Urban Legends

The Old Lady of the City

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 11:45:00 +0000

Apologies dear readers! I know I have been tardy in posting and responding to your comments and emails this month. The only excuse I have to offer is that my offline life has demanded a bit more of my attention lately - all for good stuff - and that kept me away, albeit unwillingly. This has been my longest absence from this blog since I started it 11 months back and believe me I have missed it and you all like nothing else!

But I didn't stop 'flaneur-ing', clicking and writing in all this time (I rarely ever do). I assure you that my tardiness has only been limited to sharing it all with you, and here I am, setting that right!

So what have I been up to? For starters, soaking in as much of the Christmas lights as possible - you didn't think I was kidding when I was worshipping light in the last post, did you? I cannot help but gravitate towards light in this cold dreary London winter.

Welcome to the old world charm of Leadenhall Market in the City of London.

Leadenhall Market is probably one of the oldest in the UK. Its origins (by virtue of its location, not the present physical form) can be traced back to - hold your breath - AD40! The market itself dates back to the 14th Century. Over the ages, it has taken several avatars under several rulers and periods and several reconstructions. It has gone from being a leather market to a cutlery market to the present day chic-apparel-cum-pub/cafe-hotspot. It was severely damaged in the Great fire of 1666 and rebuilt in the 1880s by Sir Horace Jones (prolific builder of markets around London at the time). The present building was last renovated completely in 1991 when the market was reopened for the general public in its modern avatar. But most of the old architectural detail has been conserved and enhanced further by the City of London council's sensitive urban design interventions.

I think it's a beautiful structure, made prettier by this year's Christmas lights.

I cannot help but think of the analogy of tasteful jewellery on a wrinkled but beautiful old lady who stands in stark contrast to the young 'uns around her, but outshines them with her old-worldly grace.

Coming up: A new series about a certain part of London that the urban designer/planner and history lover in me is completely in love with. Also, with this blog's first birthday coming up in January, there is a lot that is about to happen on this blog! :)

Switching on Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 11:49:00 +0000

I love light. As a child, I was known to switch on all the lights in the house because I loved it so (and then get a lecture from one of my parents about electricity costs and wastage). I have an associated fascination for lamps and string lights and streamers and candles and tea lights and lanterns..even bright resplendent full moons. I can almost imagine The Significant Other nodding his head vigorously at this admission as he recalls all the times we've been out and I've been busy admiring the lamps and light fixtures in the place while he tries to talk to me.

And that is the reason why winter in London is a miserable time for me. The mere six hours of dull grey light in a day are just not enough for my soul and now that I am a grown-up, I also realise the significance of electricity costs and the ramifications of wastage and have to unhappily adhere to grown-up norms of prudent living. Pah.

And so, when they put up Christmas lights in London - although a bit too early - I'm certainly not one of those complaining. Last night they switched on the lights at Regent Street and Oxford Street and I was there in a flash, soaking it all in.

I wasn't the only one, though. The moon seemed to be taking it in too (much to my delight).

I certainly needed the cheer.

(Another version of this was published on Metrotwin Mumbai and one of these photographs appeared on Londonist this morning).

The other Mumbai wakes up

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 16:58:00 +0000

Early on a Sunday morning, the Fort area of south Bombay ought to be deserted. No throngs of suits and ties, no briefcases and cellphones, no long and short cars, and traffic jams and honking and cursing, and sweating policemen just barely managing to keep a semblance of sanity in the chaos. None of it.

The suits are in pajamas at home sleeping off the week and the traffic policemen are yet to arrive on duty. I expect to find a deserted Fort. It is strikingly different, but as I look around I realise I have unwittingly wandered into the morning rituals of the other Mumbai - those who have no weekends.

For, work must still be done for that wage that will buy today's dinner for the family. That walk to work must still be done. That bus caught. That cycle trip made. Sunday is not a weekend. There are no weekends.

Teeth must be brushed before those gas cylinders are delivered.
Hair must be brushed before the day's business starts.
Last night's laundry must be picked up from the park fence before a bird ruins it. Rubbish must be cleared.

I'm clearly the outsider: Who is this woman toting a camera? She isn't supposed to be here so early on a Sunday.

Pictures must be posed for.

"Didi, humaari bhi photo le lo"
(Big Sister, please click a picture of us too)
Lots of posing and giggling ensues.

"Maddum, hum bhi khinchwale?" she asked shyly.
(Madam, Can I also have one?)
I loved her smile.

"Arre Maddum, lage haath meri bhi le lo!"
(Oh Madam, while you're at it, please take one of me too!)
Strikes a pose, pretends to talk on the phone. Never mind the trash in the foreground.

It's always like this on Indian streets. It's more endearing than annoying. I click, while an amused old taxi driver watches. I train my camera on him, but he doesn't flinch.

Back to morning business - tobacco and choona (lime) must be shared, over routine morning greetings.

"Arre Maddumji, ye kaunse aqhbaar mein chhapegi?!"
(Hey, Madam! In what newspaper will this picture get published?)

I smile and shake my head to indicate a no and walk on. Perhaps I should have explained what a blog is. But the sun was getting higher in the sky and sweat was streaming down my back. It would have taken too long - too long for my comfort.

Meanwhile, the old taxi driver is still watching. He's smiling now. One more picture to let him know that I know he's watching. He could have been a statue.

Up on the road, business has already begun. The first customer of the day, the first few rupees. That heavy delivery of potatoes that will take hours on a cycle. The posh shop front must be prepared for its posh customers. The underwear drying on the plants must be removed.

Someone else cycles past me and waves me a loud hello. He's faster than my camera. My car's waiting, the driver slouching in air conditioned comfort, probably wondering what the hell I'm up to, but too polite to ask. I want to stay and watch some more, but I'm drenched in sweat now. I'm not used to this. The rest of Mumbai is still asleep.

I glance back before I sit in the car. The taxi driver is still watching me, his smile wider - the kind of indulgent smile that the elderly reserve for what they consider the foolish young. I laugh and take one last picture.

Mumbai Disturbia

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 08:37:00 +0000

There's a Sanskrit word with its roots in Indian Hindu philosophy and mythology called "Maya" - meaning illusion, something that embodies duality - that, which changes face and confuses our perception of reality in daily life.

Mumbai, the city, epitomises Maya.

That, which glitters with hope for millions in small town and rural India; that, which carries the honourable plaque of the financial hub of the country, that utopian dream that can make millionaires out of rag-pickers - that temptress, which attracts so many to it only to send most of them plunging into its dystopian reality, a world, ironically, full of disillusion.

Few of us are alien to Mumbai's dark underbelly - glorified as it is by the Slumdogs and Salaam Bombays. But walk right into its scenes when you least expect to, when you haven’t been in the city long enough at a stretch to be sufficiently inured to it, and it can disturb deeply.

On my last leg of my India trip last month, I spent two days in Bombay (as I still like to call it). Rose early on a Sunday morning to get a few shots of my favourite part of the city and to get a few shots for Metrotwin Mumbai. Shots of NGMA done, pleased with myself , pleased with the shots I had managed to take, I started walking towards my waiting car, the city only just stirring into action around me. This is when I spotted this little girl, sweeping a small patch of the street, all alone.

Why did I stop and notice her? It was the way she was dressed, the look on her face – she was an anomaly to the hordes of street children one comes across on Bombay’s streets. She wasn’t in tatters; she wore a clean frock and her hair in two neat pigtails. She couldn’t have been over 5. She was so vulnerable. I moved towards her, hoping to speak to her – suddenly she looked up and ran away. I followed, hoping to find her around the corner but instead, I found this.

I don’t know if this woman was her mother. I don’t know why she was sleeping (lying?) on the doormat of that building. Like the child, she was dressed neatly; she didn’t belong here, on the street. There were a few men around by this point. No one else seemed to notice her. A couple of men glanced at me, probably surprised that I was paying her any attention at all. At one point I thought I saw her open her eyes slightly and look at me. I couldn’t be sure. I was afraid to go up to her and talk to her. I don’t know why. I stood there for a long time wondering if I should. The little girl was nowhere to be seen.

In the end I walked away, just like the men. But these images didn’t leave me.

Exciting Times

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 06:55:00 +0000

These are exciting times. As I type this, I'm sitting on a couch amidst half-filled suitcases and Fedex boxes. Yes, the India stint is nearly over and I'll be back in London very soon. I'm saying goodbyes, getting just a touch emotional, and also slowly but steadily getting better. Thank you, for all your good wishes in the comments and through email! I was really touched.

As you can imagine, amidst all this happening, posting here will be a bit slow (but only for a week or so more, I promise you!). But then here comes some good news to counter that:

You can now also follow my work on an all-new blog called Metrotwin Mumbai on which I was invited to be a Contributing Editor. It's no secret that I'm in love with London, but Mumbai too, is one of the cities that holds a special place in my heart (although I still like to call it by its old colonial name 'Bombay'). And that is why I jumped at this. Launched by British Airways just last week, it is based on the innovative concept of "twinning" London and Mumbai - two of the most vibrant and exciting cities on the planet, and which, despite being a world apart, have a lot in common! What's that, you ask? Go read the blog and find out for yourself. You can read all my posts there on one page by clicking on this link.

Don't go away just yet! Urban Legends is going to be back with lots of untold stories from India and with the regular programming from London, in a week's time. Meanwhile, I'll leave you with some pictures from these last three months in India that never made it to this blog (and probably won't make an appearance in the stories yet to be told) but I like them anyway and I hope you will, too.

I know these pictures are all very disconnected - they don't weave a web like those spiders up there. But I like the pictures and they all have little anecdotes if not full stories linked to them. Would love to tell you those sometime... do tell me if you'd like to know.

A brief pause (to recuperate)

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 07:21:00 +0000

It had to happen. All that traveling has finally taken its toll on me. I've been ill for a week now and as soon as I thought I was done with it, I was diagnosed with some more stuff that will take its time to go away, it seems.

I'll spare you the gory details - just leaving you with a few images from an evening at the Namdroling Monastery in Kushalnagar (south west Karnataka). For now, just soak in the peace that these images evoke (they do that to me), while I recuperate enough to come back with the stories - of course, the stories - I'm never without a few of those! I just need to catch my breath (literally) before I can tell them.

I'll be back before you know it!

The India Chronicles | Highway Eating - 1

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 06:28:00 +0000

"How much longer?", I ask the driver.
"Just 15 more minutes, Maddum...few kilometres only", he says to my reflection in the rear view mirror.

We are cruising down State Highway 17, south-west of Bangalore towards Mysore and onwards to our lovely weekend holiday. An early morning start with no breakfast and a bumpy stop-and-go ride within city limits has introduced me to a new malaise, one that I've so far been unacquainted with - motion-induced nausea. And it's not nice. All I want to do is stop, and eat. The driver has lifted my spirits by telling me we'll soon be stopping at a "famous idlee place" - "Very nice idlees, Saar", he tells my better half. The thought is comforting and I cannot wait.

Almost every Indian highway between two cities has a "famous eatery" on it. The cuisine , ambience and service will depend on the region or state you're in, but if there's an excellent , sure-shot way to sample some of the best local cuisine in India, this is it. The towns and cities that these highways connect will of course have their own "famous eateries", but if you're on the road and on the move, this is your choice.

So on every road trip in the last few weeks and despite the return of the motion sickness on each of these trips, I urged the driver to bypass the famous coffee-shop chain outlets enroute and head to the "famous idli places" - after all, machine-made coffee and bland sandwiches have nothing on authentic south Indian filter coffee and idlis. And each time I was rewarded for my additional effort to keep the bile in (sorry for that imagery). It wasn't just the excellent food and coffee...

... it was also the bustling busy men and women who served us, sometimes wearing uniforms that were an interesting mixture of the new and practical and the old and traditional.

... and the ambience, made special by its local flavour and quirkiness...

But then no India food guide could possibly miss the ubiquitous street vendor, and these highways are no exception.

Each stop a delight for the foodie, for the flâneur, for the photographer. I've been a flâneuse and photographer for years - and although I'm not a foodie, I think I could totally become one if I spent the rest of my life cruising down India's highways. I do not know about the rest of my life but I'm certainly hoping to make a few more road trips and a few more highway food stops here before I return to London. Motion sickness be damned.

The India Chronicles | The Hues of Dastkar

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 04:50:00 +0000

It is no secret that India is a treasure trove of indigenous art and craft. Every state, region, sometimes even every second town or village has its own form of language, art, craft and resulting influences on design and living. Some of these art forms and practices date back decades, even centuries. One would assume that such a precious heritage would be fiercely protected in a country as huge as India. However, the sad fact is that until a few years back, most of these crafts and the artisans who make them were languishing in obscurity and resulting poverty. Lack of awareness of these crafts in urban areas meant a lack of market - the artists had no means of promoting or marketing their talents and younger generations subsequently moved away to more lucrative forms of livelihood. As a result, several of these craft-forms either perished or have been on the brink of being lost forever, sustained only by a small minority of passionate but perishing artists.

The Dastkar movement changed this to a large extent. "Dastkar"is a Hindi word, literally meaning "crafterperson" and true to its name, it is a society of and for craftspersons. Founded in 1981, the organisation has slowly managed to put these crafts back into not just the living rooms of Indians but onto a global map. The society aims to make these craftspersons self-reliant, accountable for their own production, accounting and marketing, and in doing so, eliminates the 'middle-man' between the artist and the consumer, ensuring that all profits go directly to the artisan. One of the ways in which Dastkar promotes these arts is by organising Dastkar Melas or fairs in cities across India. I've been a regular visitor to the one in Delhi over the years, but a couple of weekends back I accidentally walked into the Dastkar Fair in Bangalore, much to my delight.

Could the Flaneuse waste this opportunity? No chance! I present to you some of the hues of Dastkar.

I urge you to discover the rest for yourself the next time Dastkar is in your city. These artists deserve it.

The India Chronicles | The Drum Sellers of MG Road

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 04:36:00 +0000

There is quite a difference in how a photographer is perceived and received on the streets in London and in India. In London, there is a simultaneous sense of respect and distrust - people move out of your frame, wait to pass until you've finished clicking, turn their faces, some surreptitiously try to find out what you're clicking and why. Rarely will a Londoner come up to you and ask, and even more rarely will a stranger in London pose for you. If you're around a policeman, you're likely to be questioned, or worse, under the new strange laws against street photography that are aimed at preventing terrorism, but promote suspicion instead.

In India, however, the story turns on its head. If you carry a camera in public, you yourself become the object of curiosity. You click on the street and a crowd will gather behind your back. If people think your viewfinder is trained at them, a few will move out of the frame and a majority will start hamming it up - putting on a happy display for your benefit. Most people in India love getting their pictures taken, even if they personally won't ever have a chance of having those pictures! I personally suspect the degree of curiosity and hamming goes up if the photographer is female. Of course, not everyone will do this - but this is largely what I've experienced while clicking here.

And so it was on a Sunday afternoon at MG Road. Exhausted by shopping, I was sipping at a disgusting concoction disguised as cold coffee at the Cafe Coffee Day on MG Road, watching life on the busy street whizz past, when I noticed these drum sellers. These young men move around in groups on MG Road trying to sell crudely made drums of all sizes to people. They were evidently not having too much luck this afternoon.

Since I was safely hidden under a large garden umbrella and some plants, I took several shots of these guys knowing that they are unaware of my presence and my viewfinder. Or so I thought. One of them noticed me, much to his apparent glee, and this is what ensued.

Ham it up, Mister

The one on the right knows his picture is being taken. This is an attempt to look 'cool'.

I spent the rest of the evening fending off these two guys as they tried to sell me a drum. Every time I stepped out of a store, they would be there:

"Maddum, lowest price for you... you clicked my photo, Maddum"
"Only 250 Rupees for you, Maddum, special price"
"We entertained you Maddum, please buy" (I'd laughed out loud when these guys struck that pose for me).
And even:
"What Maddum, I make so much effort, you still don't buy"
!!

I have to admit I was tickled, even if a bit annoyed by their unceasing sales pitch. Although, I suspect that I provided them with more entertainment in their boring afternoon than the other way round. I did not buy a drum, although I wanted to. I just don't have space in my luggage for one!

The India Chronicles | Another Life - 3

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 07:36:00 +0000

We had to return to the lodge due to the heat, albeit on a high from our encounter with the girls. But we promised ourselves we'd stop by at the village again.

The next day, our our way back, I made the driver stop in the village so that I could click this beautiful path winding down the valley that I'd noticed the previous day while driving in. It took the eye almost as far as the horizon - it was truly stunning and this picture does not do any justice to it. Wander-bug that I am I would have set off down it, if I didn't have the better-half to restrain me and a deadline to get back to the city.

I took several shots, and so engrossed was I that I didn't realise that there was a steadily growing audience behind my back. I turned around to find this.

The children of Karapura, again. Curious, shy and bold all at the same time.

And this group had a leader - an older boy called Shyam. Shyam spoke a few words in English.
"Tourist?" "Bangalore?" "Photo!"
He even told the group something to the effect of "stand straight and smile/pose"(in Kannada) when I pointed my camera at them.

Good fun. And true to Karapura style, these kids gave us a very enthusiastic send-off ... running alongside the car, waving, laughing and yelling "bye bye" until we drove out of their sight.

The India Chronicles | Another Life - 2

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 04:39:00 +0000

Continued from here.

It were the children in Karapura who grabbed our attention. As we drove into the village on a Saturday, and waved back at the excited children trying to keep pace with our lurching SUV, we couldn't help but notice that all of them were in school uniform. Every single child we saw. Given this is an Indian village, that was more a happy anomaly than the norm and I have to admit it filled me with joy. It was past noon and these children were walking home from school - which, on second thoughts, must have been adding fuel to their glee.

So I decided to go back to the village and try and catch up with these children. By the time we settled into the lodge and walked back into the village, the excited chatter and screaming of children had given way to a mid-afternoon lull. The afternoon heat had risen and presumably, the children were all safely ensconced in their modest but cool homes.

But we soon came across these two little girls. We tried to say hello to them but realised they only spoke Kannada - a language we don't know a word of. But they seemed to be saying something to us.

"Payn? Payn?!", they said to us, excitedly.

We were a bit puzzled at first, but soon realised what they wanted. The older girl made a scribbling gesture in the air.

"Pen?" she said again.

For these children, a pen was the most exciting thing on earth. They probably realised how privileged they are to be able to go to school in rural India, and they seemed to know that it' is that privilege that is going to give them a better life one day. School was exciting, a pen was fun! And these strange tourists carried pens! Of course, I only assumed all this for we couldn't talk to them given the language barrier; I only fervently hoped that this is the way they saw it. As for us, were just overjoyed that they were asking us for a pen - that all they wanted from us was a pen, if we had one on us. They were not interested in my camera, or in the other contents of my large bag...they probably didn't bother to take in the way we were dressed, or our shoes, or my sunglasses. All they wanted was a pen!

We wondered what to do. I didn't have a pen on me just then. We wondered if we could buy some from a village shop and give it to them but there wasn't a shop in sight. And as we wondered, the girls slipped away quietly, possibly disappointed. Then my better half rummaged through his hip bag and fished out two pens - one, a simple Biro and another, a pen branded with his company's name. We excitedly walked back, found the girls again. Their smiles turned to whoops of joy as we handed them a pen each! They went running inside their homes to show off the pens to their parents. The older one squealed with happiness when she saw hers was a branded pen. Such unbridled joy! In their hearts and ours. All I wanted in return were pictures. They posed, shy at first, happy giggles bursting out from time to time.

We never found out the names of these girls. But they sure made our day.

The India Chronicles | Another Life - 1

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 13:33:00 +0000

Karapura is a tiny village in the heart of southern Karnataka, set in the idyllic lap of nature - the Nilgiris to one side, the river Kabini on another and lush green tropical forest all around. Its location is its lucky charm, its passage out of the obscurity that marks thousands of remote villages around India - for it marks the gateway to the Nagarhole National Park.

But it seems there is nothing else to distinguish this village from the hundreds of others we passed on our way: swaying fields of paddy, broken by small carpets of orange marigold in full bloom or the odd coconut grove; specks of hard-at-work bent heads and hunched backs contrasting against the fields; ramshackle huts and handmade barns dotting the vast undulating expanse of green; children running alongside the dirt tracks that is the only motorable access to the village, waving and yelling gleefully at the odd four-wheeler that passes by...and as you laugh and wave back, you cannot but notice that although only a hundred miles from the city, you're in another world.

The people of Karapura live in another reality - a reality where four-wheeled vehicles are a rarity to be waved at; the occupants of these vehicles - those slick city dwellers with their big cameras and their absurd ways - a curiosity; where life begins and ends with the paddy fields, the village church and temple, the tiny village school, the herds of cattle, sheep and fowl and the simple aspiration to keep one's head out of poverty; where nothing breaks the peace except the odd SUV that roars into one of the tourist lodges that sit on the banks of the Kabini - those lodges that sit behind those enormous forbidding gates beyond which life and the way it is lived has nothing in common with the villagers' life.

This is the Indian village - this is another life.

to be continued...

The India Chronicles | Of Random Nostalgic Connects

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 06:14:00 +0000

When people in London ask me how diverse India really is, I tell them it is like Europe condensed into one country. The cultures and sub-cultures, the languages, the dialects, the people, the physical and metaphysical variegation... physically, India is only about a third of the landmass of Europe, but in almost every other way it is a far more complex system of people, cultures and ways of life.

I grew up and lived in New Delhi for a major part of my life - London has been the only other place I have ever called home. Although work and my inherent itch to wander has taken me all over the country, this is only my first visit to South India. If you ask the average South Indian, you'll be told with a certain vehemence of how it's different from the North - and vice versa. And so I find myself quite the outsider, quite the tourist in Bangalore.

Yet, not quite a stranger.

I find myself looking at Bangalore with the wonder of that much hated tourist of Jarvis Cocker's imagination, yet I find it easy to peel off the surface layer and look underneath - because of that connect that an urbanist can inherently make with a place. As novel and different as I sometimes find South India, I only have to lightly scratch the surface to find that connecting thread - the connect to familiarity and nostalgia.

The nostalgic connect, for instance, that I unwittingly stumbled upon at Higginbothams on MG Road.

As I walked in, I felt a strange familiarity overpower me - strange, because I've never been to Higginbothams before. It is one of the oldest surviving bookshops in the country, indeed; but it only has branches in Chennai and Bangalore - cities I've never been to before this. As I lingered through the rows of books though, the nostalgic connect slowly unfolded.

It reminded me of my school libraries - stark, monochrome, no-frills - rows of books crowded on paper-lined shelves.

It reminded me of the days when a mobile library used to visit the Delhi locality I used to live in as a child - and how we would greedily search through the loosely categorised dusty piles of books ready to devour until the next visit.

It reminded me of the small, dingy but packed bookstores in Delhi where I bought my annual stash of academic references from. And how I did not wait to get home to start reading the English literature books and would have read them back to back even before school term started.

It reminded me of the India I grew up in - an urban India very different from the urban India of now.

And perhaps that is why Higginbothams stood out for me amongst the hip new book stores that dot Indian cities now. It's old world charm, a bittersweet sense of being stuck in time sucked me in and wrapped me in its familiarity - a familiarity to connect with which, I do not need to be an urbanist. Just that Indian child again.

The India Chronicles | Bangalore - a quirky slice of home

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 04:14:00 +0000

When an American, a Canadian and a South African unanimously recommend Sethji's for a good home-cooked North Indian meal in Bangalore - a city you are more of a newcomer to, than them - you listen. And then you try to locate the very popular place (the recommendation is backed up by your brother in law and a few friends) - but ideally not when there's a power cut in the area and it's 8PM and dark. Because if you do, you will go around in a few circles in Indira Nagar before you're pointed towards it by a shopkeeper with an air of incredulity that you walked down that street twice and did not see Sethji's. Everyone knows Sethji's!

Then you finally notice it - the faint flickering neon sign on what looks like someone's house, opposite a temple, that announces this modest but famous mecca for home-cooked food and ...er...what's that - art gallery?!

It's your turn to be incredulous now, especially because this is the first view of the er - gallery ...and restaurant that greets you.

But you have no idea, do you? The place looks like a house from the outside, because it is a house. The living room and courtyards double up as the restaurant - a modest affair with plastic tables and chairs and plastic water jugs and a stack of steel tumblers. And the owner of Sethji's clearly has things beyond food on his mind - the walls of the courtyard are the owner's personal 'gallery' - I suspect the 'art work' is done by someone in the family (or the owner himself) but I couldn't find out on this trip.

The moment you sit down on one of the tables outside, a waiter appears with a laminated piece of paper - the menu. You ask for a bottle of mineral water and he almost laughs and then shakes his head - no mineral water here, please help yourself to the filtered water in the plastic jug. The menu is simple - a choice of several stuffed paranthas (Indian pancake-style bread) with a modest choice of accompaniments. If you have a larger appetite, you could order a full thali (platter). You recall that the salted lassi (buttermilk) was a big part of the recommendations but your tummy is yet to settle down to Bangalore, so you desist. You order a couple of paranthas and wait.

You look around a bit more and notice the psychedelic ceiling. You're beginning to get used to this.

Or so you think. Because then you notice the shai'ri (urdu poetry) in English script on the walls, making your amazement peak!

The cursive inscription on the left reads:

"Mein beqraar dil ka fasaana likhun to kya
Dil ka naheen hai koye thikaana likhun to kya"

loosely transliterated:

How do I write the story of my restless heart/
This heart is a wanderer with no destination, what do I write of it?

Ahem.. Profound. Clearly the owner is an indulgent soul - there is also a corner of the courtyard dedicated to 'mehfils' (gatherings around music or poetry performances).

Before it can all sink in, your food arrives - an affair as simple as it gets. An unassuming parantha in a steel plate with an accompaniment of curd in a small steel bowl. You dig in - the parantha is not the best you've had but it satiates your craving for that homemade taste - something you'd be hard-pressed to find in most eateries in India. There are no napkins or paper towels to wipe your slightly greasy fingers on - and after the mineral water, you're hesitant to ask. You look around and figure out why.

When there's a psychedelic blue washbasin right next to the 'mehfil' area, why would you need a napkin? Really, now.

As we polish off our simple yet delicious meal, we realise just how popular this quirky little place is - customers stream in - young couples, lone guys clearly arriving straight from work, foreign expats, even families. And as randomly thown together as this place seems at first glance, it seems to grow on you - all strange art, mushy poetry, plastic furniture, psychedelic ceiling and washbasin of it. The meal barely makes a scratch on your pocket, and very strangely, you find yourself wanting to come back even before you've left.

Somehow it is only in India that you'll find such an incredibly quirky place that is so popular yet so bordering on the bizarre. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why we call it Incredible India. Ah, India. It's good to be back.

The India Chronicles: A Mumbai Monsoon Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 04:09:00 +0000

A Mumbai Monsoon Part 1

Sometimes clichés are beautiful, despite themselves.

The choppy Arabian sea in the stiff Monsoon breeze, for instance. The pregnant clouds hang low over the horizon, threatening to burst any moment. The stiff cool wind, laden with salt and moisture excites the sea - it seems to want to reach out to the clouds, touch it and make them unburden their precious fruit.

The Monsoon is more than just rain. It is a temptress that conceals a spell in its bosom, an annual cosmic ritual that tantalises the fantasies of an entire population.
The Monsoons are magic. A cliché, that never ceases to be beautiful.

The India Chronicles: A Mumbai Monsoon

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 04:42:00 +0000

The first sprinkle of rain on a parched city. After months of waiting, praying, watching the blazing skies for signs of the swollen black clouds that bring respite; bring life back into the trees, into the eyes and souls of the millions suffering the intense Indian summer.

Mumbai, the busiest, most crowded city in India glimmers in its freshly washed attire. Life goes on, but there's a sheen to the city - as the precious Monsoon quenches its thirst.

After spending a week in Delhi at a cruel and dry 45 degree Centigrade, the monsoon in Mumbai feels like Panacea. And even as I zip around the city revisiting the favourites in my memory, meeting people old and new, I greedily drink in every drop. Just like everyone else.

I revel in revisiting a Mumbai Monsoon.

A new chapter: India for the Summer!

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 07:59:00 +0000

And here comes the big announcement that I'd teased you with in this post. The Flaneurbanite is off to India for the Summer! It's a planned three month long work-cum-leisure trip and if all goes as per plan, I'll be back in London at the end of September.

Needless to say I'll miss London sorely - I'm missing it even before I'm gone! But I'm really looking forward to being in India too - it's home, and it's one of the most beautiful countries in the world. And I'm not just saying it because it's mine!

India is where my photographic journey began, more than a decade back , when I used my Dad's Minolta film camera so much that it decided to conk off. I then graduated to an Olympus digital that I borrowed from my office for work and shot a series of random pictures with it. It excited me enough to make me buy my first very own point and shoot digital, the Fujifilm E550, which remains faithful to this day. Last year my better half added company to my solo fleet with a Fujifilm S9600 (semi-pro) and that is what I primarily shoot with these days. Some of my earliest shots with the E550...

Neemrana Fort, Rajasthan, North West India

Neemrana Fort, Rajasthan, North West India

Bombay/Mumbai

Land's End, Bombay/Mumbai

Some of these made it to my first photoblog that I started in 2006 to a lot of interest but couldn't keep up with when I started my MSc in London later that year. It sits dormant now, though I'm tempted to start posting those that don't make it here but I'd still really like to share, there. Perhaps that'll happen yet!

India is where I shot those first few which got me the precious drops of genuine appreciation from people who really know the art. Many would think it doesn't get better than in a city like London for street photography, for a continuously dynamic panorama of urban life - but you need to have clicked in India to know better! And there is going to be lots of that here to prove it, in the next three months. I'm excited about the journey, and I hope you'll be my fellow travellers, my fellow flaneurbanites.

So, fasten your seatbelts and here we go!

Portobello Quirks - in pursuit of the unordinary

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 22:28:00 +0000

How many eccentricities make up one street? How many quirks of colour and situation, proximity and juxtaposition, contrast and comparison can one find in a single afternoon? What does it take to define a street in only a handful of pictures?

Sometimes the narrator needs to quieten down and let the imagery weave the spell, let imagination do its turn...because sometimes, the truth is so strange that nothing could be too far from it.

How many stories can you weave through these images?

Spot the fake

Nothing Edwardian about the bike, Sir

Five hats and a pout

Dreadlocked diversity?

What is the probability of so many quirks to gather on one street and be captured in the space of an hour in one afternoon? And what does that say about the street? You tell me. As I said, I'm taking the backseat on this one.

Colour and Serendipity on Portobello Road

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:55:00 +0000

Ever since I got back from Spain, I've been missing that raw richness of unabashed colour that assaulted and overhwelmed my senses there. To make matters worse, London is associated with 'grey' more often than with any other colour. Then I remembered Portobello Road. For nothing screams colour in London than this famous curving street lined with Victorian terraces, antiques dealers and funky boutiques. Set in the heart of Notting Hill (yes, the setting for that film), this street is an antique bargain hunter's delight. I did not visit on a Market Saturday, but I still came away with ample colour therapy to last me a while - along with a healthy dose of serendipity.

My blues and your reds - or vice versa?

Purple shoes against a purple wall. And blues to match.

Yellow above, yellow below. Colour me sunshine!

No honey, it's a blue awning.

Mauve. Candy purple. Muted Pink. Wait, what is that colour called?

Colour me Blue, I'm Lost in You

Merge into me

Electric, electric blue

Paint the town red as you go along...

Or take your pick!

All in an afternoon's work. Serendipity will find you, if you only know where to look!

More eccentricities from Portobello coming up - in my last London post to come for a while...

Postcards from Spain | Snippets from the Alhambra

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 12:34:00 +0000

Previous Postcards from Spain:
The Doors and Windows of Granada
The Streets and Alleys of Granada
People-Spotting in Granada
Markets and Signboards of Granada
The Street Artists and Buskers of Granada

I have thoroughly enjoyed sending out these postcards over the last week or so. Although this is not exactly a tourist-picture blog, I couldn't not share my view of the place with you. And what is the modern day tourist but an evolved avatar of the earliest French flâneur? I know that I was one, as I walked the streets of Granada for four days, quietly observing, recording and tying the threads together to weave the whole story. I think , and I hope you'll agree, that these postcards all stitch up the fragments of the picture into a rough whole - and that picture would be incomplete without this last set of images that showcase in pithy snippets the grand Alhambra, the Moorish icon of Granada - its seed, its raison de'être, its claim to fame. And you will perhaps see why, in these last set of postcards from Spain.

That's it from Spain! Like I said in my previous post, there's a whole lot of new stuff waiting to happen here - and an exciting announcement that I'll make next week!

Thank you all for the terrific response to these postcards - I have loved every moment of putting these together. And again, thanks to every one of you who has given me your very valuable feedback and encouragement since I first launched this blog six months back. It's come a long way since then and it has a very long way to go.

Postcards from Spain | The Street Artists and Buskers of Granada

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 22:00:00 +0000

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you'd know that I have a particular affinity for informal forms and purveyors of art, or in other words street art and artists - be it visual of performance based. I therefore had to document the street artists and performers of Granada for you, and today's set of postcards does just that.

In particular, I was struck by the number of musicians performing in Granada's streets and plazas, which, on second thought is no surprise given Spain's long and rich musical tradition. It shows... and buzzes and mesmerises you as you walk around town - and how!

This gentleman is usually found around the Plaza de la Romilla of Granada, busking his music to people sitting along the promenade with cafes on one side and the spactacular Alhambra on top of the hill on the other. He entertained us for two breakfasts and one glass of evening wine.

I have never heard or seen someone playing the didgeridoo before this (at least that is what I think that is) and this gentleman was doing an absolutely fantastic job of it! He was keeping rhythm with those two wooden pellets in his right hand and the combined effect made you want to tap your feet and sway your hips! He was busking his unique music outside the main Cathedral in Granada.
It was around the Cathedral area that most other buskers and artists would tend to ply their art as well.

This gentleman is painting scrolls of Arabic poetry - something that the walls of the Alhambra are covered in. A common art in these parts, it seems, but incredibly beautiful. I only wish I knew how to read Arabic so that I could make an informed comment on what I was looking at!

I hope you liked this set of postcards as much I personally like it! This series of postcards is about to draw to a close soon, but beyond that I have some street photography related writing, and some London-based stories coming up... and also an important, very important announcement! Keep watching, and I hope you will not be disappointed with what comes up. :)

Postcards from Spain | The Markets and Signboards of Granada

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 10:55:00 +0000

Previous Postcards from Spain:
The Doors and Windows of Granada
The Streets and Alleys of Granada
People-Spotting in Granada

Hello Tuesday! I'm sending to you my view of the markets and signboards of Granada today.

I had quite an adventurous start to my visit when Iberia Airlines decided not to send our luggage on the same flight from Madrid as us, leaving us bereft of fresh clothes to change into. Iberia had assured us that we would get our bags delivered to us in Granada by that evening. But when our bags didn't arrive by 10PM, we rushed out in the rain to buy a few clothes to last us until the next day, at the least. We'd spotted the Albaicin markets earlier in the day, and we managed to find one last shop about to close. The shopkeeper did not know any English and our Spanish was limited to 'si' and 'gracias'. But we not only dealt with the guy in sign language, we even managed to get a nice bargain for the bunch of cheap hippy clothes we bought! Of course we were extremely chuffed and pleased with ourselves as we ran back to the hotel in the rain. Fresh, dry, cheap clothes had never seemed as precious and welcome as they did that day as we changed into them!

Our luggage arrived ten minutes later.

Enjoy your postcards for today!

Postcards from Spain | People-spotting in Granada

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 09:40:00 +0000

Previous Postcards from Spain:
The Doors and Windows of Granada
The Streets and Alleys of Granada

The third in the series of postcards comes to you today, since the postal department doesn't work on Sundays! (That is my excuse and I'm sticking to it).

I love to people-spot in interesting places. I met some of the sweetest people in Granada, and although all of the people in the pictures below are strangers, I'm sure they'd be as interesting in person as they were to spot:

These gypsy women from Sacromonte Hill accost women around the Cathedral, press rosemary into their hands and tell them their future - which is mostly about how much the guy standing next to you and wondering what's going on loves you, and how many kids you're going to have. They then demand money for their 'services'! I was accosted by one as well, who grabbed my hand but I managed to escape!

I'm not out of postcards yet, in case you were wondering. More coming your way tomorrow. Meanwhile, do let me know how you're liking the ones you already have!

Postcards from Spain | The Streets and Alleys of Granada

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 14:24:00 +0000

Thank you for the great response to my first set of postcards!

In my second set of postcards from Spain, I'm sending some streets and alleys your way. Granada is laid out on a hill and the streets wind up in steps or curve around the hill all around town, especially in the old city or the Albaicin quarter. I love peeping into alleys to see what's going on in there and what they lead to. Here's what I espied.

I'll send across another set tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll wait for your replies!

Previous postcards from Spain: The Doors and Windows of Granada

Postcards from Spain | The Doors and Windows of Granada

noreply@blogger.com (Flaneurbanite) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 14:19:00 +0000

Four days of flanerie in Granada in the Andalucian region of Spain could make anyone rapturous. It was my first visit to the beautiful country and I'm in love with the place, the people and the architecture.

And what does one do when one travels to another land? Send postcards to one's dear ones. I'll be sending you a bunch of postcards every day for the next few days, dear readers. I'd love to have you reply to them.

The Doors and Windows of Granada

Can anyone help me translate that graffiti? What does it mean?

Hakuna Matata anyone?

Or Sleepy Pup perhaps?

My next set of postcards will reach you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll look forward to your replies!