Prema Milan

GOI

2012-02-02T08:21:00.002+05:30

.Marine Drive at 5.05 am.
South Mumbai
February 2012

2.00 am: Alarm(s) go off. (and my Grandma calls)

3.00 am: Leave for airport.

4.10 am: Boarding commences.

5.02 am: Departure from BOM main runway.

5.05 am: Pre-sunrise view of South Mumbai. (see photo above)

5.52 am: Landing in GOI. (Goa)

6.10 am: Settled into Innova, radio turned on. Only songs available are bhajans (devotional songs) due to the early hour of the day.

7.00 am: Breakfast and some email work.

8.20 am: Post blog

8.45 am: Leave for site.

9.00 am: Start work of architecture.

.Inspecting Engines.
Goa
February 2012

HYD

2012-02-01T21:25:00.001+05:30

.Old City.
Hyderabad
November 2011

"Do not wear yourself out to get rich;
   have the wisdom to show restraint.
Cast but a glance at riches,
   and they are gone,
for they will surely sprout wings
   and fly off to the sky lie an eagle."

Proverb twenty-three, versus four and five

BMC

2012-01-31T22:58:00.002+05:30

.BMC.
Tardeo, Mumbai
January 2012

(last week)

3.50 am: The installation catches special attention. An (almost) real life cardboard replication of the BMC headquarters in South Mumbai. And a group of people loitering (who simultaneously help to establish a sense of scale in the photograph). Both very odd. I pause in astonishment / puzzlement, take a few photos, and then continue on the way to hailing a taxi for the aeroport.

Welcome to M.P. Mills, the SRA complex that I call home, and a living example of the kinetic city.

P+S+R

2012-01-31T22:50:00.002+05:30

. PSR - Urban Still Life.
Sardar Pav Bhaji, Mumbai
January 2012

Parthasarathy + Stephens + Rangharajan.
(top left) (center) (right)

The Tamil Clock

2012-01-30T22:58:00.003+05:30

10.55 am: True to my cultural style (quasi-militaristic when it comes to schedule and time-related disciplines), I arrive 5 minutes early for a meeting in Fort, South Mumbai.

10.58 am: Information arrives that the person I am meeting is going to be late. I begin to twiddle my thumbs.

11.02 am: The moment of discovery. Sitting in the corner of the waiting area is an 18th Century Grandfather clock. This clock was owned by Sir Dorabji Tata, founder of the industrial empire now known as the Tata Group. Dorabji was essentially an Indian Business-Renaissance-Parsi Man.

11.03 am: The original case of the clock was replaced, by the existing case, in the late 19th / early 20th Century, a creation of the Madras School of Art.

11.04 am: The linguistic spectacle of the clock is the usage of Tamil numerals for the numerals.

11.05 am: Meeting is yet delayed.

11.15 am: Meeting commences.

11.45 am: Meeting completed. Through a series of connections (figurative), and keys (literal), internal mechanisms of the clock are revealed.

11.46 am: The seconds dial, also in Tamil.

11.47 am: Guts of the clock are visible. Essentially, the system is that of three weights, averaging 12 lbs each, existing in balance and constructive friction with one another. Yet another creative community.

Street, Mumbai

2012-01-30T21:31:00.002+05:30

.Style of the South.
Near Wilson College, Mumbai
January 2012

On the way to Fort this morning. 100% Style.

2012-01-29T09:54:00.001+05:30

.Tiwari bhai (on the right).

Bengaluru, Karnataka

January 2012

Hyderabad is a geologists paradise. Archaic granite protrusions break through the earth's surface, creating what have now become heritage structures, as well as demolitioners / corrupt politican's feasts. The layers created (pre-demolition of course) make for a richness of landscape that sets Hyderabad apart from other Indian cities.

Bangalore (city) unfortunately does not have any such prominent geological features. Peppered throughout the city however, is a collection of buildings imagined and constructed by the British. In a swiftly expanding metro like Bengaluru, such structures reveal historical layers, the cultural and economic foundation upon which the city stands. British architectural protrusions if you will.

According to Awad Tiwari and Security Bhai #2, Al-Ameen Hospital on Cunningham Road is one such existing British protrusion. Built by the European occupiers in the early 1900's, the building is currently a Hospital with a focus on diabetes related health problems, or as Tiwari bhai says, "Yeh dil ke niche wala." (That one organ beneath the heart). Adjacent to the old structure is a soon to be completed extension, which will focus on heart disease treatment and other illnesses.

Geological and Architectural protrusions, or periodic deviations in the existing environment, capture our attention. They break the monotony of the status quo, which is easy to maintain, but lifeless and un-inspiratinal. Tiwari bhai is a cultural protrusion. Hailing from Maydha Pradesh, near the U.P. border, he is a Hindi speaking bhaiya. However, after eight years in Bengaluru, he speaks Kannada, Tamil, and Telugu. The implication of course, when he goes back to his village, is that everyone complains his Hindi is kharab, gone to waste. Tiwari bhai has a great imagination with aspirations. He earns 8,000 rs / month as a government employed security guard. Per month, 1,000 rs goes into rent, 2,000 into food, and the rest, 5,000 rupees, is funnelled back to his village. Then one discovers the anomaly: his young son is enrolled in a boarding school in Lucknow, which costs 25,000 rs / year. This is the investment. Tiwari bhai's gamble. Through work he makes available to one he loves that which he himself was denied. I like that.

.Old Al-Ameen and New Al-Ameen.
Cunningham Road, Bengaluru
January 2012

2012-01-28T23:44:00.005+05:30

.New MAA airport.
Chennai, Tamilnadu
January 2012

.Kashmiri Tea @ Infinitea with friend, Virginia Tech graduate, and creative Cultural Engineer Mr. Adhvith Dhuddu.
Bengaluru, Karnataka
January 2012

Tamil Power

2012-01-27T22:32:00.002+05:30

I roll out of the airport alone at 8.15 am. There he is, the driver, holding a placard with my name predictably perfectly spelled. I smile and nod, he smiles and nods, and off we go. Now it is time to test the language barriers:

Me: Anna, Hindi?

Anna: (smiling) No saar. (How I think it sounds when South Indians say "Sir")

Me: Anna, English?

Anna: (still smiling) No saar.

Me: Anna, Tamil?

Anna: (now really smiling) Amma. Amma.

So here we are, essentially unable to communicate. Early in our relationship I make a fatal flaw, I speak in (very) broken Tamil: "Address Theriyumaaa?" This I personally translate as "Do you know the address?" Whether it actually means that, I have no clue. But it certainly means something, because Anna spoke to me regularly in Tamil after this utterance, oblivious to the reality that I was at a loss for 97% of everything he said.

2012-01-27T18:39:00.003+05:30

.Various Scales.

Northwest of Tirupati, Tamilnadu

January 2012

2012-01-26T20:43:00.001+05:30

.Rajkumar College Collage.

Rajkot / Flora Fountain

1910 / 2012

In the late 1500's, Francis Bacon wrote the contrite verse, "Knowledge is Power." As a high school student with one focus and goal in life, this verse captured my imagination. So much so that I choose the quote to reside beneath my yearbook photo senior year. (Very facebook-ish,no?) This rather limited imaginative ambition was transformed my first year of college at Virginia Tech, and the attraction of learning, while remaining a priority, took its rightful place in the passenger seat.

In a1870, Rajkumar College, located in Rajkot, Gujarat, was inaugurated. (Side note: I love Rajkot.) The motto of the school: Knowledge is Power. One knows this because today I stumbled upon Volume III of a seven volume collection known as "Forty Years of the Rajkumar College." Published in 1910, the book itself is a piece of art. Interspersed densely within the pages are plates of photographs depicting various communities representative of college life. The photos are so good they make you want to go back to film photography. While negotiating with the bookwala for the rate, one of my arguments was "Aree boss, this is only one volume of a big set, so it is highly incomplete." His response, "If it was the complete set I would be charging you 1.5 Lakhs." I laughed at him and said that was rubbish. Upon reaching home, I checked the book online (www.abebooks.com - here you can find old, antique, and used books) and guess what a complete set runs for: 3,500 US Dollars = 1.5 Lakhs approx). Oops.

Moral of the story: Bookwalas at Flora Fountain (often) know what they are talking about.

All in all, a beautiful archival book about one of the best K-12 schools in India, which yet maintains the reputation of a scholastic center (for both boys and girls).

If I had to make a new quote under my yearbook photo for this year, it would be: "From the broken earth flowers come up." A metaphor.

Local Train Portfolio

2012-01-26T10:06:00.000+05:30

.7.52 am Borivali Slow.

Mumbai

January 2012

Grandpa is one of my nicknames in office. Perhaps because I go for morning walks, or perhaps because I read books (actual paper books - not epads, ibooks, kindlepods, etc). The above image collection is from the return journey home after a (brisk) morning walk on Marine Drive. Happy Republic Day 2012.

Marine Drive

2012-01-25T22:38:00.000+05:30

.Marine Drive.
Mumbai
January 2012

A Pre-Republic Day image of a cycling man (man on a bicycle) from the Queen's Necklace.

CTL: Cultural Time Lapse

2012-01-24T22:34:00.001+05:30

.CTL.
India

Cultural Time Lapse.

2012-01-24T22:19:00.003+05:30

Mazhar Ali Khan (continued)

Delhi, Mughal Period
1846

This zoomed in portion of Khan's "Panorama" moves left to right with the following:

Far Left: Makanat - i khavasan badshahi (Dwellings of the imperial descendents)

Middle: Fasil-i qil'ah mubarak ma'a burj (Wall of the exalted fort along with the towers)

Right of center: Khandaq (Moat)

Notice that trees thrive adjacent to the moat, because the water table will be higher in that area.

Interesting fact: The panorama appeared at an English country auction without any identifiable history and was acquired by the British Library in 1981.

Facts drawn from (pun intended) JP Losty's Delhi 360.

2012-01-23T23:56:00.002+05:30

.Naqshah-i shahr-i Shahjahanabad bar Lahori darwazah-i qil' ah-i mubarak kashidah shud.
(City Map of Shahjahanabad drawn from Lahore Gate)
Delhi, 1846

Artist Mazhar Ali Khan: A narrative topographical and architectural artist from late Mughal Delhi. In the above watercolour and gouache piece (measuring approxaimtely 2 feet by 15 feet), Khan methodically documents the city via panoramic frames, capturing and labeling 94 precise landmarks as they existed in 1846. According to JP Losty, in a deviation from the standard practice of the day, Mazhar Ali Khan was unique in that he "painted what he saw and did not rely on a previous artist's sketches." I like that.

For more information about the panoramic painting and / or the artist, visit the book: Delhi 360. Mazhar Ali Khan's View from Lahore Gate. JP Losty

2012-01-22T18:30:00.001+05:30

.Existing Hand Cart.
All over Mumbai (but this one in Null Bazaar)
January 2012

"Bhaiya, haath-gardi kahan milega?" (Where can I find hand carts) The two men sitting on their push carts look up at me a little more than bedazzled. 10 seconds later, their staring stops and they splurge the facts: Carnac Bandar. Off I head in a taxi, looking to the right side for a small hand cart bazaar. Nothing. We stop the taxi on the side of the road, and ask a subziwala where we can find hand carts. He looks up, around, and then provides a new geographic answer: Dongri, specifically "opposite a paanwala." Humm, odd but OK. Off we go towards Dongri. We reach, and not finding the place, ask another vendor where we can find a handcart maker person. He looks at me, laughs and says in Hindi "What in the **** are you going to do with a handcart." A woman buying vegetables overhears the conversation and cannot help but start laughing, even as she tries to keep the expression to herself. I give her a smile to say "It is OK, you can laugh." We eventually find the man, Baija. But guess what, Baija only installs rubber on the tire frames. So back to zero. I ask him where I can at least get the frame, and he completes the circle beautifully: Carnac Bandar. I explain that we just came from there after finding nothing, and he gives precise directions: three dukans back to back, just before a bridge. Now we are in business. After a brief taxi ride, the tree dukans are found. And they are beauties. Wood workshops, producing carts by hand with scientific precision. One problem: only push carts are available! I inform the bossman in charge that the work he is producing is beautiful, but I need a hand cart, like what subziwalas push. He understands, and gives me another name: Empire Carts, Chor Bazaar. Off we go again. The brief journey from Carnac Bandar to Chor Bazaar is filled with cultural graphics, most intriguing of which is a signboard saying "Salutations to the martyrs of Karbala." Empire carts has the goods: Hand Carts made to order, in under 1 hour, starting at rupees 4,500. So now the vendor is in place, and it is only a matter of placing the order.

Early in his professional career, Rahul Mehrotra formalized an analysis of Mumbai as a "kinetic city." A city where the forms and images that define urban life are constantly in flux. The informal and spontaneous, rather than the formal and predictable define a predominant portion of the city and its residents. For example, every morning, at 7.30 am, I hear a man in the hallway of our building yell "Pavwallaaaaa." After two or three yells he will be gone, moving down through the building floor by floor, eventually moving onto another building to sell bread. Then, at 11 am, a narialpaaniwala (coconut water vendor) will arrive at our office, and hand over the best water you will ever drink. Then, at 6 pm, a man outside our office yells "Oooooaaauuuhhhhhhhhhh." (really, that is what he sounds like). He is just yelling a meaningless noise, which says "I have arrived, now come get your bhel and sev puri." And the crowds flock, including much of our office. This is the kinetic city. Even in our office, where we have formal jobs, work hours are kinetic, as are working locations. Time and geographic consistency is nearly impossible to come by. This is also the kinetic city, even in a formalized setting.

I often take photos. There is one consistent reaction to the varied audience that often comprises compositions: people always love to see their own photo, or a photo of a place or person to which they can relate. Always. The more creative the photo, the more people smile (generally). A collision of art and the aam aadmi (mango people, aka the common people), and a founding principle of the "No-Sloths" collaborative.

Recently, a friend and artistic collaborator asked to exhibit a collection of photos I took of a building in Fort for the Kala Ghoda Festival. As I brained over the nature of the exhibition, it became clear that the formal concept of hanging images on a wall in a pristine gallery is incredibly static, formal, and absolutely out of context (not good for an exhibition titled "In Context"). There would be gallery timings (impossible for working people to navigate), an informally enforced dress code, and a general consistency in the class of people who visit the space. In other words, only a very small segment of society would have access to the images. So I began to think, and as I looked around me (literally), the next steps became clear.

The five "P's" are as follows:

1. Purchase a hand cart.

2. Paint it all white. And I mean ALL - white.

3. Place photos on it.

4. Park it outside the gallery in Fort.

5. Pray the BMC does not confiscate the hand cart as it will be without a hawker license.

It conceptually seems perfect. A kinetic art gallery in Mumbai. One could even on weekends go for a "stroll" through town, pushing photographic artwork on the go. The photos would be of the vicinity where I "stroll" so when people out of curiosity stop to look, they could relate to what they are seeing, albeit via a new perspective. In the exploration of the thought I discovered a whole new area of Mumbai, so if anyone reading needs to place an order for a push cart of hand cart, let me know, connections abound.

.Imagined Kinetic Exhibition.
All over Mumbai
(hopefully) February 2012

*Notice the practically contemporary exhibition does not even disturb the napping man in the background.

2012-01-21T16:41:00.002+05:30

.Hathi.
Jaipur, Rajasthan
January 2012

A large friend.

2012-01-21T03:17:00.001+05:30

.In Fog.

Delhi
January2012

This evening's Indigo flight was scheduled to depart at 8.30 pm. Delayed on account of fog until 10.30 pm, landing in Mumbai at 1.00 am. Slow baggage transport + massive lines for taxis = exiting airport at 1.45 am. Home by 2.30 am. Now it is 2.50 am (also the departure time for Lufthansa's Mumbai - Frankfurt daily flight) and time for resting.

PS: Remember to litter only in dustbin.

2012-01-19T23:49:00.001+05:30

.Gift.
Jaipur, Rajasthan
January 2012

A gift to me, by an engineer working for the Public Works Department (PWD) of the Government of Rajasthan.

2012-01-19T23:46:00.000+05:30

.Jawahar Kala Kendra.
Jaipur, Rajasthan
January 2012

Designed by the office of Charles Correa.

2012-01-18T22:30:00.000+05:30

.In Context 50 of 52.
From the Blue Synagogue, Fort
2008

Artisans Gallery at Kala Ghoda, as part of its hat trick exhibition for the Kala Ghoda Festival, will host "In Context: A collection of 52 black and white photographs." The photo-set is available globally, against a requested donation to Freedom Firm. For more information: rosteph3@gmail.com

2012-01-18T00:08:00.002+05:30

.CHS.

Charleston, South Carolina

December 2011

Usually I am not awake when we land late at night, but for some reason last evening was different. I watched in (predictable) excitement as we passed over New Bombay, gently making our way towards the main runway. Life below comes into greater focus with each passing second, gears of the plane's wings rotate to adjust altitude, all is on track. Then sounds change, followed by altitude. No more than 30 seconds from touchdown, we re-rise through the night sky. My mind quickly ponders over the possibilities. Then I discard them all. They are out of my control, and I have better things to do. Just outside the window is an amazing panoramic view of Mumbai, from just a few thousand feet above sea level. I take in (absorb with my eyes) the rare sight as we make a U-turn and cross back over the city. We complete the loop, narrow in on a second landing, and successfully touchdown.

(False landing was on account of another plane which occupied the runway on which we were scheduled to land)

2012-01-16T23:29:00.002+05:30

.Site Mix.
Dilli
January 2012

Mixing it up at site (PCC).

Hyderabadi Captain

2012-01-15T22:14:00.000+05:30

A true story from Saturday 14 January 2012

Sitting opposite is a Punjabi Climatic Scientist. Diagonally is a budding Telugu speaking Tamil Architect. To my right a Swiss Photographer "Person of Indian Origin." We are a creative team, passionate about our work, and equally passionate about maintaining a datum of humour in the midst of the workday. The venue is Paradise. Paradise / Hyderabad / Briyani is the cultural equivalent of Sardar / Mumbai / Pav Bhaji. Post lunch, the amicable man waiting on us brings a feedback form in an attempt to solicit inputs from the highly international conglomerate we comprise. Happily we give. Leading the way, I mull through the status quo form, giving a superior "Yes" rating to all points. Then a problem. A trick question catches us by surprise.

Question # 5

A Captain was there to take your order quickly........ (yes) (no)

Hummm. How to deal with this trick question? In the absence of nametags, I have no idea whether the person serving us is a "Captain" or not? Never assume designations, always inquire. So I call our friend over and initiate the request: "Sir, are you a Captain?" The response: "No saaar, I am the Manager." Disappointment sets in, and inform him that we will therefore have to mark a "No" to the above question #5, because a Captain did not show up. The response: "Ohhhh, saaar. Huah! Huah! Huah!" I apologize to him for the hard-line honest stance we have to take, but the ground is held. In further discussion, we agree to a compromise. I strike out "Captain" and put "Manager," and then put a check mark directly above "quickly" - so that the person reading the form will understand that the manager took our order quickly, not a captain. Happy Pongal.

Moral of the story: Never be afraid to ask questions.

2012-01-15T21:39:00.002+05:30

.Jetty.

Mandwa, Maharasthra
January 2012

If you are going to make something ugly, then it must be really ugly. So ugly that it becomes good. From that perspective, the Mandwa Jetty is a super-hit success. The new world-class three story police chowky, rumoured to be inspired by an above ground bomb shelter, follows in these footsteps.

Karachi

2012-01-15T00:34:00.001+05:30

A selection from an essay in "Time" Magazine, 16 January 2012 edition

"In short, Karachi is riven by complex ethnic and political fault lines, which intersect bafflingly with local criminal interests and national affairs. And when every resource - every job, house or bucket of clean water - is scarce, and every vote coveted, it is no surprise that the prospect of civic harmony feels remote."

RSA: (robert's summarize analysis): Karachi is in a challenging phase, and the problems are multilayered.

"If Karachi's future depends upon its politicians, then it's hard to be optimistic. 'None of the parties negotiate on principles,' says town planner Hasan, who is also chairman of the Urban Resource Centre, a highly respected nonprofit that documents Karachi's many infrastructural challenges. 'They negotiate on the basis of guarding their turf, then consolidating and expanding it."

RSA: Individual politicians ("leaders") are selfish and not the answer.

"Yet Hasan finds cause for hope in an unusual place: urbanization. The same rapid expansion that has crippled the city might also liberate it by throwing people together, he says, raising expectations and creating 'a new world with new freedoms [and] aspirations that are changing the feudal relations and mind-set of Pakistani society."

RSA: We are designed to co-exist in creative community.

2012-01-13T22:12:00.000+05:30

.Alpa technical camera with Phase One P45+ (39Mpx) going eye to eye with a Human.
Gachiboli, Hyderabad
January 2012

The concept of Architect in the singular should not exist. The more I have an opportunity to interact with individuals from various disciplines, the more I am convinced that meaningful architecture is the byproduct of meaningful collaboration. This of course flows against the global phenomena of the "starchitect," the mythical individual who instantaneously contrives master designs, and then sits back why they are built. Maybe we are, after all, designed to co-exist in creative community.

The above (incredibly sexy) camera belongs to Ariel Huber, Lausanne based photographer. The visual inspection by a random Indian male took place on a project site in Hyderabad, while I watched nervously to ensure no hands were put on the machine.

2012-01-13T21:31:00.002+05:30

.Dadar.
Mumbai
January 2012

.Telangana.
Andhra Pradesh
January 2012

.Telanganatic Station.

Andhra Pradesh
January 2012

2012-01-12T22:24:00.000+05:30

.Trees.
Karjat, Maharashtra
January 2012

"If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."

2012-01-12T22:16:00.002+05:30

.River with Water.
Karjat, Maharashtra
January 2012

2012-01-12T22:03:00.001+05:30

.Queen's Necklace.
Mumbai
January 2012

7.30 am this morning while waiting for new friends.

2012-01-11T23:32:00.001+05:30

.Chaiwala ka maal.
Ahmedabad, Gujarat
January 2012

2012-01-11T22:31:00.000+05:30

.A Collaborative Collision on Marine Drive.
Mumbai, Maharashtra
11 January 2012

I wish Ben Stamper were adjacent, filming in brilliant anticipation. In slow motion, the form of my neck would have surely been a perfect "S" learning curve. Following the jolt, vertebrae reassume their natural form in relation to one another. The surprise collision catches us by surprise. Being the (selfish) person that I am, the first thought to cross my mind is "Oh man! I am so going to be late for my meeting!" Then, I remember that there are more important issues in such a situation, and I turn around to see what the situation is behind us. A white Honda. The driver seems OK. I turn back around to look at the taxiwala and he also is good to go. In disgust, he puts the vehicle in park, steps out and looks at the bumper, and gets back in. No damage. Wow! How that is possible I have no clue. The driver gets back in, puts the taxi into drive, and we continue down Marine Drive. As we depart, I look back around and see another car behind the white Honda. A woman steps out. She is the responsible party, hitting the white Honda who then hit us. As we continue down Marine Drive, the taxi driver says "Yeh pichewale aadmi barabar brake kiya, is liye damage zyada nahin hua." (The man behind us put on the brakes when he was hit, that is why we did not have much damage.) He then continues to share his perspective on the situation. "Problem hai ki lady driver thi. Dimaag kum rahti." (The problem is the woman driver. She has less brains). Unfortunately, the driver's world is very small, and he has clearly never met most of the women I know.

2012-01-11T00:07:00.000+05:30

.Bohra Central.
Old City Surat, Gujarat
January 2012

In the last 48 hours I have crossed over Surat 4 times, the above morning sunrise (zoomed) image taken from 27,000 feet. Left of center is a yellowish / pinkish building and connected complex - Masjid Al-Moazzam: an important place of worship for Dawoodi Bohras.

2012-01-10T23:23:00.000+05:30

.Patangabad.
Ahmedabad, Gujarat
January 2012

(Kushanbhai of Ahmedabad says something ridiculous to me)

Me: Kushanbhai, why don't you go fly a kite. (This is an english figure of speech which means "Get lost." And that is also a figure of speech, which means "Leave from this place because what you just said is that absurd.")

Kushanbhai: I will, on 14 January.

Me: We are working that day. How about Sunday 15 January, afternoon?

Kushanbhai: Chalega.

Me: Great, fixed it is.
Sankranti. A threshold festival. Henceforth daylight hours will gradually increase (if they did not start already in mid-December), and cold short days will make way for their polar opposite cousins: long hot days. As if to welcome the transition, kites are raised to the sky throughout many states, with aggressive yet friendly kite flying (and cutting) painting the sky. Therefore, you can mark your calendar: on 15 January, the dangerous duo of Kushan and I will randomly select a terrace in Mumbai's C Ward, climb to the top with a handful of Manja and Patang, (glass shard coated kite strings and kites) and show the amateurs how it is done.

For those of you who do not have access to the Times of India paper, today there was an article regarding how to stay safe in the bitter cold weather that is harassing Mumbai this year. (Monday it was 11 degrees Celsius - and I estimate the wind chill brought it down to what felt like approx 7 degrees).

10 January 2012, Times of India, Mumbai edition

NOTE OF CAUTION

- Wear warm clothes. Do not ignore cold if your body feels it

- Stay well-nourished. This will help your immunity system fight viruses

- Take warm food and drinks. Avoid cold water and cold drinks

- Get vaccinated to keep flu at bay

- Avoid morning walks to avoid smog

- Be careful of air-conditioned environments. A sudden switch from a warm to a cold environment or vice versa in this season can be harmful to the body

2012-01-09T18:09:00.001+05:30

.Surat.
Coastal Gujarat
January 2012

This is beautiful Surat, with the Tapi River graphically defining the city extents. One of my top three favorite cities in India. Just left of center of the middle of the image is the oldest part of the city - extreme density is a give away. For those of you reading quasi-regularly, you may remember that Surat used to be a major trading port - directly linked to Bandar Abbas in Iran (see previous cloudy images).

2012-01-09T17:57:00.002+05:30

.Dry Gujarat.
(that is an ironic play on words)
January 2012

The "W" shaped dark object on the right of the dry river is a check dam - built to collect rainwater of the monsoon.

2012-01-09T17:53:00.001+05:30

.Salt Pans.
Northern Mumbai Metropolitan Region
(around Virar region)
January 2012

2012-01-09T17:51:00.003+05:30

.Island Fort.
Northwest of Mumbai.
On the coast.
January 2012

Most likely built by the Portuguese, and then conquered by the Marathas, and now a small jungle. But research is needed to be done to confirm this.

2012-01-08T23:00:00.000+05:30

.Lucknow.
Uttar Pradesh
October 2011

The sign: "Do Not Pay Bribe" is the second sign one sees at the Lucknow Airport - the first is one that says: "Parents, Supervise your children. Do not let them play on the baggage conveyor belt." Ridiculous.

2012-01-07T23:19:00.002+05:30

.Chuckbhai.
Global Collaboration
January 2012

A real conversation from office today: (I promise we do work in office)

Me: Sexy shirt no? 1980's style.

Kushan: That is a wood-chuck shirt.

Me: What does that mean?

Kushan: Chuck Norris style.

Me: omg.

Kushan: Common, Chuck Norris! He is your Rajnikant!

2012-01-06T23:42:00.001+05:30

.Antique Books.
Roma, Italy
December 2011

"Entrepreneurs are simply those who understand that there is little difference between obstacle and opportunity and are able to turn both to their advantage." Niccolo Machiavelli, 16 Century, Italian

Machiavelli's most famous work, Il Principe (The Prince), illuminated in written format one of the most relevant dilemmas of all centuries and societies: the relationship between the means and end. Ratan Tata's critique on the book would no doubt be a vibrant dialogue. Ratan Tata, a Cornell and Harvard University graduate, and current Chairman of Tata Sons, is one of the few individuals who consistently and publically addresses such philosophical issues through pro-active actions. Consciously or unconsciously, Mr. Tata, elevates the sophistication of the day's financial news through performance statistics combined with ethical analysis. Rarely allowing isolated numbers to define the success of the Tata Group, one more often than not gathers such information with an accompanying narrative, often highly personalized. The why and how of figures are presented, not just numerical facts.
Thanks to Mr. Ratan Tata's combination of courage and vulnerability, the Times Business page attains a contextualized sensibility, welcome news for financial laymen.

"[The Tata group] will deal with corruption the same way as they have, that is by not participating, sometimes to a great cost to the corporation. The fact is that one hopes for an India....where no one is above the law, and there's no preferential permits or approvals...such that all aren't considered on a similar basis."

"I don't think we were adequately ready with an advertising campaign, a dealer network. In sum, I don't consider it [Nano] to be a flop. I consider that we have wasted an early opportunity."

- Ratan Tata, Times of India, 6 January 2012, Reuters

2012-01-06T21:41:00.000+05:30

.False Teeth.
Bhilwara, Rajasthan
November 2009

2012-01-05T23:24:00.002+05:30

.Colloseo.
Roma, Italy
December 2011
(no relation to the post below)

A middle of the day conversation over tea today:

Rajeshbhai: "Teri umer kitna hai? (What is your age?)
Me: 27
Rajeshbhai: "Shaadi nahin hui?" (You are not married?)
Me: Nahin. (No)
Rajeshbhai: "Kuch plan hai kya?" (Do you have any plan?)
Me: "Abhi kuch nahin hai. Karna pardega na?" (No plans at the moment, but I should make some perhaps)
Rajeshbhai: "Kabhi? Buddha hone ke baad?" (When, after becoming an old man?)

(and with this elegant rhetorical gesture Rajesh glares at me and swifly makes his way out of the pantry and back into the office space - where he greets me with a wide smile that says "I was just kidding....kind of.")

2012-01-04T23:34:00.000+05:30

.Ben.
Grant Road (western platform)
Mumbai
Decmeber 2011

Meet Ben. Ben is an artist. Benjamin (something) Stamper is his full name (I think). But you can call him Ben. That is his dak naam. (Bengali for "nickname")

When you hand out blank paper and crayons to a group of primary school students, (almost) everyone is content and happily occupied. Occupied creating works of art, manifestations of a growing imagination. Then something happens. As we become older, we become less creative, more predictable, and less artistically careless. Slowly but surely, we become passive absorbers of the world around us. Our standards and aspirations become that which we can see and observe within our attainable sphere of influence. And then periodically, a defiant one barges into the picture. They come out of nowhere, artists with a childlike passion, oblivious to the demands and expectations of those around them. And we need them. We need individuals who expand our imagination, who never let go of the crayons from primary school. Ben is one such person.

You can read more about Ben Stamper and his contemporary film work in association with Freedom Firm at www.horseandriderfilm.com/gallery-2/

2012-01-04T00:55:00.000+05:30

.Bandar Abbas.
Iran (image courtesy Google Earth)
January 2012

Beneath the clouds (see cloudy image below) is the colouristically earthy port city of Bandar Abbas. In existence since the mid 500's BC, the port used to share close links and direct trade with the growing Indian port city of Surat, Gujarat. Then Bombay came along and spoiled the party! Today Bandar Abbas is home to Iran's main navy base, and gatekeeper of the Strait of Hormuz.

2012-01-02T01:02:00.000+05:30

.Iranian Clouds.
January 2012
North of Bandar Abbas

Happy 2012 !!!

2011-12-31T05:14:00.003+05:30

.Chalta Hai.
(Old Airport)
Banaras, India
2009
This is why India (desperately) needs graphic design professionals, as well as a client population with aspirations beyond "Chalta Hai." My unfortunate favorite is the bottom line: "First Aid Facility is available in the Fire Section." The Fire Section? What does that even mean!?!?

2011-12-31T05:12:00.001+05:30

.Self-Explanatory.

2011-12-31T05:10:00.003+05:30

.American Newspapers.
(final year thesis at VT)
[no relation to the post below]
2007

The doorbell is the noise of a mechanized mosquito on an express route (in a hurry). It must be designed to jolt anyone out of an abyss. The only time I ever successfully slept through it was via an intoxication that would later be diagnosed as Dengue Fever. When buzzers buzz, they must enjoy it in a repetitive manner, because the buzzing continues until there are results. On my last day in India in 2011, the buzzer was buzzed, and the following short story was had.

I rotate the lock 30 degrees counter clockwise, open the door, and staring back at me is the local raddiwala (recycling boy), asking "Kuch hai Uncle?" (Uncle, is there anything?) Today there was. I was going to my village the next day, so wanted to clean up as much as possible so as to have a crisp and clean residential environment upon returning in the evenly numbered new year. We began with the newspapers. An adolescent stack sat very quietly on top of the larger cupboard, and this was the first task. After densifying the papers (stacking them as efficiently as possible and wrapping with string), he puts them aside. The next task, floors. On a mango day (normal day) I usually clean on my own floors (it is therapeutic, trust me), but due to time constraints I seek his assistance. The problem is that the freshly made paper stack is on the floor. And where there is a paper stack, there is dust. And where there is dust, there are not clean floors. So I make a recommendation:

"Dhost, papers bahar rakho." (Friend, put the papers outside in the hallway.)

"Nahin Uncle, koi toh liki jayega." (No Uncle, someone will take them.)

"Aree yaar, kya bat karta hai. Aise kuch nahin huega." (Boss, what madness are you saying. Nothing at all like that will happen.)

He concedes and places the papers outside in the hallway, directly adjacent to the door (and doorbell). We take off cleaning the floors. Fifteen minutes later, the floors are clean, financial transactions are completed, and the raddiwala makes for the exit. He opens the door, looks down, looks around, and then looks back at me. Coldly and silently. His eyes say it. The paper is gone. Then he verbalizes what I already know. "Uncle, papar nahin hai. Koi toh chori kiya. Main bola tha." (Uncle, the papers are gone. Someone stole them. I told you so.)..........Oops, my bad!

As unfortunate as it is that someone stole the newspaper stack, the cultural message is lovely. Everything has value (even if it is primarily financial) and a chance at second life. Moral of the story:
Guard your densified newspaper stack well.

2011-12-30T02:11:00.001+05:30

.Dadi.
(Paternal Grandmother)
Our garage, South Carolina
(The garage was also a miniature street hockey rink, hence the goalie stick in hand. We would smash holes in gypsum board walls like monkeys dig holes in swiss cheese).

Last year I met a family of friends in Mumbai as they visited from Dubai. (how should that phrase be said? they are friends, but one family) We planned to meet at Dadar station. The daughter in the family asked her mom, "How will we recognize him?" To which the mother replid, "Just look for a white guy in a checkered shirt." And she was right. The checkered style is a consistent flow.

2011-12-29T09:49:00.004+05:30

.The Court.

Sangaree, South Carolina

December 2011

It was a consistent problem. Missing belts. No matter where she searched, they could notbe found. Curiosity gave way to defeat,and it was assumed they were gone as per a bizarre yet catastrophic domesticdisaster. Then, one day, I came walkingdown the street, and the mystery was solved.

Mom: So that is where all my belts went!

Me: (Looking down at the cardboard layers wrapped around mylegs) Do you need these? There were so many belts in the drawer I justtook a few. We really needed them for the goalie pads.

It was the 1990's. The movie Mighty Ducks ran athletic shock waves through America, and theSouth Carolina Stingrays set up their home in Charleston. The impact was cultural. It began with street hockey. A few high school students in my neighborhoodwere playing at a local hoopless basketball court. And they needed a goalie. Robert to the rescue. The day we met we wanted to play. I had no money, no car (I was only around 12years old), and no equipment. However,thanks to a creative bent, we made due with available materials: lots of trashbound cardboard and six belts (my Mom's belts). After hand crafting the pads, painting them red for "intimidationeffect," off we went down the street - ready to play. Games would go on for hours on end, even ifit was 100 degrees outside. What startedas a curious interest morphed into a passion. Street hockey absorbed every free moment. We gradually became more sophisticated. The group of us playing would do odd jobs toearn money for equipment: mowing grass, washing cars, etc. With our newfound liquidity we purchased new rollerblades, hockey sticks, helmets, nets, roller pucks, and me, some quasi propergoalie equipment (so I would not go home with welts all over my body). The court became the center of the grassrootssports-culture transforming scene, buzzing vibrantly on any given weekend. We were making it big.

Then, one day, a man stopped by our house. He had seen meplaying goalie at the court, and asked my parents if I ever played icehockey. Ice hockey? In South Carolina?Of course not. But times were changing (andhad already changed). Thanks to the newECHL semi-pro team, the Stingrays, ice hockey was now a plausible sport in thestate that started the Civil War over a hundred years ago. Ice hockey would go on to become thegravitational center of my life outside of school. By the age of 15 I was playing in the localmen's league, with either a practice or a game three nights a week. It was during this time that I acquired aCanadian-ish accent, which would throw off many friends years later at VirginiaTech, who chose not to believe that I was from South Carolina. Around 9th grade, multiple friends andacquaintances recommended that I go to a boarding school in the northeast tofocus on ice hockey. It was somethingthat we thought about and discussed, but thanks to the wise reasoning of myparents, this was decided against. Virginia Tech was the college of choice for further studies, and thefact that they had a team was an important plus point in favor of this decision. The first semester I would play for VT,making the 1 hour drive from Blacksburg to Roanoke once a week for practicethat started at 11.30 pm and ended at 1.00 am. Needless to say, I realized quickly that such a lifestyle was notcompatible or conducive to my growth as a student of Architecture. Then, in the midst of my second semester, Ifiled for an early retirement.

(Today I visited the "court" where it all started,and absolutely nothing has changed since the 1990's!)

2011-12-29T09:39:00.002+05:30

2011-12-29T07:11:00.001+05:30

.At Lowes.
Summerville, South Carolina
December 2011

Multitasking:

1. Drinking Starbucks warm beverage.
2. Studying a magnet to confirm it is what I am looking for.
3. Posing for a photoshoot being orchestrated by my Mom (and a budding photographer).
4. Fashion modeling for second hand clothing (jackets) from Germany.

On a serious note, walking through Lowes is a breath of fresh air. Every major signboard in the store is bilingual - English and Espanol (Spanish). I think that is just great and begins to respond to the incredible contribution made by foreigners to the American workforce. Thank you Lowes - the true American Hardware and Home Improvement Store!

2011-12-28T20:18:00.001+05:30

.Hands.
North India
December 2011

Hands work to provide for a family in the village.

2011-12-27T23:46:00.000+05:30

.Glocal Still - Life.
Shell Gas Station
North Carolina
December 2011

A Glocal still life (global + local), with the following components (right to left):

1. CD player with Qawwalis of Rahat Fateh Ali Khan of Pakistan.
2. Peanut crock pot. (sounds disgusting, no?)
3. Vending Machine for cold drinks.
4. Black framed photo above the sink of Mumbai's Imperial Towers - a Christmas gift from Robert to Virendrabhai in 2009.
5. Door to service area.

(Not pictured: Virendrabhai, owner of the station, and a dear friend to our family since first meeting while paying for gasoline in 2009.)

2011-12-27T21:47:00.001+05:30

My Great Grandfather Cope in 1917, stationed in Bangalore, India with the British Army. Me in Banaras in 2009. My Grandma (written about below in previous posts) "forgot" about this part of the family story until last year!

2011-12-27T20:39:00.002+05:30

.Southern Culture.
Interstate 77, North Carolina
December 2011

Watch out for the shotgun in the window!

*Photo by my mom (yes, she is learning slowly). Cropping and colour editing by me.

2011-12-27T20:29:00.004+05:30

This is starting to get a bit creepy now. My Grandfather with a British cat in 1945. Me with a (South) Indian cat in 2009.

2011-12-27T20:15:00.004+05:30

Two days ago I was in Summerville, SC, and saw this sign for the Fire Door. I decided to do two things: 1. Block the door. 2. Take a posed photo. My mom was embarrased to say the least clicking this photo as "normal" people walked by and stared. Then, yesterday I discovered this photograph of my Gandfather from 1945. Now it all makes sense!!! We are hereditarily cracked! Same eyebrow bent, same sad sense of humour. Same first name.

2011-12-27T19:58:00.000+05:30

.My Mom.!!!
United States of America
December 1969 + 2011

2011-12-27T11:11:00.000+05:30

.My Grandma - Joan Cope.
(British Passport)
London, United Kingdom
November 1945

The Box Room.

She enters the box room. Broken summer light streams into the 10' x 10' room through two windows, coupled with streams of wind that circulate otherwise stagnant air. At least the wind does not take sides - an unconscious observation that flows through her mind. Sitting down, she commences the creative process - a combination of tactical hand + eye coordination and mathematical planning via design stitches. The challenge at hand: make something beautiful, very beautiful, with limited, very limited resources. This is the season of rationing: 1943, the middle of World War II. She is 20 years old, in the birth of her adult life as well as a global conflict which threatens to cripple western civilization.

Time spent turning the sewing machine is therapeutic. It takes her mind off the war. Off associated uncertainties. Off the boyfriend stationed in Egypt who feels more distant with each passing month. For those solitary creative moments, she is able to focus clearly and passionately.

After hours of stitching, she looks down, and is pleased. The main body of the lone grey dress is laid on one desk, and two interchangeable collars are laid on the other. One collar has the initials "JC" on it - Joan Cope, and the other collar is plain. The collars will be practical - they will give the impression of a second dress via adjustment of an embellishment. Her mind wanders for a moment about the next dance where this new creation will be revealed. She begins to imagine more clearly, then Mom yells from the front door, ushering her back into the reality of Worchester Park, London. She quickly packs up every scrap piece of material (it will [must] be used somewhere, somehow) and scurries out of the box room, all the while smirking with a childlike contentment of a job well done.

Mom hands her a box with a string. It is her gas mask. She sets it down on the dresser in her bedroom, next to the door, where she can easily sling it over her shoulder on the way out. Had there not been any real problems in her life, this paraphernalia would have been a serious fashion related point of conflict. However, in light of human survival and the realities that govern day to day living, image consciousness takes a back seat.

Six Months later.
January 1944.

Saturday working hours are 9 am to 12 noon. This anomalistic timing is a logistical blessing and the afternoon is planned based upon a series of assumptions. By 12.30 pm she will meet two girlfriends at Marylebone Station, and by 3 pm they will be at High Wycombe. The three pack into the eternally crowded bogies, and place their frugal luggage on the rack above them - so as to engage with the dirt on the ground as little as possible. Each bag contains the same essentials: one pair of black pre-war satin dance shoes and an extra change of clothes. Fog. The fog hits hard, and signals cannot be seen. What should be a 3 hour journey, morphs into a 7 hour trip. The three finally make their way out of the bogey and head home disappointed. Sitting around the fire, two of the three lament the late hour of the evening that is already attained, and convince themselves there is no use going dancing at this hour. As she quietly looks down at her dress, she recalls the hours spent meticulously in the box room, sculpting this symbol of creative resourcefulness. Perhaps it is too late, maybe tomorrow is better.

Then, with a mature confidence, she rises, informs her friends that they are going dancing, and shortly thereafter, the three are on their way to the biggest dance hall in High Wycombe. They are promptly turned away. Too late, too crowded, please leave. One down, many to go. They press on to a smaller, humble dance hall, justifying their second choice with the philosophy that something is better than nothing. The music is OK, the boys are OK, and the dancing is OK. All is OK. But when you live in a nation at War, OK is good. It is very good. Intermission arrives, time for a break. The three girls huddle, boy watching and mumbling to one another about the donkeys before them. Then, a peculiar fellow walks in. She jambs her elbow into the rib cage of her close friend (both emotionally and physically close to her hence the elbowing) and says "That looks like Robert Young!"

(Time out for a cultural side note: Robert George Young was an ultra-famous American actor in the 1940's. Similarly, Deanna Durbin was an equally ultra-famous Actress in the 1940's)

The girls fix their eyes on the new guy (who is also an equally late guy), and silently gaze as he moves through the dance hall. The gazing is interrupted by an announcement on the PA system: "It is time for the Ladies' Invitation Dance." Encouraged (egged on) by her friends, she walks up to him and formally requests "Would you care to dance?" to which he formally replies "Yes." The dancing commences with conversation.

She: You know, you look just like Robert Young.

He: I am Robert Young. Robert Adam Young.

She: Yea right, and I'm Deanna Durbin!

He: OK, when this dance is over I will prove it.

The dance number ends, they move off the dance floor, and he pulls dog tags out of his shirt. They read: "Robert Adam Young. Next of kin: Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Young, Red Lion, Pennsylvania."

She was flabbergasted, floored, stunned, etc. It was a coincidence, a divine coincidence. Within a year they would marry and move to the United States of America to start a new life and family. The marriage would not be attended by her father, who was against his British daughter marrying an American soldier. His exact words were: "You have made your bed, now go lay in it." And she did just that. My Grandma.

(The Box Room was written by Robert Stephens as per the narrative communicated by his maternal Grandma this afternoon in downtown Statesville, North Carolina over very mediocre coffee)

.My Grandma.

(in a back alley - watch out!)

Statesville, North Carolina

December 2011

2011-12-26T08:28:00.001+05:30

"When I get honest, I admit I am a bundle ofparadoxes. I believe and I doubt, I hopeand get discouraged, I love and I hate, I feel bad about feeling good, I feelguilty about not feeling guilty. I amtrusting and suspicious. I am honest andI still play games. Aristotle said I ama rational animal; I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer.

To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole life story,the light side and the dark. Inadmitting my shadow side, I learn who I am and what God's grace means. As Thomas Merton put it, "A saint is notsomeone who is good but who experiences the goodness of God."

- Brennan Manning in The Ragamuffin Gospel.

Christmas (Yeshu Jayanti aka birth of Jesus) is the culturalcelebration assigned to the collision of God's goodness with ourdepravity. It seems too good to be trueand defies natural instincts. On accountof absolutely zero merit of our own, God himself is before us in the person ofJesus. He offers exactly what we are notlooking for: friendship. Friendship? What about Salvation? Forgiveness? Holiness?Isn't God supposed to give those to us, especially when we work so hard forthem? This is the depth of ourdepravity, even when it is spiritually-minded. We want (good) things and experiences for ourselves. We are selfish, acting as if it is all aboutus and our desires! We want to bebetter, nicer, more gentle, and I especially want to be more patient. Yet, he wants us (inspite of our moralsqualor / moral victories) and goes to any cost to make it a reality. We are valued and loved just that much. The beauty of the sacred friendship is thatwe are challenged to Trust. To trustthat through this friend, all goodness we desire will be given. Not earned according to our moralachievements and as per our prone to revision timetable, but given as anundeserved gift at the perfect timing of the one who created time itself. Welcome to the ragamuffin gospel. Good news for those of you like me who do nothave it all together. (in spite of a highly edited and controlled blog whichmay seem to give an impression otherwise!)

Wishing all an eye opening Christmas this year, experiencingthe goodness of the one who is Love.

2011-12-26T02:11:00.002+05:30

I used to wonder where I get my crazy streak from. Now, thanks to a series of photographs thisChristmas at home, I have discovered the source: my Mom. Literally out of nowhere and overnight, myMom has become ultra photogenic! Beloware a series of (non-cliche) photos illustrating this reality.

2011-12-26T02:10:00.002+05:30

.Family photo in the middle of the street. (minus Dad who would not come to the middle of the street for a photo) I was adjusting my glasses, as well as clutching my favorite Christmas gift - a set of bright yellow files for holding papers!
Beauregard St
December 2011

.Mom (wild looking - even though she is typically very normal).
Home
December 2011

.Mom (wild looking 2) - photo to be credited to my Grandma ***
Home
December 2011

Mom + Grandpa + Grandma
Home
December 2011

In this photo I instructed everyone to "act normal." So my Grandma acted accordingly! Ridiculous!

2011-12-25T07:40:00.001+05:30

.Welcome to Walmart.
Summerville, SC
December 2011

2011-12-25T07:38:00.004+05:30

.Masterji.
Staples, SC
December 2011

When you have nearly 30 years of experience teaching elementary school, you can pretty much sit in any school and office supply store and act like you own it. Such is my Mom's attitude in this photo at the local Summerville Staples.

2011-12-25T07:35:00.003+05:30

.Mom.
Summerville, SC
December 2011

The "No Sloths" unofficial collaboration, founded by Ben Stamper and me, strives for the infusion of art into day to day living to see the routine become remarkable. The above series of photos is one such attempt. An afternoon shopping with my mom - first when I asked her to pose, I received a very pathetic response. So I clearly informed that was unacceptable, followed by my Mom then mocking me, at which point I took a timely photograph!

2011-12-25T07:24:00.000+05:30

.Jacket.
Summerville, USA / Berlin, Germany
December 2011

Me: (standing in front of the mirror, tweaking my jacket, getting ready for an evening out with my parents for dinner).
Mom: You know, you have another jacket?
Me: Oh yea, I know, thanks.
(then thinking to self and processing the question)
Me: What is that susposed to mean?
Mom: Not much, just that your jacket is different.
Me: Would you like to expound upon that?
Mom: Well, it is dorky looking.
Me: Excuse me?!?! This is an international second hand jacket from Berlin, thank you very much.
Mom: It is still dorky looking. Dated about 10 years at least.
Me: You don't understand, insults are like energy for me. They only spur me on.

2011-12-24T21:55:00.003+05:30

.Roma Aero Port.
December 2011

2011-12-24T20:51:00.001+05:30

Paternal Histories

The jacket is first sourced, and then set down on a table at home in the evening and examined for the ideal place to make an intervention. Somehow, this jacket, with a stash of money secretly interwoven into the seams, must reach Czechoslovakia. The jacket is a donkey, a medium for transporting money back to the village where poverty is the closest family friend. An argument ensues. Where to weave the money into the jacket, and exactly how much - the two essential questions. The linguistic preference for arguing is Slovak. The children, as with most immigrant families, are not fluent in this now foreign language, and simply know that a serious matter is in discussion. Come what may, the money made in New York City must reach the village in central Europe - for that was the very reason for coming here in the first place. For leaving the family and starting afresh in this land everyone claimed held opportunity for one and all. This was the story of Tut, born in the late 1800's in what was at the time the Austro-Hungarian Empire, my paternal grandma's grandfather.

He studied until 9th grade. Enough was enough. A man in NYC in the early 1900's (especially a man named "Buster") must make money. His first job: "running the numbers." Or, described less poetically: a middle man, transporting money between those who place bets and bookies (gambling agents). Steal money, and you lose your job, and maybe your life. I like to think this is where a streak of rugged honesty entered our family. Following the bookie route, he became a daily labourer - enough to make ends meet and stay afloat. Then, in a divine sweep that would change the course of his life, he met and fell in love with a woman named Ann who was working in the garment district in NYC. Ann's father was Tut. Shortly thereafter, the family moved to Ohio, which would become their new base for years to come.

From Ohio, my dad, mom, and grandma migrated to South Carolina, to set up a new home-base. And from South Carolina, I would move to India. Almost full circle (+/- 5,000 miles).

.Tut. (my paternal grandma's grandfather)
Slovak and English speaker, and charismatic sword bearer.
Ohio, USA.
Early 1900's

.Buster. (my paternal grandma's father)
New York City, USA - daily labourer
1938

Paternal Grandpa (Dad's dad)
Ohio, USA
1950's.

.Dad. (my dad)
Charleston, South Carolina
1970's

.Me.

Mumbai, India

2000's.

2011-12-24T10:36:00.001+05:30

Minutes after arriving in the U.S.A.:

Customs Agent (CA): Where are you coming from?
Me: Italy.
CA: What were you doing there?
Me: Tourism.
CA: What is your profession?
Me: Architect.
CA: What type of archiecture?
Me: All types.
CA: Where is your accent from?
(really? Yes, ridiculous I know.)
Me: I live in India.
CA: Oh, OK. Have a great day. (stamp driven into visa)

Hours after arriving in the U.S.A.:

Waitress (WA): What would you like to drink?
Me: Water. No ice please.
WA: Ok.
(Parents looking at me suspiciously)
WA: Here is your water.
(Me, touching the glass and noting that the water is freezing - clearly the reason behind the no ice request was not understood, as the water delivered was yet ice cold)
Me: Excuse me, can I get room temperature water please?
WA: (frozen for a minute in confusion)....Um, we don't have room temperature water. Is it OK from the tap?
Me: Is it clean?
WA: Oh yea.
Me: OK! That is fine then, thanks!

2011-12-22T23:20:00.001+05:30

.Pantheon (set two).
Roma
December 2011

2011-12-22T23:18:00.000+05:30

.Pantheon.
Roma
December 2011

2011-12-22T23:14:00.002+05:30

.Il Maxxi a Roma.
December 2011

Zaha Hadid bringing contemporary back to Roma via the Maxxi National Museum of XXI Century Arts.

2011-12-22T01:04:00.001+05:30

Mumbai - the city of seven islands.

Roma - the city of seven hills.

Both sharing the same theme - people creating centers of living out of what used to be low lying marsh land between isolated landmasses. Something about human nature inherently loves to redeem. To see new value and potential infused into that which was previously lost.

2011-12-22T00:38:00.001+05:30

.Former Temple + Treasury.

.In the shadow of Arch of Septimium Severus.

.Layers of the Forum.

.The Forum.
(Mega-meeting space)
Roma
December 2011

2011-12-22T00:34:00.001+05:30

.Colloseo Roma.
(Forground: Arch of Constantine + street light)
(Super Foreground: Trees of Roma)
December 2011

2011-12-20T00:15:00.001+05:30

.Pyaar se rakh!.
Mumbai, India
December 2011

Tomorrow night I leave for my native place for about 10 days (plus or minus two here and there). My suitcase is still going strong, and I never have to worry about anyone stealing it or "mistaking" it for their own.

I would love to hear from any and everyone who visits this archive (blog) periodically - feel free to write with things you like, don't like, what you like to see or hear more about / less of etc. Inputs and constructive criticisms are most welcome. Or just a generic "Hi, Namaskar, Salaam, etc" rosteph3@gmail.com

2011-12-18T13:28:00.000+05:30

A (true) Mumbai moment (from this morning):

They eye each other on the footpath. There has been a disagreement. Tempers flare up, but more importantly, eyes flare up. Eyes are made larger by both parties and a standoff ensues. Hands are raised threateningly, only to compound into empty threats. A typical Mumbai scuffle. Verbal assaults are made. Hands raised again, then lowered. Fingers are pointed. Then, out of nowhere, one party backs down. He turns around and walks ten steps away, and pauses. Bizarre. Typically the back and forth drama continues longer. Then, the reason for walking away is established as a stream of red "muck" leaves his mouth and collides with the ground. Participant number one has been chewing gutka, which requires one to spit periodically. So to be polite, he pauses the fight, walks away, spits, and return to re-commence the argument. Are you kidding me! Only in Mumbai.

2011-12-17T20:49:00.000+05:30

.Over Construction.
Sindhi Bus Stand Metro Station
Jaipur, Rajasthan
December 2011

2011-12-17T01:23:00.000+05:30

.Inside Dilli.
December 2011

2011-12-17T01:20:00.001+05:30

.Outside Dilli.
December 2011

2011-12-15T20:34:00.001+05:30

.Some of the most creative, patient, and gracious people I know: my friendleagues (friends + colleagues).
Tardeo, Mumbai
December 2011

2011-12-13T22:41:00.001+05:30

.Chennai Metro.

Chennai, Tamilnadu
December 2011

As per "word" on the street (therefore subject to revision):

Expected commissioning date of the Chennai Metro: 2015

Underground tunnel component is comprised of pre-cast reinforced cement concrete pieces which are 30 meters below ground level (100 feet approximately). Boring Machines are imported from China but of German design.

One of the biggest challenges facing construction is uplift pressure from underground water. As per our experience on project sites in Chennai, one hits water after digging 6 feet. Essentially, there is a lot of water underneath the underground tunnel which wants to "push" upwards on the tunnel to displace it.

An infrastructural monument of modern India in the making.

PS: This is not an RMA project (FYI!)

2011-12-13T22:26:00.000+05:30

2011-12-13T22:21:00.000+05:30

2011-12-13T22:16:00.000+05:30

2011-12-12T09:21:00.001+05:30

.Chai Glass.
Shantiniketan, Delhi
December 2011

Glasses turned upside down to drain out cleaning water. (water used for cleaning the cups) This is the chaiwala I regularly visit during my trips to Delhi. He is slowly getting used to seeing me every few weeks.

2011-12-12T09:10:00.001+05:30

.Tools of a Mason.
Delhi
December 2011

2011-12-10T23:14:00.001+05:30

.Calligraphic Expression.
QMC
December 2011

2011-12-10T22:54:00.001+05:30

.QM's Balcony.
Dilli
December 2011

2011-12-10T22:43:00.001+05:30

The Complex.
Dilli
December 2011

2011-12-10T22:17:00.001+05:30

Qutub Minar.
Dilli.
December 2011

2011-12-09T21:44:00.001+05:30

.Dineshmuni and Kalidas.
Banaras, UP
October 2011

At 3.45 am, the ghats are desolate. Within a quarter day cycle, the stone slabs beneath will be packed with devotees, pilgrims, priests, pundits, and tourists. But that is later. Now, there are no sounds, no people, no sun, just a river, its banks, boats, and many symbols. One of the most complex cultures of the world in visual form, minus inhabitants.

Then, in the darkness, Dineshmuni and Kalidas. Back and forth they run. Before devotees rise and make their way to the water, Dineshbhai is exercising. He sprints north on an upper level ghat, only to be followed by Kalidas - simultaneously in the same direction at a lower level. Monotony of the morning nothingness is broken. An unlikely team, they move with a systematic rhythm, in spite of the fact that linguistic communication is not possible. Kalidas periodically barks. Mostly however, he allows a dangling tongue and sparkling eyes to serve as a confirmation of an internal joy being externalized. They stop, dance with one another (for lack of a better description), and then recommence a fresh sprint. After sometime, Dineshbhai comes over to offer his greetings:

Me: "Subha subha exercise karna bahut accha hai." (It is great that you are exercising early in the morning.)

Dineshmuni: "Haan! Main Pujari Hoon." (Yes! I am a priest)

(Why exactly the mention of vocation came in here I am not quite sure!)

Me: "Theek hai, theek hai. Torda bhakti torda shakti. ("That is fine. A bit of devotion, a bit of strength." The beauty of this phrase which came out of nowhere is that it rhymes!)

Following this statement I jokingly slapped him on the stomach - which was bulging more than is beneficial for someone of his age and build! This literary + somatic move gave way to a resounding laugh amongst us and the nonexistent crowd that would have laughed had they been present. This is pre-dawn Banaras. Controlled chaos will soon commence, long after the mornings exercise session is completed and a long gone memory but for a select few.

Soon to come (hopefully): book review of Brennan Manning's "The Furious Longing of God."

2011-12-07T22:34:00.001+05:30

A collection of real dialogues:

Excerpt A:
Me: "Ben, it's my Grandma on the phone. She wants to talk to you. Don't embarrass yourself."
Ben: (two minutes later and after a conversation with my Grandma) "Ok, we'll you have a good evening."
Me: (taking the phone back and shaking the head) "Sorry Grandma, Ben doesn't understand what time zones are yet."

Excerpt B:
Me: "Ben, can I publish some of our interactions? I'll use a fake name."
Ben: "Sure. And you can use the real name."
Me: "Then I'll say that people should hire you to film something for them."
Ben: "People hire me just for the experience."

Excerpt C:
Me: "Ben, you should act like a normal person."
Ben: "But I'm not a normal person."
Me: "I'm telling your kids that."
Ben: (defeated look)

Excerpt D:
Me: "We should scoot in five to ten minutes."
Ben: "I'm ready."
Me: "It does not look to me like you are ready. Your shoes are not on."
Ben: "I said I'll be ready."
Me: "Ahh, future tense."
Ben: "Actually, I'm not wearing shoes today."

Excerpt E: Me: (while boarding the BOM - HYD flight thanks to a free business class upgrade from Jet Airways!) "We are at the front Ben."
Ben: "That is a whole new world for me."
Me: "Welcome to my world (joke)."
Ben: (Smiles)

---------------------------------------------------

Me: (about to board return flight HYD - BOM) "Where are our seats?"
Ben: "32F."
Me: "Wow, way at the back."
Ben: "Welcome to my world."
Me: (Smiles)

Excerpt F:
Me: "Is that your ridiculous fish shaped soap in my shower?"
Ben: "Yes."
Me: "That would have been cool if you were in elementary school."
Ben: "Have you ever tried it as an adult?"
Me: (silent, but thinking to self - "I'm not going to argue with him.")

2011-12-07T22:21:00.001+05:30

A critical analysis of the Jetlite Safety Information Card in the seatpocket in front of us. A "No Sloths" collaborative exploration. (Ben Stamper and Robert Stephens)Between Hyderabad and Mumbai at 35,000 ft above sea level.December 2011

2011-12-07T22:19:00.001+05:30

2011-12-07T22:17:00.001+05:30