THE BUSTLING KHWAJA Market in the heart of old Ahmedabad (Gujarat, India) stretches from the Bhadra Fort to the three-arched Teen Darwaja – a magnificent medieval gateway. Between the two, on one side of the marketplace, there is a 20th century edifice that is hard to miss. Built in the Brutalist style, this massive concrete building is the Premabhai Hall.
Premabhai Hall in Ahmedabad
It was completed in 1972. Its architect was Le Corbusier’s disciple and collaborator, the late BV Doshi (1927 – 2023). His building – an auditorium -replaced an earlier meeting hall, which had been built during the British occupation of India.
Looking like a giant piece of moder sculpture Doshi’s building hardly clashes with the mediaeval buildings on either side of it. Sadly, because of concerns about fire hazards, the Hall ceased being used in the 1990s. Luckily, it is still standing, but when looked at closely, it is showing signs of deterioration.
I hope that one day, the Premabhai Hall will be restored to its former glory.
MANY SHOE REPAIRERS’ stalls in India carry at least one image depicting the politician BR Ambedkar (1891-1956). Amongst his many achievements was heading the committee that drafted the Indian Constitution. Statues often show him holding a book – the Indian Constitution.
BR Ambedkar on a cobbler’s booth
Ambedkar was born into a Marathi family in what is now the state of Madhya Pradesh. His family were outside the caste system – they were “untouchables”, also known as ”dalits” or, as Mahatma Gandhi called them, “Harijans”. One of Ambedkar’s. important ambitions was to procure political rights and social liberation for the dalits.
Traditionally, and still today, Hindu leather workers (tanners, shoemakers, leatherworkers, shoe repairers, etc) were members of dalit communities (e.g., the Chamar community). It is for this reason that images of Ambedkar, who fought for their rights, appear on shoe menders’ kiosks.
AIRLINES HOTEL IN BANGALORE has an outdoor seating area where you can enjoy beverages and South Indian vegetarian dishes, seated beneath venerable banyan trees.
I MUST ADMIT that I have never been much of a sportsma, and I know hardly anything about the game of polo, apart from the fact that it involves both horses and humans. Yesterday evening, as I enjoyed a postprandial brandy in the recently renamed ‘Polo Bar’ (formerly, ‘The Mixed Bar’) at the Bangalore Club, I spotted a large ‘coffee table’ book by Jaisal Singh about Polo and India.
What surprised me is the great age of the game of Polo. It seems to have been existence in some recognisable form as long ago as the 6th century BC. Then, it was played by some nomadic peoples in Central Asia. The book in the Polo Bar has a photograph of a terracotta model of a Chinese woman playing polo. This model was made between the 7th and 11th century AD. Another photograph shows the earliest known picture of a Polo player. This depicts a man on a horse, and was created in the same era as the model.
Much of the rest of the book is about polo in India. It charts the rise in popularity of the game amongst the wealthy rulers of the Princely States and the upper echelons of the British administrators and military in India.
The Polo Bar, which until recently was known by another name, has been decorated with polo memorabilia (e.g., photographs, trophies, and horseshoes). The handle on the door leading into the bar is horse-shaped. However, for me, the most interesting polo related item is in the Club’s Gardens. It is an inscribed stone block, which was the foundation stone of the Domlur Polo Pavilion laid in January 1914 by Lady Daly, wife of the British Resident.
The stone includes the information that one Major C Rankin was “Hon-Secy” and R Evans Esq was the architect. Both were military personnel, members of the “7th (Q.O.) Hussars”. The pavilion’s building contractor was BV Venkataswami Naidu.
In “Bangalore, the Story of a City”, by M Jayapal, the author wrote that initially the race course was out at Domlur. [Hence, the existence of Old Race Course Road]. In the late 19th century it moved to near Lalbagh, and then to its present position near to High Grounds. Presumably, because there had been equine facilities at Domlur, this would have been a suitable place for the Bangalore Club to locate its polo club there. I am not sure whether anything remains of the polo club pavilion whose foundation stone stands in the Bangalore Club gardens.
According to a blog article (https://wp.me/p1YuI1-1xA) about the pavilion, this is of interest: “Information, thanks to the Bygone Bangalore group on Facebook: The Polo Club was located on Cambridge Road, in the area that is now Cambridge Layout. Opposite the Sai Baba Temple, there exists a portion of an old building which is said to be a part of the Polo Club.” Incidentally, the centre of Cambridge Layout is less than a mile from the heart of Domlur.
As for the Bangalore Club’s association with polo, the following words quoted from the Club’s website (www.bangaloreclub.com) are of interest: “Bangalore Club was established in 1868 as the Bangalore United Services Club for the officers of the British Empire. Originally the buildings were occupied by the Polo Club which moved out in the beginning of the 1860’s.”
I do not know how many current members of the Club play Polo these days. Even if it is not many, the Club’s former associations with the military ( the Club was formerly a club for military officers) and the land upon which it stands justify the naming of one of its bars to commemorate what was once known as “The Sport of Kings”.
DURING THE FLIGHT from Dubai to Bangalore (Bengaluru), the overhead baggage lockers on the ‘plane were filled to capacity with a diverse variety of often bulky carry-on luggage. This was in sharp contrast to what I observed on the flight from Heathrow to Dubai. On the whole, the passengers on this longer flight carried modest amounts of cabin baggage, and there was no problem accommodating it.
After a smooth flight from Dubai, we landed at Bangalore on time. I was excited to discover that we were being disembarked into the new terminal. Its construction was still underway when we left Bangalore in February 2023. It has been in use for no more than about 3 months.
I have only seen the arrivals section of the new terminal, and will have to wait before seeing, what I have heard, are the visually spectacular departure areas.
As for what I was able to see as an arriving passenger, I was neither amazed nor disappointed. The place has a feeling of great spaciousness and has much natural lighting. However, although much effort has been made to use ‘natural’ materials and plant-derived matter. For example, the immigration desks are lit from above by electric lamps in giant basket work shades. The desks are decorated with an external latticework of what looks like thin strips of bamboo. I wondered how long this would last before it becomes damaged by frequent wear and tear.
After passing through passport control, passengers enter a duty free shopping area. Its flamboyant decor seems to have been inspired by the ‘over the top’ interiors in Dubai’s airport terminals. Beyond this retail area, one reaches the baggage reclaim area, which seemed more spacious than what exists in the older terminal.
Despite not being overwhelmed by the visual nature of the new terminal, I must say that our passage through it was smooth and quicker than any of my many other arrivals at Bangalore’s airports, both old and very much older.
Wonderful new highways link the new terminal to the main road onto the city of Bangalore. However, after about 20 minutes speeding along, you are plunged into tthe city’s characteristic noisy, slow moving, congested traffic.
MARINA RHEINGANTZ IS an artist whose works I had never seen until today, the 31st of October 2023. Her exhibition, “Maré”, which means ‘tide’ in Portuguese, is on at the White Cube Gallery in London’s Masons Yard until the 11th of November 2023. Most of the exhibits are painting, but there are also an embroidery and a tapestry.
Marina was born in 1983 at Araraquara in Brazil. She lives and works in São Paulo, Brazil. The works on display at White Cube tend towards being abstract, but they are not completely devoid of naturalistic content. As the gallery’s handout explained:
“Guided by observations of tidal rhythms, ocean beds and meteorological conditions, Rheingantz infuses landscapes of water with a quasi-sentient vitality … Expansive in scale and richly textured, Rheingantz’s landscapes deconstruct topography into its loosest arrangements.”
Although separated from him by many years, Marina’s paintings are almost as atmospheric as the great JMW Turner’s most impressionistic works. However, she has gone further than Turner in her almost abstract depiction of natural phenomena.
For example, this is evident in two paintings (detail from one of them above) she created following a recent visit to Varanasi (‘Benares’) on the Ganges River in India. These depict in an impressionistic way the orange embers that bodies being cremated on the burning ghats spit out onto the surface of the river. Other pictures on display express her perceptions of places as far afield as Brazil, Mexico, and Morrocco.
Not far from Piccadilly and the Royal Academy, White Cube Masons Yard is well worth a visit, It would be a shame to miss viewing the artworks created by Ms Rheingantz.
Recently, I published a book, “THE HITLER LOCK & OTHER TALES OF INDIA”, which is about some of my experiences of frequent visits to India over a period of thirty years. It consists of an introductory prologue and 101 short pieces of prose. To get some idea about what the book contains, here is one of them.
“IMPROPERLY DRESSED
In August 2008, we spent a few days at a beachside hotel just north of the city of Calicut (Kozhikode) in Kerala. Our accommodation was in the village of Kappad, where it is said that the Portuguese Vasco da Gama might have first set foot on Indian soil in 1498. Whether he did or did not, we had a good holiday in the area despite the occasional monsoon downpours.
One afternoon, while we were being driven through the countryside near Calicut, we spotted an isolated Hindu temple in the middle of a wooded area. It was surrounded by a fence and looked interesting from the car. We stopped, and found an open gate through which we entered the temple compound. The place was deserted – there was not a soul to be seen. Out of respect for Hindu traditions, we removed our footwear before wandering around. I took photographs of what was clearly quite an old temple.
We were on the point of leaving this holy place when we spotted a pandit entering. He walked towards us, not looking too pleased to see us. Speaking in Hindi or English – I cannot remember which – he said that I was not properly dressed to be in his temple. We apologised, and then he asked me to remove my shirt. I did as he requested, hoping that this would improve his mood. After I had taken off my shirt, he asked me to remove my trousers. To be charitable to him, I guess he would rather have had me wearing a lunghi or a dhoti instead of trousers. When he asked me to take off my trousers, we decided to leave the temple compound speedily.
Had I done as he had asked and put on traditional clothing of Kerala, the priest might have felt obliged to make us feel welcome in his temple. But it is likely that he knew full well that a westerner like me was unlikely to do what he wanted, and instead would leave his compound. His actions were a subtle way of getting us to leave without needing to sound impolite or unwelcoming.”
And here is another excerpt:
“DIPLOMATIC AMNESIA
Almost immediately after I first arrived in India (in late December 1993), and a few days before our Hindu wedding ceremony, my father-in-law recommended that I visit his tailor – Mr Krishnan – to get measured up for some new suits. One of these was to be a white ‘Prince Suit’, and the other two were western style formal suits in greyish materials. The Prince Suit, a traditional Indian design with a high neck collar, was to be worn at our wedding reception after the marriage ceremony. The other garments would be useful for the many formal occasions, which my father-in-law anticipated both in India and England. He loved such occasions.
When he worked in an upmarket tailoring shop in Bangalore’s Brigade Road, Mr Krishnan had made suits for my father-in-law. When I met him, he was semi-retired and worked from his home in a small, old-fashioned house on a short lane in a hollow several feet beneath the nearby busy Queen’s Road. He was a short, elderly gentleman – always very dignified and polite. He measured me up for the suits in his front room, which served as part of his workshop. After a couple of visits to try the suits whilst they were still being worked on, I picked up the finished garments. Each of the suits fitted perfectly – ‘precision-fit’ you could say quite truthfully. Despite being so accurately made, they were not in the least bit uncomfortable. Everybody admired them. I could understand why I had been sent to Mr Krishnan.
Our next trip to India was made 20 months later when our recently born daughter had had sufficient vaccinations to allow her to travel safely. During the interval between these two holidays, my dimensions had changed significantly because of my good appetite and happy marriage. Notably, my girth had increased greatly. Sadly, the suits that Mr Krishnan had so carefully crafted no longer fitted me. We returned to see Mr Krishnan, who told us that in anticipation of my dimensions changing, he had left extra cloth within the garments for adjusting them. Without comment, he took my new measurements, and noted them down in a book. My wife, who had accompanied me, said to the tailor, mischievously:
“Just out of curiosity, Mr Krishnan, would you be able to look up Adam’s previous measurements to see how much he has changed.”
He put down his pencil, sighed, and said:
“I am very sorry, Madame, but I have unfortunately lost them.”
Mr Krishnan was not only a wonderful tailor, but also a perfect diplomat.”
If you enjoyed these, and want to read more, then please obtain a copy of my book, which is available in paperback and Kindle from Amazon sites such as
[For those who live in India, the paperback can be ordered here:
SOME PEOPLE MIGHT RAISE THEIR EYEBROWS in surprise when they learn of the title of my new book. Called “The Hitler Lock and Other Tales of India”, it consists of an explanatory prologue and 101 short pieces describing some of my many and varied experiences whilst visiting India frequently during the past 30 years.
My book’s name was inspired by my discovery of a company, Hitler Lock Enterprises, which manufactures padlocks in India. Despite my choice of the book’s title, only three of the vignettes contained in it are related to Germany’s former notoriously monstrous Führer. In these few pieces, I have described how I believe that Adolf Hitler is perceived by many Indians today.
The rest of the book has nothing to do with Hitler. It contains pieces with deal with topics such as: travelling in coracles; problems with monkeys; peculiarities of club life; dress code; encounters with jackals and crocodiles; teamakers and politicians; children called Lenin and Stalin; meeting maharajahs; fabulous booksellers; the City of Joy; Gandhi and his optician; and ‘love marriages’ (including my Indian wedding) – to give but a few examples. The aim of the book is to both inform and entertain, and it is written for those who are familiar with India as well as those who are not.
To be frank, I chose the name of this book to make it both eye-catching and slightly provocative. I hope that by including the word ‘Hitler’ in my title, it will not deter people from reading my text. That despicable genocidal madman is not mentioned much in the book. And I should emphasise that my text does not glorify him at all.
So, now that you know that my book is about India and its delights, rather than yet another tract about Hitler, you can obtain a copy, and enjoy it. My text is available as a paperback and a Kindle (e-book) on Amazon’s websites, including (for example):
DURING A WANDER through the rooms of Trerice House in Cornwall, which was constructed in the 15th and 16th centuries, we came across a 16th century four-poster bed in one of the bedrooms. Unlike most four-poster beds, which can be seen in many National Trust properties, this one was missing its mattress. What could be seen is a rope threaded through holes drilled around the rectangular base of the bed. A long single rope was threaded through the holes so that a lattice of ropes formed a set of adjoining squares – a grid. The mattress would have been supported on the rope lattice. From time to time, the lattice would have become loose, -and the mattress would have sagged. The solution was to untie a knot at one end of the rope, and tighten the latticework before re-tying the rope.
My wife pointed out that this latticework arrangement resembled what is commonly seen in India: charpoys. A charpoy looks like a bed frame with four legs, but without a mattress. Ropes or strips of plastic are tied to the frame to produce a latticework very much like what we saw at Trerice. In India, charpoys are used to rest upon. Mattresses are not usually used.
A lady volunteer in the room at Trerice told us that the phrase “sleep tight” originated from the process of tightening the rope that supported mattresses on beds made long ago. This is the most common explanation of the expression. However, there is another (www.straightdope.com/21342710/what-s-the-origin-of-the-expression-sleep-tight), which is based on a definition in the Oxford English Dictionary:
“… what they say: ‘It seems that tight in this expression is the equivalent of the only surviving use of the adverb tightly meaning ‘soundly, properly, well, effectively.!’”
So, it is up to you to decide which of these two explanations sound most likely to you. Or, perhaps, you know of another.
IN JANUARY 1994, we had a Hindu wedding ceremony in the Indian city of Bangalore. Although the ceremony was attended mostly by family and a few close friends, the reception that followed it had about 350 guests, most of whom I had never met before. So, as an attempt to introduce me to some of them, my parents-in-law arranged a series of parties to introduce me to some of them before the ‘big day’. The gatherings were held in the spacious living room of my in-laws’ home in Koramangala – a suburb of Bangalore. As with many parties held in India, the proceedings began with a long session of drinks and snacks (‘finger food’). The parties end with food served at a buffet. Once, this late supper has been consumed, the guests leave, and the occasion ends abruptly.
My in-laws had a bar counter in their living room. At each party, an off-duty employee from the Bangalore Club was hired to serve as barman. Back in 1994, my preferred alcoholic drink was vodka. I enjoyed drinking it either with lumps of ice or with a drop of water.
At one of the series of parties, I went up to the bar and asked for vodka with water. I was handed a tall glass (approximately 330 ml, I guess) filled with a transparent, colourless liquid. I sipped it. It was rather dilute vodka – not very exciting! When I had finished the glass, I returned to the bar, and said:
“Another vodka, but less water this time, please.”
I did not watch the barman preparing my drink. He handed me a freshly filled glass, which was the same size as the one I had just emptied.
I took a small taste of my second drink. I could not believe what I tasted: it was neat vodka. The barman had poured me a third of a litre of pure vodka. I could not believe my luck. As the evening moved on, I took sips of my reservoir of vodka, and chatted to various people – I hope reasonably coherently.
Eventually, the drinking part of the evening’s proceedings were over, and people began to partake of the dishes on the buffet. Being a member of the family, I waited until the guests had taken their food, before approaching the tables where it was displayed. As I reached a counter, I felt my ankles weakening, and I thought that I might have been just about to topple over, which would not have looked good. Luckily, the vodka had not affected my brain. So, sensing the imminent risk of falling, I gripped the counter with my hands, and thereby averted embarrassing the family.
Now, my drinking habits are not the main point of this short tale. It is the meaning of the word ‘less’ in English spoken in India that is important. If, for example, you want to order coffee without sugar in India, you should say:
“Sugar less.”
That does not mean that you want less sugar in your coffee. It means you do not want any sugar in your beverage. It has taken me years of visiting India to realise this meaning of ‘less’. That is, ‘less’ means ‘none’. I did not know this in January 1994 when I asked for less water in my vodka. I suspect what happened was that English was not the barman’s mother tongue. So, hearing, the word ‘less’, when I had asked for ‘less water’, he had believed that I wanted not a drop of water in my drink.
yamey 