WE NEEDED TO TRAVEL in an Uber cab from Bangalore’s Catholic Club to the Bangalore Club – not far, but we had heavy baggage. A uniformed security guard kindly agreed to book a cab. He was, he told us, from Assam – a member of the large Assamese Bodo community.
Before he ordered the taxi, he looked at us – a European man and an Indian lady, and asked us if we needed one car or two. My wife explained that we are married, and only needed one car.
I believe that the reason the guard asked us how many cars we required was that, coming from a traditional community at the Eastern edge of India, it must have seemed unlikely to him that people from totally different communities, such as my wife and I, would ever become joined in matrimony.
I was struck by his enquiry because when we have travelled in many parts of Gujarat, people have often expressed surprise, and even disbelief, when they learn that a ‘desi’ (Indian) woman has married a ‘gora’ (pale coloured) such as I am. I have described this kind of incredulity in great detail in my book about travelling in India: “The Hitler Lock and Other Tales of India”, which is available from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/HITLER-LOCK-OTHER-TALES-INDIA/dp/B0CFM5JNX5/
UNTIL RECENTLY, PHOTOGRAPHY was not permitted in the Bangalore branch of the NGMA (National Gallery of Modern Art). On a recent visit in January 2024, we discovered that photography was now permissible.
I have been visiting the NGMA regularly since it first opened a few years ago (2009). Each time I have been, with one exception, I have noticed a painting by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912). It depicts a lady leaning over a parapet beside a lake with mountains in the distance. It bears the title “At the Close of a Joyful Day”. It is currently hanging on a wall beside several portrait paintings by a Parsi artist named Pithawala. I have always wondered how this painting by Alma-Tadema has ended up as part of the collection of India’s NGMA.
According to an article published in “American Art News” (New York, 25th of April 1908), the painting had been the part of the “Coghill collection” and had sold at London’s Christie’s auction house for £966. The purchaser was not mentioned. I have not yet discovered anything relevant about the above-mentioned collection.
In connection with the sale of a painting by Alma-Tadema in 2019, the Sotheby’s auction house website mentions a letter that Alma-Tadema wrote in 1894 to the German egyptologist George Ebers. Here is an interesting excerpt from the website:
“… Alma-Tadema commented of one of his compositions, “It is a single figure girl, which has ascended to the highest point of a building to see far away out of the picture over some sort of Starnberger See, a second use of the study I painted when with you mingled with recollections… so you see my mind is still often with the dear friend at Tutzing” (letter from Alma-Tadema to Ebers, December 29, 1893, as quoted in Swanson, p. 77). While he is referring to ‘At the close of a joyful day’ (1894 …), the artist could just as easily be describing the mis-en-scene of the present work.” (That is the work in the auction.) This essay, published to accompany an auction held in New York in February 2019, mentioned that “the current location [of ‘At the Close of a Joyful Day’] is unknown”.
Well, at least, I know where to find it.
What I would really like to know is how the painting reached India. Who owned it after it was sold in 1909, and how did it end up in the NGMA collection.
ONE OF THE MANY things that fascinates me whenever I visit India is what often appears in one brief glance. It is far from unusual for there to be in one field of vision both something that has been in existence many centuries, or even milliennia, alongside something that is brand new.
Yesterday, I was enjoying lunch in Bangalore’s Kamath Hotel near Commercial Street when I looked up and saw the following reflected in a mirror. A man was sitting working on the restaurant’s computer – probably 21st century technology. Above his head, there were idols depicting Hindu deities, which were in place because the management hoped that their divine influence would benefit the business.
Whereas the computer is but a few years old, the abiding belief in the importance of the Hindu deities in the smooth running of life has been around for much longer than anyone can remember.
OCCASIONALLY, I HAVE A YEARNING for ‘fast food’ – low taste, I know! While waiting at Bangalore’s Airport (terminal 1) for a flight to Calcutta, I felt the urge for a junk food snack, and headed for the KFC outlet in the departure lounge. I placed my order,and was asked to wait for 5 minutes – so much for so-called fast food.
I noticed that the foodstall was right next to a bookstall, run by the Relay company. With my KFC receipt in one hand I hurried towards a glass door that led into the shop. Either it was locked or I misjudged its position. Regardless of the reason, my forehead hit the glass door with great force. The glass remained intact, but not I.
I cursed loudly, and headed for another entrance to the bookshop. As I entered the shop, I touched my forehead and found my fingers reddened with blood. The charming young shop assistants, seeing me and my wound, found a stool and a first aid box, and began stemming the bleeding. With copious amounts of Dettol and Povidone Iodine solution, they cleaned me and my wound. They were very attentive and concerned about me. I was touched and impressed by their gentle and efficient care.
A few days after the accident, with a smaller plaster
When an enormous elastoplast had been applied and I had assured them that I was feeling OK, I returned to KFC, clutching my bloodstained receipt. I carried my meal back to where we were sitting, and tried to reassure my wife that things were not as bad as they looked. Then, I consumed my delicious chicken offering, which the KFC staff had kindly kept warm during my long absence from their stall.
After about 30 minutes, the manager of the Relay stall came up to me to check that I was alright. Then, he took a photograph of my boarding pass. Incidentally, whilst his staff were treating me, they also photographed me and my wound.
The flight took off only 30 minutes late, and I have been enjoying Calcutta since we arrived. I can truly say my trip to West Bengal began with a bang.
WHILE WALKING ALONG Bangalore’s Avenue Road, which runs from City (KR) Market to Palace Road, I spotted a mandir (Hindu Temple) down a side street. It was painted white, and its facade was surmounted by three tall niches, each containing a sculpture.
So many layers of paint had been applied over the years that the details on the sculptures had disappeared from view. At the rear of the mandir, I saw a tower like structure – part of the mandir’s roof. This was a popular landing place for pigeons. Within the building there were crudely carved stone pillars supporting the ceiling. These looked very old. Two rows of pillars lined a central ‘aisle’ leading to a shrine at the far end of the temple.
Above the entrance, there was a sign written in the script of the Kannada language, which I am unable to read. I showed a photograph of this sign to a bearer (waiter) in the dining room of the Bangalore Club. He deciphered it for me. The mandir is ‘Sri Belli Basavanna Devasthana”. This means ‘The Sri Basavanna Silver Temple’. Located in Basavannagudi Street in the Chickpet district, this is one of the oldest mandirs in Bangalore.
Born in Karnataka, Basavanna lived from 1131-1196 AD. A Shaivite (follower of Shiva) and social reformer, he was a founder of Lingayatism. His reforms included rejection of both social and gender discrimination. According to Wikipedia: “Basava championed devotional worship that rejected temple worship and rituals led by Brahmins and replaced it with personalized direct worship of Shiva through practices such as individually worn icons and symbols like a small linga (sic). This approach brought Shiva’s presence to everyone and at all times, without gender, class or caste discrimination.” Thus, we can see that Basava(nna) was a forward thinking person. He made religious worship personal rather than mediated by caste-conscious Brahmins.
Had my eye not been attracted by the flocks of pigeons flying around the small white mandir, it might have been many years before I became aware of Basavanna and his important ‘democratisation‘ of Hinduism.
THE CENTURY CLUB in Bangalore is so-named because when it was founded in 1917 it was decided to limit its membership to one hundred. Today, the Club has about 6000 members. According to the Club’s website it was founded by the highly esteemed Sir M. Visvesvaraya (‘SMV’) who: “… was keen to promote what he felt was good in English society, particularly their orderly habits, punctuality, restraint in speech and social behaviour.”
The Club was founded during an era when Indians were not allowed to join or even enter the clubs (such as the Bangalore Club and the Madras Club), which were designed to be social clubs for the exclusive use of elite Britishers.
Shri Nalwadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar
SMV was inspired to establish a social club that admitted Indians after an unpleasant incident at the Bangalore Club. It occurred when SMV was the Diwan (Prime Minister) of the Kingdom of Mysore. When one day he was invited to the Bangalore Club he was wearing the royal turban of Mysore. The staff asked him to remove it and wear an ordinary cap instead. This insulting request upset him greatly, and led to him founding a club for ‘gentlemen’, which would accept Indians. Thus, the Century Club was born.
Shri Nalwadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar, the king of Mysore, allotted 7 acres of Cubbon Park for the use of the Century Club. Today, the Club is an oasis of peace and greenery in a city that is becoming increasingly less peaceful and disturbingly less green.
The Century Club began admitting Indians in 1917. Not far away, the Bangalore Club only began admitting Indians when India became independent (in 1947), or after that. And even worse, a few other Clubs (and other institutions) continued to admit only British (and other fair skinned Europeans) until the 1960s or later. This was quite remarkable in a country that had struggled for many years to free itself from foreign rule.
ONE YEAR DURING THE 1980s, I was in Belgrade, then the capital of Yugoslavia, on New Year’s Eve. I was staying with my good friend Raša Raićevič. He suggested that we should see in the new year at a friend’s flat I New Belgrade.
Before we set off from his flat in the older part of the city, Raša warned me to keep away from windows and off the terrace as the midnight hour approached. In the 1980s, many retired military people resided in New Belgrade, and quite a few of them possessed firearms. It was customary in those days to fire the guns at the moment a new year commenced. The risk was that ricocheting bullets might break windows or hit people out on their terraces and balconies. Fortunately, we survived the evening without mishaps, and spent the first few hours of the new year at another friend’s home, a long taxi ride away from New Belgrade.
Many years later, sometime after 2006, we were in Bangalore over New Year. My wife and I stayed at home with my recently widowed mother-in-law, who was too frail to attend a party. Everyone else in the family went out to celebratory parties.
The three of us, who remained at home, decided that we would sit together until midnight. However, by about 10 pm on the 31st of December, we all fell asleep. It was only when our daughter phoned us at 3 am that we realised we had slept through the transition from one year to the next.
My New Year’s Eve spent in Belgrade was a complete contrast to that which we slept through in Bangalore. This evening, we plan to have a slap-up dinner followed by drinks under the stars high above the city of Bangalore. I hope that all of you, dear readers, will have a great 2024.
I KNOW OF TWO Avenue Roads. One is in London. Lined with the homes of the wealthy, it runs between Swiss Cottage and Regents Park. The other one is in Bangalore. It runs between KR Market (aka City Market) and a large Hindu temple (mandir) where Kempe Gowda Road becomes District Office Road. Both the road in London and its namesake in Bangalore carry much traffic, but there the similarity ends.
Avenue Road in Bangalore (‘AR’) is mainly lined with all kinds of shops, especially those dealing in paper goods (stationery as well as printed books). It runs through one of the oldest parts of the city: Chickpet. The lines of shops are punctuated by small lanes and alleys that lead away from AR.
Old pillars in a mandir on Avenue Road in Bangalore
As you stroll along the thoroughfare, you will pass mandirs and one church. And near the KR Market end of the road, a short lane leads to a Muslim shrine, the Dargah-e-Hazrath Manik Mastan Sha Saherwadi. It is well worth removing your footwear to enter this peaceful place. The grave it contains is in a small room with a mirrored, domed ceiling.
Some of the mandirs on or near AR are also worth looking into. Although some of their facades look fairly recent, the carved stone columns within the buildings look quite old. Near the street entrance of one of the mandirs on AR, I saw two intricate stone carvings of Hindu subjects. Both looked as if they might have been carved several centuries ago.
The Rice Memorial Church stands in its own small grounds, separated more from its neighbours than the mandirs on AR. Named after the British missionary, the Rev Benjamin Holt Rice, this Church of South India place of worship was built between 1913 and 1916 on the site of an earlier chapel first constructed in 1834, and then later rebuilt before being demolished. Although I have passed it often, I have not yet been able to enter it.
Not far from the church and a couple of picturesque mandirs, there is a branch of the Kamat chain of eateries. You can stop there for snacks and a variety of beverages. This place is in the midst of the numerous bookshops on AR. Proclaiming discounted books, these stores mainly stock textbooks and computer programming instruction manuals. Incidentally, AR is a good place to find a wide variety of diaries and calendars.
Bustling Avenue Road in Bangalore is a far more colourful and interesting thoroughfare than its rather elegant but staid namesake more than 5000 miles away in London. The street in Bangalore and the lanes leading off it give one a good idea of the ‘flavour’ of the parts of the city which existed before the arrival of the British imperialists. It makes a fascinating contrast to the newer Cantonment areas that became established after the British began settling in Bangalore.
KANNADA IS THE language spoken by the indigenous people of the Indian State of Karnataka. It is a Dravidian language spoken by about 44 million ‘natives’ of Karnataka and a 2nd or 3rd language for about 15 million ‘non-natives’.
The city of Bangalore is home to many people who either know no Kannada or for whom the language is not their ‘mother tongue’. Consequently many shop signs in the city either have no Kannada or have both English and Kannada lettering.
At the end of February 2024, it will be a legal obligation for all shop signs in Karnataka to have at least 60% of their coverage in Kannada script (currently, the requirement is 50%). However, for some fanatic Kannada nationalists this is not soon enough. On the 27th of December 2023, a few lorries loaded with men toured Bangalore. They stopped outside shops and attempted, often successfully, to damage or destroy the English lettering on shop signs. They did this not only to those signs which were entirely in the English script, but also to some bilingual signs (I.e., signs with both English and Kannada script). Not only did they damage or disfigure the English script, but in some cases, they also smashed windows.
Defaced shop sign
The police attempted to restrain these pro-Kannada activists. A few of them have been arrested. However, two days later I read that further unrest in Bangalore is threatened if those who have been arrested are not released.
While I sympathise with locals being upset that many of those who have come to Karnataka from elsewhere have little or no knowledge of Kannada, vandalism is no way to promote usage of the language and its script.
yamey 