TRAGICALLY, my friend the art historian and author, Michael, died twelve years ago. I had known him since 1964, when the film “Goldfinger” was released in the UK. By a strange coincidence he was born on the same day in October as my mother, and his mother was born on the same day in May as I was. He studied art history at London’s Courtauld Institute, where he also completed his doctorate. His doctoral supervisor was the Director of the Courtauld, the art historian and Keeper of the Queen’s Pictures, Sir Anthony Blunt (1907-1983), who was eventually unmasked as a Soviet Russian agent. When Michael was studying at the Courtauld, it was housed in Home House on London’s Portman Square. I never managed to visit Michael there, but since his demise, I have been there three times.
Originally, Home House was built for Elizabeth, Countess of Home (c1703-1784), a Jamaican born heiress. The edifice, which was completed during her lifetime, was designed by the famous architect Robert Adam (1728-1782). He is famed for having designed not only buildings, but also their interior décor and furniture as well as many small details (e.g., door handles). After a series of owners, Home House was leased in 1926 by the industrialist and art collector Samuel Courtauld (1876-1947) to house his then growing art collection. In 1931, following his wife’s death, he gave Home House to the then young Courtauld Institute of Art, which he helped to found.
The Institute remained in Home House until it shifted to its current home, Somerset House, in 1989. Home House stayed unoccupied until 1998, when it was extensively and beautifully restored and became a private members’ social club, called, unsurprisingly, Home House.
Of all the Adam designed structures I have visited, and these include Kenwood House, Osterley Park, Kedleston Hall, Pountney Bridge, The Adelphi Buildings, and Lutin Hoo, the restored Home House has the best set of Adam designed interiors I have seen. Today, unless you are a member of the club or a member’s guest, it is not otherwise possible to enter this gorgeous mansion; And it was an honour that a friend of ours, a member of the club, has invited us there on several occasions.
After our most recent visit to Home House, I could not help wonderin whether its present reincarnation would have met with my friend Michael’s approval. I have a sneaking feeling that he would have enjoyed what it has become.
Over the centuries, there have been many notable female leaders. These include Hatshepsut, Cleopatra, Boadicea (Boudica), Joan of Arc, Elizabeth I, Catherine the Great, Queen Victoria, the Rani of Jhansi, and Indira Gandhi … to name but a few.
During a recent trip to Madhya Pradesh, a state in Central India, we stayed in the small town called Maheshwar, which had a famous resident, a queen called Ahilyabai. I must admit I had never heard of her until we visited the town, and this is not good because she was at least as remarkable as, if not more amazing than any of the women I listed above.
Ahilyabai was born in 1725 in the village of Chaundi, now in Maharashtra. Her father, Mankoji Sindhia (Shinde), a scion of the Dhangar family, was the Patil (village headman). Although it was at a time when women were not allowed to go to school, Ahilyabai’s father taught her to read and write. When the Maratha ruler of Malwa (now part of Madhya Pradesh), Malhar Rao Holkar (lived 1693-1766), was travelling to Pune in 1733, he spotted Ahilyabai and was so impressed by her that he arranged for her to be married to his 10-year-old son Khanderao Holkar (1723-1754). Her husband, who admired Ahilyabai, fought in many battles, and was killed at the Fort of Khumber in 1754. As was the tradition of those times, Ahilyabai wanted to commit sati by throwing herself on Khanderao’s flaming funeral pyre, but Malhar Rao stopped her.
From 1754 onwards, he trained her in military matters and administrative skills. Soon, she became competent in both, and successfully carried out several military operations against enemies of the Holkars. When Mahar Rao died, his successor was Ahilyabai’s 21-year-old son, Male Rao Holkar (1745-1767), who went insane, and died a year after he came to the throne. The writer, John Malcolm (1769-1833), who lived in India between 1783 and 1831 and knew people close to the Holkars, and wrote about them in his “Memoir Of Central India Including Malwa Vol.1” (published in 1824) included descriptions of Male Rao’s madness, such as:
“It was a common usage with him to place scorpions in clothes and slippers that he gave them; he also put these venomous reptiles in pots filled with rupees, which he invited the holy mendicants to take; and, when their eager cupidity caused them to be stung, his joy was as excessive …”
Unwilling to adopt an heir, Ahilyabai wrote to the Peshwa (senior official of the Marathas), petitioning him to appoint her as ruler of Malwa. He sent her a letter, appointing her. Immediately after this, she appointed Tukoji Holkar (1723-1797), the great nephew of her father-in-law, Mahar Rao, as commander of her army and to manage Malwa’s military affairs. This allowed her to concentrate on administering Malwa and other Holkar estates. Until her death, Ahilyabai and Tukoji worked together harmoniously. After she died, he became the ruler of Malwa, and was known as Tukoji Rao I Holkar. John Malcom met people who remembered Ahilyabai, and they told him she was a good ruler:
“Her first principle of government appears to have been moderate assessment, and an almost sacred respect for the native rights of village officers and proprietors of lands. She heard every complaint in person; and although she continually referred causes to courts of equity and arbitration, and to her ministers, for settlement, she was always accessible: and so strong was her sense of duty, on all points connected with the distribution of justice, that she is represented as not only patient, but unwearied in the investigation of the most insignificant causes, when appeals were made to her decision.”
During her reign, Ahilyabai did much to make Indore into a prosperous and beautiful city, but shifted her capital to Maheshwar. She did much work to improve the roads and forts in Malwa, as well as making many religious endowments (including mandirs, dharamshalas, tanks, bathing ghats, etc) in the kingdom. A man, Baramul Dada, who knew Ahilyabai well, related to Malcolm that:
“… she rose one hour before daybreak to say her morning prayers, and perform the customary ceremonies. She then heard the sacred volumes of her faith read for a fixed period, distributed alms, and gave food, in person, to a number of Brahmins. Her own breakfast was then brought, which was always of vegetable diet; for, although the rules of her tribe did not require it, she had forsworn animal food. After breakfast she again went to prayers, and then took a short repose; after rising from which, and dressing herself, she went about two o’clock to her Durbar, or court, where she usually remained till six in the evening; and when two or three hours had been devoted to religious exercises and a frugal repast, business recommenced about nine o’clock, and continued until eleven, at which hour she retired to rest.”
Her good works in connection with her religion extended well beyond the boundaries of Malwa. Using inherited Holkar money, rather than public funds, she ordered the construction of religious edifices in places including Varanasi, Kashi, Gaya, Somnath, Ayodhya, Mathura, Hardwar, Kanchi, Avanti, Dwarka, Badrinarayan, Rameshwar and Jaganathpuri. Ahilyabai. After shifting her capital to Maheshwar, she did much to improve the place.
During her life as queen and after her death, Ahilyabai’s reputation was legendary, and remains so. In what was once Malwa (and elsewhere), she is regarded as a saint. It is worth noting that Ahilyabai was not the only female Maratha ruler. Earlier, Tarabai Bhonsle (1675-1751) was the regent of the Maratha Empire from 1700 until 1708. Undoubtedly,
Ahilyabai was one of the most remarkable women in India’s long history. Indore’s airport, where we landed, is now named after her. To digress slightly, when we were in Bombay, we saw a statue of her – a bust – close to the city’s busy Churchgate train station. It is in a prominent place, but market stalls and vegetation around it make it difficult to view her properly.
LONDON IS NOT one the world’s cheapest places for eating out. It is not difficult to spend a great deal of money on a meal that is far from satisfactory, and many visitors to London find that this is the case. I am a Londoner. I want to share a few places with you that offer good food at prices that are very reasonable by London standards. Some of them serve alcohol, which invariably will hike up the final cost of a meal. All of them have been serving customers for many years, but given the economic situation in the UK, one can never be sure for how much longer they will remain in business. Having warned you about this, here is my list, which was up to date when I wrote this in August 2026.
Beigel Bake (159 Brick Lane, London E1 6SB). Open 24 hours a day, this is no ordinary bakery. It does sell delicious breads and pastries, but this is not what makes it special. There is usually a long queue of customers waiting to order generously filled beigels. The fillings include smoked salmon, chopped herring, and freshly made salt beef. The salt beef is some of the best I have ever eaten, and when served with pickled gherkins and strong English mustard, as it is at Beigel Bake, it is superb. PS: near Beigel Bake, there is another place, Beigel Shop, which I cannot recommend.
Lisboa Patisserie (57 Golborne Road, London W10 5NR). With a mural of Azulejo tiling, this Portuguese establishment serves good coffee at below average prices. It also has a wide range of sweet pastries, as well as the famous ‘pastel de nata’. There are many savoury snacks available including a range of croquettes (meat, prawn, salted cod) and sandwiches (some of the fillings include Portuguese smoked ham, pork escalopes, and chicken escalopes). Everything is reasonably priced in this tiny Portuguese enclave. And facing it across the road, is the Lisboa Delicatessen, where a wonderful range of foods from Portugal can be purchased.
Falafel King (95 Golborne Road, London W10 5NL). Not far from Lisboa Patisserie, this outlet serves delicious wraps containing freshly made falafels.
Cafe Maja (238-246 King Street, London W6 0RF). Located at the western end of POSK, the Polish cultural centre in Hammersmith, this restaurant is one of my favourites. It serves superbly prepared Polish dishes at very acceptable prices. Whether you want a simple meal of beautiful borscht, or a hearty meal including meat, vegetables, and salads, you will not be disappointed. Polish food is often thought to be heavy, but what is served at this place is delicious, filling, but made with a delicate touch. And if you want desserts, there is always a selection of tempting Polish cakes and pastries. This place is well worth a detour.
Sagar (37 Panton Street, Leicester Square, London SW1Y 4EA). This vegetarian restaurant serves very acceptable, reasonably priced South Indian fare in a pleasant, modern dining room. You can order chaats, dosas, idlis, vadas, rasam, thalis, dal, and more. Although much more costly than in India, these authentic tasting dishes are not highly priced by London standards, And as a bonus, this place is in the heart of the West End, near Leicester Square.
Mani’s (12 Perrin’s Ct, London NW3 1QS). This very popular eatery (avoid on weekends as it gets too busy) in Hampstead village caters for a wide range of tastes, and does it well. You can have everything from cooked breakfasts, sandwiches, wraps, and salads to wholesome lunch dishes. I particularly enjoy their Caesar Salad topped with grilled chicken. The menu is too vast for me to describe everything that is available at what I consider to be the best place to eat in Hampstead.
Raavi Kebab (125 Drummond Street, London NW1 2HL). This unpretentious, hardly decorated restaurant is a place for carnivores! Raavi’s serves North Indian dishes. Their biryani is great as is the fried fish (lightly dusted with turmeric and chilli powder before being cooked). At the front of the restaurant there is a charcoal grill. The kebabs (chicken, lamb, and seekh) prepared on the grill are excellent. Other more complicated dishes are available, but those I have mentioned are my favourites.
Caphe House (114 Bermondsey Street, London SE1 3TX). This charming place in trendy Bermondsey Street serves Vietnamese dishes, all of which are tasty, refreshing, and enjoyable. Customers can customise their pho, rice, and noodle dishes, making them vegetarian or otherwise. Banh mi baguettes. Summer rolls, and other Vietnamese food items are also available. To round off the meal, try a Vietnamese coffee. And if you are not worried about calories, go for the egg coffee, which tastes a bit like Italian zabaglione.
Rye Lane Market (48 Rye Lane, London SE15 5BY). This amazing place in South London contains a food court with a difference. As the market’s website (https://ryelanemarket.com/food) explained: “The food hall brings together independent kitchens serving Mexican, Peruvian, Caribbean, Indian, Colombian and other cuisines, plus desserts, juice bars and specialty coffee.” In addition to the Carribean and Latin American food stalls, there are several serving dishes typical of various African cuisines. My favourite stall is the Colombian kitchen, where mouthwatering dishes are prepared by a husband and wife team while you wait. On weekday lunchtimes, most of their quite substantial, tasty dishes are served at a special reduced price. It is well worth making a special expedition to this lovely market and its wonderful food court, which unlike so many other food courts, is completely devoid of branches of fast food chains.
Up to this point, I have been recommending places for people who want to eat good food without spending a fortune. The next few places are slightly more expensive, but given their high quality are good value for money.
Mangal 1 (10 Arcola Street, London E8 2DN). London is full of Turkish restaurants, but Mangal 1 is, in my opinion, outstanding. Their meats (lamb and chicken) grilled on a charcoal filled ocakbasi are top class. I particularly enjoy their lokma (rolled lamb fillet), Adana kebab, yogurtlu Adana, and ciger (liver), apart from the yogurtlu dishes, the others are served with generous amounts of mixed salad. One of the many starter dishes which I like is Patlican Salata, which contains grilled aubergines and peppers. But be warned that if you indulge on starters. You might find it difficult to finish the main courses, and it is these that are the ‘stars’ of the meal.
Sporting Club De Londres (27 Elkstone Road, London W10 5NT). From the outside, this place looks like a large garage or warehouse. Step inside, and you will feel as if you have been transported from London to Madeira. But enter only if you have a good appetite because the superbly cooked Portuguese dishes served here are very generous. Everything is good on the menu, from seafood to meat dishes. It is not ultra cheap, but it is very good value, and great fun eating at this haunt of London’s Portuguese community.
Jia (1 Harrington Road, South Kensington, London SW7 3ES). Conveniently close to the South Kensington museums, this Chinese restaurant serves Sichuan dishes. It is popular with Chinese students studying nearby at Imperial College, because the food served at Jia is aimed at the Chinese customers rather than the many tourists who visit the area. For a real treat, order one of the hotpots, which contain enough food for two. Jia is delightfully different from many other (mainly Cantonese) Chinese restaurants in London.
Four Seasons (12 Gerrard Street, W1D 5PR). Located in London’s Chinatown, this is one of many Cantonese restaurants in the area, but one where I have always eaten well. This restaurant is one of several members of a group of Four Seasons restaurants. All of them are noted for the excellence of their roast duck. Although there are many dishes to choose from, my favourite is House Special Fried Noodles. Every time I have ordered it, it has arrived with a different array of seafood and meats. Many other dishes on the menu are worth ordering.
Ciao Bella (86-90 Lamb’s Conduit Street, London WC1N 3LZ). Londo is flooded with restaurants claiming to serve Italian food. Some do it badly, and a minority do it well. Only recently, I ate at Ciao Bella near Russell Square, and the food was really good. Both the pasta and meat dishes would have been quite acceptable had they been served in a trattoria in Italy frequented by locals who know their food. Both my wife and I have spent much time in Italy, and can distinguish between Italian food aimed at foreigners and that which has been prepared for discerning Italian diners. What we ate at Ciao Bella was not only up to the mark, but also not outrageously priced.
Hafez (5 Hereford Road, London W2 4AB). This is a place to see as well as to dine at. This Persian restaurant has the most eccentric interior décor of any restaurant I know. The food served from its extensive menu is quite satisfactory, but not as amazing as the decoration of the room in which you consume it.
Asakusa (265 Eversholt Street, London NW1 1BA). Not far from the popular Camden Market, this quaint Japanese restaurant serves excellent freshly prepared food. Whereas there are many chains serving Japanese food (e.g., Itsu and Wasabi) at supposedly budget prices, they do not provide great quality for the prices they charge. In contrast, Asakusa does give you great quality, and therefore good value for money.
The Champion (1 Wellington Terrace, London W2 4LW). I have travelled all over England in search of a good traditional Sunday roast lunch, and have usually been disappointed. The Champion pub, which is not far from where I live, serves a superb Sunday lunch. The deal is that one orders a platter to be shared by two (hungry) people. This platter contains three expertly roasted, tasty chunks of meat (e.g., lamb, beef, chicken, or pork). The meat is accompanied by a variety of vegetables and the traditional Yorkshire Puddings. And this superb offering is no more costly than the many mediocre Sunday roasts I have eaten elsewhere. Although the Sunday roasts are wonderful at The Champion, I cannot recommend other things I have eaten there.
So, there you have it. You can follow my suggestions or not. I may have omitted many other great places, but those above are ones I know. Once again, I should emphasise that things can change, but I hope that those I have written about neither disappear nor change for the worse.
THE SOAS GALLERY in London’s Bloomsbury is holding an exhibition of traditional textiles from Afghanistan until 19 September 2026. The embroidered items in the show have been lent by the Kiran Thakar Collection.
Some pieces are silk and others wool. Interestingly, there were items that incorporated small mirrors such as also can be found in embroidery in Kachchh (Kutch, western India). At least two exhibits were woven using the ikat technique, also found in Gujarat.
The small, well displayed exhibition is a ‘must’ for anyone interested in Asian textiles, and a joy for those who enjoy beautifully prepared handicrafts.
I HAVE JUST VISITED London’s Wallace Collection to view a small exhibition called “The Wallace Collection at War”. It continues until 25 October 2026. Small though it is, it contains several artefacts that resonate with the research I did when writing my book about north London’s Hampstead district.
During WW2, the valuable artworks that comprised the Wallace Collection were removed from their home, Hertford House on Manchester Square, and hidden in caves and cellars so that they would neither be damaged by bombing nor found by the enemy should they have managed to invade the UK.
In 1942, in order to raise money to send medical equipment and clothing to Soviet Russia, Lady Clementine Churchill (Sir Winston’s wife) organised the “Artists Aid Russia” exhibition, which was held in the then empty Hertford House. Some of the exhibition stands and other display arrangements were designed by the architect Erno Goldfinger, whose creations include Trellick Tower in North Kensington, and his own residence in Hampstead. For five years, I practised dentistry in the shadow of Trellick Tower. I have also visited his Hampstead home several times.
The 1942 exhibition included 900 works by living artists. A few of these works are currently on display in Hertford House. They include artworks by John Skeaping. Carel Weight, Ethel Léontine Gabain, and Charles Murray. There is also a poster by Henri Kay Henrion. He was married to the artist Daphne Hardy Henrion. One of their two sons went to the same school as I did in the 1960s. For a while they lived in Hampstead.
The “Artists Aid Russia” exhibition was launched in late 1942 by Soviet Ambassador Ivan Maisky (1884-1975) and his wife Agniya. The first time I encountered his name was while writing my book about Hampstead. In “Architect Errant”, the autobiography of the architect Sir Bertram Clough Williams-Ellis (1883-1978), he wrote of the artist George Romney’s former home, where he resided:
“It was a splendid house for large parties and we gave a lot of them – dances every so often, a show by Ballet Rambert … We also gave a party to meet the Russian Ambassador, M[onsieur]. Maisky, who made a speech from the gallery balcony …”
As part of my research, I acquired a copy of “The Maisky Diaries” (edited by Gabriel Gorodetsky). Although there is no mention of the visit to Hampstead, there is much which is relevant to one of the items in the current exhibition at Hertford House. This artefact is an excellent bronze sculpture depicting Maisky’s head. It was made in 1941 by the renowned artist Jacob Epstein (1880-1959). The diaries contain much about this work of art and its execution.
On 14 February 1941, Maisky wrote:
“Jacob Epstein has convinced me to permit him to make my bust. I warned the sculptor that the USSR is a country of genuine democracy, so Soviet ambassadors are not able to pay artists of the capitalist world the fees they are accustomed to. Epstein was insistent …”
Maisky was intrigued by the creative process, which required at least six sittings. He described how Epstein gradually formed his head out of grey clay. He wrote:
“Let’s see what happens next. I’ll have five or six sittings in all. With such original artists as Epstein, you never know what will come out in the end – you yourself or a monster.”
The ambassador described the artist’s studio at 18 Hyde Park Gate:
“A large bright room with two enormous windows … Astonishing artistic chaos. Scattered over tables, chairs, and benches and the floor are statues, heads, arms, legs and other parts of the human body in clay and plaster of Paris … The figure of the sculptor moves quickly and deftly amidst the vast chaos. His baggy grey trousers are stained with clay and plaster of Paris. Epstein is quite a charming man …”
Eventually, the bust was completed.
While he was in London, Maisky became very popular. As Gorodetsky noted at the end of the extracts from Maisky’s diaries:
“Neither Stalin nor Molotov could watch with equanimity the popular cult of Maisky in London, which reached dimensions second only to the cult of Stalin himself … While flattered by the cult evolving around him, Maisky was anxious to keep it on the back burner. He was quick to turn down an invitation by the sculptor Epstein to attend the private viewing of his works at Leicester Galleries …”
Despite the risk of trouble from Stalin in Russia, Maisky sat for a portrait by Oskar Kokoschka. He sat for this portrait shortly before he was recalled to the USSR in July 1943. This picture is now in the Tate Gallery’s collection.
As you can see, the small exhibition at the Wallace Collection proved to be of great interest, especially as so many of the exhibits overlapped with things that have interested me in the past.
THE FIRST TIME I visited Paris (France) was with my parents in 1968. We travelled there and back on the Silver Arrow (sleeper) train, which was loaded on to a ferry that plied between Dover and Dunkirk. We tried to sleep in our berths while the train was on board the ship, but I found that difficult mainly because I wanted to watch our train being loaded and unloaded at the channel ports. After returning from Paris, we disembarked from the train at London’s Victoria Station. Immediately after stepping on to the platform, my mother pointed excitedly at a lady exiting the carriage next to ours – our fellow passenger was Sir Winston Churchill’s wife.
During that first visit to Paris, my father pointed out something that sparked my interest. Painted dark green, it was a drinking fountain covered with a decorative dome, which was supported by four sculptures of ladies (caryatids) with bare arms. It was a Wallace Fountain, and after having it pointed out to me, I began spotting them in many parts of Paris,
In 1872 following the Siege of Paris (1870). Sir Richard Wallace paid for 50 of the so-called Wallace Fountains (as described above) to be installed in the city. Each of the drinking fountains is of the same design They were designed by Charles-Auguste Lebourg (1829-1906).
In 1959, a late cast of the of the Wallace Fountain was presented by the London Borough of Shoreditch to Hertford House in London’s Manchester Square. Hertford House is the home of the huge art collection that was established by Sir Richard Wallace, and is now a public art museum – The Wallace Collection. So, it is appropriate that a cast of one of Wallace’s fountains stands close to the Collection’s main entrance.
“c. 1904 four ornate fountains were installed in Shoreditch. This was done through the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association … Artistically designed water fountains were required and Dudley Fortescue found four designs that he liked, including this Wallace design, which he had seen and liked in Paris. The fountain was made and installed at The Oval, Windsor Terrace, EC1, on 19 July 1904. A newspaper report named an anonymous donor, ‘E. F. F.’. Philanthropic men would sometimes give the name of a close female relative, rather than their own but, still, we cannot find an E. F. F. for Dudley Francis Fortescue, his wife being Lady Camilla Eleanor Fortescue, and the marriage having no issue. Perhaps the ‘E.’ was a misprint for ‘D.’? In 1959, when the fountain had ceased to function, the Wallace Collection asked Shoreditch Council if they could have it for Hertford House and it was installed in its current location in 1960.”
“During the past 150 years there have been few changes to the methods used to manufacture Wallace Fountains. The decorative cast iron process was invented in France by Jean Pierre Victor André who established a successful, award-winning art foundry in 1835 and set up Val d’Osne, a workshop foundry in the Haute Marne region. The Val d’Osne foundry manufactured the first Wallace Fountains in 1872 and Val d’Osne markings can be found on the oldest fountains still operating in Paris.”
Today, the London’s Wallace Fountain is no longer functional, but every time I see it at Manchester Square, it brings back memories of my first of many visits to “The City of Light”.
When I was aged between 8 and 13 years old, a pupil at The Hall, a preparatory school in London’s Belsize Park, history was taught in an uninteresting way. The emphasis was entirely on the chronology of events rather than their significance. One of these events, which meant nothing to me for many years, was the Battle of Plassey (1754). Little did I know when hearing this name as a young schoolboy that many years later, I would visit India and see places that were important in the events leading up to (and following) the battle. These places are within Murshidabad and its environs, which we visited in early January 2025.
To reach Murshidabad, which is north of Kolkata, we travelled by train on the Dhano Dhanye Express. Despite being called an ‘Express’, the train was anything but rapid. It dawdled along while local trains swept past us. It was after dark when our train drew into a station whose name I had known since the early 1960s, but had meant nothing to me then: Plassey (in Bengali: Palashi). Although I could not see much of the place, I felt a frisson of excitement when I saw signs in the station bearing a name that had been in the back of my mind for over 60 years.
Murshidabad was, until after the Battle of Plassey and the development of Kolkata, a major city in the Indian Subcontinent. Today, apart from the former British cantonment town of Berhampore, the rest of Murshidabad consists of historical monuments, some intact others ruined, scattered around a large, mainly rural-looking district – once covered by the great city. One of the many places we visited in Murshidabad was in the district of Azimganj, where there is a palace – Bari Kothi. It was constructed by a wealthy Jain family in the late eighteenth century,a few years after the Battle of Plassey.
Bari Kothi is now a luxurious hotel run by the Dudhoria’s, who are friends of the Jain family of my wife’s sister-in- law. They live in Kolkata, and had arranged that we could be shown around the historic building that houses the hotel.
The Dudhoria family were originally Kshatriya Hindus living near Bikaner in Rajasthan. They were direct descendants of Raja Chaban, ruler of Ajmer. In about 105 AD, they converted from Shaivite Hinduism to Jainism. Along with other Kshatriya families in the town of Osia in Rajasthan, they converted to Jainism, and all these families are known as Oswal Jains. After moving between various towns in Rajasthan, the Dudhoria’s, led by Harjimal Dudhoria and his two sons, Sabai Singh and Maujiram, moved to Azimganj in 1774. They began life as merchants in their new home, and soon became successful.
In the late eighteenth century Rai Bahadur Budh Singh Dudhoria, constructed the huge mansion, now known as ‘Bari Kothi’. Close to the river Hooghly, its garden stretches to the bank of the river. The huge edifice, which was restored a few years ago, is built around seven courtyards. Its lavish decorations have been recreated in a style that would have been familiar to the family in its heyday. The influence of neo-classicism is evident in many parts of the building. Today, it is used as a luxurious ‘heritage’ hotel, which is famed for its Jain food. When the banker, who lived at Bari Kothi, told the Nawab that he wanted to move away from Murshidabad because he lacked the company of fellow Jains, the ruler allotted land on both sides of the river to the Jain community, and told the banker to invite other Jains to make their homes there. 97 families arrived from Rajasthan.
The combined wealth of the 30 or so Sherherwali (mainly Oswal Jains) families who settled in the square mile area within Azimganj, which included Bari Kothi, was so great that it exceeded that of the entire English aristocracy. After Bengal’s capital shifted to Kolkata, so did most of the Sherherwalis.
Bari Kothi was badly damaged during the Naxalite disturbances in the 1970s. It was beautifully restored under the supervision of the architect Dr Samar Chandra. We visited the place and were shown around its maze of corridors, rooms, and courtyards. Our guide showed us parts of the building that are still undergoing careful restoration. What has already been restored and is used by hotel guests is superbly done. For those seeking a glorious ‘heritage’ experience, a few days at Bari Kothi will not be disappointing. The large dining room is decorated with tiled panels (art nouveau style) depicting rustic scenes, and in several rooms, I noticed trays laden with bottles of high-class imported and Indian liquor.
The hotel serves guests with highly acclaimed Sheherwali Jain cuisine, which is strictly vegetarian. However, for those hoping for a fried egg at breakfast time, this and all other non-veg items are most certainly unavailable. The hotel employs local people as staff, thus bringing employment opportunities into what is quite a depressed district. One of these employees told us that most of the staff are not vegetarians, and so they need to sneak out occasionally to enjoy food that contains meat or fish. Or they starve themselves all day, and in the evening eat non-veg meals at home.
The British won the Battle of Plassey by guile. This was because some leading inhabitants of Murshidabad bribed the general commanding a major part of the forces of their opponent, Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah. He was paid not to join the fight. He and his soldiers stood aside during the battle. Some hint that part of the bribe was provided by wealthy Jains (for example the Jagat Seth family) who were unhappy with the Nawab. However, as the Dudhoria’s only arrived in Bengal in 1774, it is unlikely that they had anything to do with the defeat of Siraj-ud-Daulah at Plassey 17 years earlier.
For much more about Murshidabad, read my book “88 DAYS IN INDIA: A JOURNEY OF MEMORY AND DISCOVERY”, available here:
During our first tour of Gujarat, which my wife and I undertook in 2018, travelling on inter-city buses. We stopped at Porbandar, a port on the southern coast of Saurashtra. This Gujarati seaport, which is not on many foreign tourists’ itineraries, is the birthplace of MK (‘Mahatma’) Gandhi. During our stay, we visited the house in which the great man was born.
We spent four days in Porbandar, which gave us plenty of time to wander around. One afternoon, after reducing the amount of baggage we were carrying, we visited a place, where we received a strange invitation …
After the two uncomfortable bus journeys that we had made so far, we decided to reduce the amount of baggage we were carrying by sending one of our suitcases to Bangalore, where we were going to spend the last few days of our sojourn in India. We had already discussed sending it with the owner of a dispatch company in the lounge of the Hotel Natraj, where we were staying. He met us after we returned from Subhas Nagar (a fishing harbour) and escorted us with our suitcase to his small office, which was nearby. The price for sending our twelve-kilogramme suitcase was very reasonable. We learned that the case would be going by lorry to Bombay and then from there to Bangalore by train. We were told to leave the case unlocked so that, should it be necessary, the railway officials in Bombay would be able to examine its contents. We watched our case being sown into a huge sack, and then kept our fingers crossed. For the record, our case arrived perfectly intact in Bangalore five days later.
After dispatching our case, we returned to the Lords Eco Inn near the beach for refreshment. Then, while the sun started dropping towards the western horizon, we walked back along the seafront to the temple, which we had passed on our way to the seaside on our first afternoon in Porbandar. We pushed past the cattle outside it and entered. Some men were sitting around chatting. A couple of cats darted about the temple’s courtyard. The orange glow of the setting sun reflected off the white-painted tapering shikharas which pointed up to the cloudless blue sky.
We wandered through the open gateway of a walled compound across the road from the temple. The internal surfaces of the boundary walls are decorated with colourfully painted murals depicting deities and scenes from the Hindu scriptures. Models of very human-looking figures with monkeys’ faces perch at intervals along the walls above the murals. The walls enclose some buildings, long sheds.
The central, and most important looking, of these buildings was painted white and provided with glassless windows. Through one of the windows, we could see flames flickering. We realised that we had walked into a crematorium compound. An official came up to us, and confirmed our suspicions. Then, as if inviting us to dinner or for a drink in a pub, he asked us whether we would like to watch a cremation. Only in India can an offer like that be made so casually, because as Jon and Rumer Godden wrote in their book “Two under the Indian Sun”:
“We knew, without being told, that in India death was as casual as life, part of every day.”
We declined the invitation.
If you enjoyed this or found it interesting, you can read more about our first trip to Gujarat in “TRAVELS THROUGH GUJARAT, DAMAN, AND DIU”, available from Amazon. The extract above is from the book, but modified slightly.
YOU MIGHT WONDER why we spent a few days Daman in 2018.
Enclaves have always fascinated me. For many years before that, I had been interested in Daman, which had been until 1961 a tiny Portuguese possession, an enclave surrounded by Gujarat, on the west coast of India.
Even though my wife is of Gujarati heritage, neither she nor I had ever visited Gujarat before 2018, and Daman was one of the places on our itinerary.
The small district of Daman, now a part of the Union Territory of Daman and Diu (that also includes Dadra and Nagar Haveli) is surrounded by Gujarat and the Arabian Sea. The city of Daman lies on both sides of the mouth of the Daman Ganga River. From 1559 until 1961, when it became incorporated into the Republic of India, Daman was a Portuguese colony. The Portuguese captured Daman from the rulers of the Gujarat Sultanate. Daman was one of several Indian coastal colonies of Portugal. Other important colonies included (moving from north to south): Diu, Cambay, Bassein, Chaul, Goa, Anjediva Island, Cannanore, Calicut, Cochin, Quilon, and Galle (now in Sri Lanka). For a while, Portugal’s naval fleet used these bases not only for trade but also to regulate access of other nation’s boats to the valuable spices that could be obtained from the Indian subcontinent. The Portuguese in the 16th century wanted to create a monopoly of the spice trade. They imported spices via the Cape of Good Hope. Their Muslim rivals imported them via Egypt and Venice. So, to stifle this competition, the Portuguese established bases along the coast of East Africa and the Arabian Gulf (for a while they held Hormuz Island at the mouth of the Persian Gulf).
Daman city is divided by a river into two parts: Nani Daman and Moti Daman. Although in Gujarati ‘nani’ means small and ‘moti’ means large, Nani Daman is larger than Moti Daman.
Here is how we spent one of our evenings in Daman:
After visiting the fortress in Moti Daman, we headed back to Nani Daman. The sun was setting, and there was not much traffic. Eventually, an autorickshaw (‘auto’) already crammed full, with four passengers, stopped to pick us up. Two of the passengers moved to the front of the vehicle squatted hazardously on either side of the driver, and we squeezed onto the narrow passenger seat next to the other two passengers. After a short distance, the auto stopped. The two men squatting beside the driver disembarked and walked ahead of us. We drove on, weaving our way around a police check post, and then stopping again when we had passed out of sight of it. The two men, who had disembarked, retrieved their positions beside the driver, and we continued across the river to Nani daman. The driver explained to us, in Gujarati (which my wife understands), that the two men had to walk ahead of us past the check point in order that the auto would not be stopped because of being overloaded.
Later that afternoon, we returned to the bazaar in Nani Daman. We bought bananas and oranges from one of the many women squatting on the pavement surrounded by piles of neatly arranged fruit and vegetables. Amongst these, there were vendors with mountains of garlic bulbs and ginger roots, and others with tidy little mounds of fresh green chillies.
We took tea at two different tea-stalls near the bus stand (bus station). One served a strong tea favoured with ginger, lemon and cardamom. The other provided a very milky, sugary tea, whose taste resembled like caramel. Everywhere in Daman, and, we were to discover, all over Gujarat, tea is served in tiny cups, that can be finished in two or three swallows. It is invariably sugary. These minute cups provide ‘sugar bursts’ (as our daughter describes them) rather than quenching thirst. Often, two men will share a tiny cup of tea. Half of the tea is poured into a tiny saucer, and one of the men then slurps it noisily. The other man drinks the rest of the tea from the cup. Tea shared this way is known as ‘cutting chai’.
The tea provided at tea-stalls is prepared by vigorously boiling milk containing handfuls of tea leaves or tea powder, and usually much sugar. Grated ginger and/or powdered cardamom might also be added to this bubbling mixture. When the milky tea mixture has been boiled sufficiently, it is strained either through a fine (plastic) sieve or through a cloth. The damp residue in the cloth is then squeezed using the hinged metal handles of a ‘sansi’, which is a pair of hinged tongs (used for lifting heavy pots off the fire or cooker). Every tea-maker produces a differently tasting tea. Some of them have high reputations amongst local people for the tea they produce.
After our teas, we waited for Daman’s only newsagent to open his stall. Newspapers arrive in the evening, so there is no need for the newsagent to be open at other times during the day. We ate dinner at the Gurukripa Hotel. Even between the frequent power outages, the dining room was so dark that the waiters brought portable electric reading lamps so that guests can read the menu. We asked to keep ours throughout the meal so that we could see what we were eating. Both the service and the food were above average. When we left the hotel at 9.30 pm, the streets were deserted. An hour earlier, they had been as busy and bustling as in a large city.
Despite the late hour, quite a lot of shops and food stalls on wheeled barrows were still open. On our walk back to our hotel, we passed a parking area containing at least twelve Ambassador taxis, with black bodies and yellow roofs. Although they do not conform with current trends in car design and economic fuel consumption, these vehicles, which are ‘descendants’ of the British Morris Oxford (series III model), are ideally suited for rough terrain and the hazards of driving in India. They are, it seems, almost indestructible, but many taxi drivers are replacing them by newer, more fuel-efficient types of cars.
This is a short, adapted extract from my book “TRAVELS THROUGH GUJARAT, DAMAN, AND DIU”, which is available from Amazon. I hope to post other extracts from my book in the near future.
I HAVE NEVER MET the Indian author, Vikram Seth, who wrote the long novel “A Suitable Boy”, but today, 30 July 2026, my wife and I met his sister, Aradhana, quite by chance while visiting the beautiful brickwork Serpentine Pavilion in London’s Kensington Gardens.
In about 1968, my wife was awarded a scholarship to study for her A-Levels (university entrance examinations) in the UK. That year, she was not the only one to receive such an award, which allowed her to travel from India to study in England. Another awardee that year was Vikram Seth, now a renowned author.
In 1994, a few months before my first ever visit to India, my then fiancé, now my wife, suggested that I read Vikram Seth’s “A Suitable Boy” because it might have helped me to ‘acclimatise’ to Indian ways of life before I arrived in the country. The book, first published in 1993, is well over 1400 pages long. Dutifully, I began reading it, but then little of it made much sense to me, and I gave up reading the book by the time I reached page 300. Thereafter, I have not touched the book until this month, July 2026.
Since 1994, I have visited India at least 50 times, often for long sojourns, and have become familiar with many aspects of life in the country. A few days ago, I started reading “A Suitable Boy”, and I am finding it both enjoyable and incredibly engaging. Much of what Seth has written makes much more sense to me than it did in 1994. And despite it being published without a glossary, many of the Hindustani words (transliterations of Devanagari and Urdu scripts) now mean something to me.
Seth has managed to write an epic novel whose pages contain a brilliant portrait of life in certain social circles in India. Although I have only just passed page 230 (in four short episodes of reading), I feel that by the end of the following few weeks, I will have read the whole book.
Meeting Vikram Seth’s sister by chance was only one part of an amazing encounter today. My wife thought she looked vaguely familiar, and that is why we engaged her in conversation. It turned out that Aradhana and my wife had attended the same school, Loreto House, in Kolkata (Calcutta), and although they differ in age, their times at the school overlapped. In addition, Aradhana, was with her friend, Amrit, whose father, we discovered, had worked in the same company as my wife’s father.
Although India’s population is about one and a half billion, I am always amazed how often we ‘bump into’ Indians, with whom my wife can find some not too distant connection.
yamey 