Humayun’s tomb, through lattice work in Bu Halima’s Gate. We’re developing an audio tour for Humayun’s Tomb and Nizammudin’s Dargah. Check it out at www.audiocompass.in.
Who couldn’t be charmed by this decal? I loved it. This is on the wall of the Yum Yum Tree, a restaurant in New Delhi where the sushi is pretty damn good.
This was Delhi. Two sadhus. Two monkeys. I asked if I could take a photo. The man in the photo said “Kyu nahin?” (Why not?) The sadhu behind him called out for money, shouting, “Paisa to de do!” I ignored him. As did the monkeys.
Spotted this in delhi. We were on its right, then its left. The van was absolutely unmarked. Nothing differentiated it from any other white van. Then when we were behind it, we found it offers some salvation. To the IRONING WORLD. But … that was all they wrote. I want more information.
Have you seen this van?
What are these mysterious solutions they offer to the “ironing world”?
(And what is the ironing world?)
Where else but in saadi Dilli? This one is a pretty old – taken from Outer Ring Road, with a friend in the driver’s seat. We spotted this one night heading back after a film, soon after the #CWG and were awestruck. A whole, huge directional sign hung upside down, pointing the wrong way. Yes, that sign is above the other lane.
The next night we were heading back, we tried to capture it – shakily and blurrily and in motion, sorry!
Well, Mumbaikars could counter that at least Delhi has visible road signage! Here, every time I go to the airport, I see a car (sometimes two!) attempting to back down the flyover, having totally missed the tiny sign on the left and then having spotted the Sahar hotel, thinking “Oh $#!%@”
Uh, so this post’s title ran away from me …but never mind. What you see in close up is a Japani Samosa. We read about this in the paper – this store run by a Sikh has been selling Japanese samosas for the last 60 years, so 4 days before I packed up my life in Delhi, we went scouring the streets of Chandni Chowk and Chawdi Bazaar for all the old-world treats. (we also bought jewelry on Dariba Kalan, the silversmith street, but the food really was the biggest draw). Here, across Moti Cinema, is Manohar’s Japani Samosa stall. The samosa is shaped like an accordion fan (think deep fried, stuffed, fanned phyllo.) The chhole, though, were to die for. (And after two helpings each, we were close.)
Since I got tagged by aditya, I’m doing a random post that doesn’t quite fit ☺
To be true to my own blog, the photo is of a place I have lived in. This cool dude used to show up and hang out in my balcony last year in Delhi 🙂
4 Jobs I’ve Had (in chronological order): Girl Friday at King College, News producer at boston.com, producer at an Indian radio station, & freelance radio content producer at my company
News Radio India Sonologue.
4 Movies I Could Watch Over and Over: Dr. Strangelove (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb), (more…)
We used to know a pair of lhasa apsos called Samosa and Moongphali 😉 Anyway, this is not about them. This is about where your samosas come from 😀 Behind the halwai, in a dingy, cavernous room is where the raw samosas – still tender in their doughy skins – await their flash in the pan. So, I’m romanticizing 😉 Sue me. But the contrast was too stark to not post. Enjoy your next samosa… Oh and the post’s title? I knew a kid who couldn’t say “samosa” 🙂
India, shining, rising and ever colourful. The travel guides gush about the vivid colors everywhere (hmm, actually, so does every book on India ever, no?)
Of course, it’s true. We do colourful very well here. We sometimes leave vivid way, way behind and move into the territory of garish and outlandish with some dexterity.
Anyway, this is the inside of a teensy tailoring shop that is owned by a lower middle class sharp-talking, tobacco-chewing lady who employs three ‘masterjis’ to do the actual tailoring. At the outer edge of this tumble of color and texture you can see one hunched over an old-timey sewing machine.
I’m such a gavaar, I did not know that the Triveni Kala Sangam (~ arts center) in our capital city has a lovely garden cafe. I was quite pleased that someone in community radio suggested meeting here one spring afternoon. Ironically, we were seated right beside this sign and it totally tickled me. Apparently art and work are mutually exclusive. And maybe meetings, they think, kill – just like cigarettes do. It’s a distinct possibility, no? ;D
(In case it’s not clear enough to read, the sign says: “Right of entry reserved. SMOKING or MEETINGS Not Permitted”)