, they are often dismissed. If they seek medical help, it is seen as unnecessary — period pain is treated as something they just have to endure. I remember one friend’s sister who was suffering from constant pain. It turned out she had ovarian cancer, but for the longest time, no one took her seriously. They simply told her, “You’re a woman, and pain during your period is normal. Just bear it.”

This angered me because I know I am not alone — there are countless women who go through this kind of neglect and dismissal every day. Society normalises period pain to such an extent that women are expected to suffer in silence.

Even within my own family, when I expressed my pain, I was often silenced. I remember my mom saying, “Why are you shouting? No one should know you’re on your period.” That attitude made me so angry, and it is one of the reasons I started this project. It was a way to process my frustration and bring attention to this issue.

by Alexandra Mansilla