Stuff I ate in Mumbai

I ate at a lot of places in Mumbai, because there was nothing else to do. Not when it was raining like that. Mumbai rain is singular, that's what any native will tell you, but there's times when it gets worse then that. The rain pounds down so hard on your umbrella, you get convinced the sky is falling in, the End of Things. The wind kicks up real strong down a narrow street, ringed by buildings, and your cheap umbrella blows out and you're soaked to the skin, your clothes clinging to you. (Showers at night become superficial, bandaids become a luxury (they fall right off). I wash swirls of dirt off my entire body at night but I don't know what the point is). Mumbai smells of wet-dog mixed with motor oil, and all the kids with their perfect hair wander around with plastic bags over their heads, looking pissed off. The Monsoon that Never Ends.

I went to go have chaat at Kailash Parbat, because I couldn't go to Chowpatty. Not in this weather. It's a small vegetarian restaurant very close to the center of Colaba, and is very well loved by the young and impoverished of the city. It's open air and gets a decent breeze, especially when the rain is pouring down, and they have every kind of chaat you could want, and tons of vegetarian food besides.

Chaat is the catch-all phrase for "tasty Indian snacks that come from the street most of the time but not always." Chaat is the lifeblood of India, the base heart and soul of the cuisine (in my mind) - it's what plain folks eat. Bhel puri, sev puri, pani puri, aloo chaat, bhala papri chaat, and on and on, too many varieties to name. Common ingredients in chaat are potatoes, dahi (yogurt/curds), chopped onion, mango, tamarind sauce, chili, lentil wafers, tomato, and puffed rice. Many chaats also involve chaat masala, a spice mix usually involving amchoor (green mango) powder, cumin, coriander, ginger, and black and red pepper. They're usually served on disposable bowls made of leaves - don't ask where they came from. All chaats share one commonality: they revolve around some form of fried dough. How can you go wrong?



My favorite chaat is bhel puri. The best way to describe it to a Westerner? Savory Rice Krispies. It's a combination of puffed rice, diced potato, red onion, tamarind and chili sauce, sev (fried strings made from besan powder), and fried papri puris (wheat bread). Most places will toss in chaat masala and chopped green mango as well. Every bhel puri cart makes it a little differently, and that's half the fun of it. No bhel puri is ever the same twice. Bhel puri is the iconic dish of Chowpatty Beach, and you are officially Doing Mumbai Wrong if you leave the city without consuming the stuff on that sandy and infamous stretch, fending off seagulls and souvenir-sellers alike. Use the papri puri as a "spoon." Kailash Prabat is said to make one of the better bhel puris in the city, and I'd have to agree. A great ratio of chutney to crunchy stuff, plenty of sweet and savory interplay of flavors, delicious and savory.



I also ordered a mixed vegetable "tawa". Pretty good, if not exceptional. Didn't really need it. Bhel puri is surprisingly filling. They do a fine thali and pav bhaji (buns with spiced vegetables) here as well. A good spot to try Mumbai-style chutney sandwiches. I've never quite "got" them.

I had come to Mumbai wanting to try Parsi food, but was pretty much totally confused. The classic Parsi restaurants seem to offer monumentally depressing menus of "Continental" stuff -think baked chicken, baked beans on toast, spaghetti Bolognese - and none of the reputed ethnic recipes of the subgroup. I remember eating at one of the supposed Parsi/Iranian restaurants and being primarily impressed by its badness. Sort of a half-assed ripoff of the omnipresent Persian and Lebanese restaurants found in the USA, with hummus that tasted powdered. Maybe the only way to get at Parsi food is to make a Parsi friend. Any takers?

I paid a visit to the Mahesh Lunch Home one day. It's one of Mumbai's rather exclusive clique of high-end seafood restaurants. The interior is futuristically blue-lit and small, and the waiters are friendly in the pompous, overly-sophisticated way of Indian servers in all quality establishments.



I ordered the rawas tikka. Rawas is India's "salmon," and it's particularly beloved here in Mumbai. It's a tasty and firm fish, and I ordered it Hyderabadi style - this means the fish is coated in a spice mixture involving plenty of green chili, and given a quick char. The flesh is firm and has a mild salmon-type flavor. Really quite excellent. Had an extremely butter-centric vegetable jalfreezi with. Bring your ghee glasses.



When I got my food, I, as is usual, took out my camera and began shooting pictures. The waiter grandly came over and asked, "Would you like me to take the picture?" Not sure what he meant. Me with the rawas - a family portrait? Taking the photograph of the food itself?

I politely declined. I always wonder what people in less internet-centric countries and age groups wonder when they see me ardently and extensively photographing my lunch. Kids these days.

I'll put together a Mumbai restaurant suggestions directory in a bit here. Seems like the right thing to do for all the major cities I hit on this here trip.

Stuff I ate in Mumbai

I ate at a lot of places in Mumbai, because there was nothing else to do. Not when it was raining like that. Mumbai rain is singular, that's what any native will tell you, but there's times when it gets worse then that. The rain pounds down so hard on your umbrella, you get convinced the sky is falling in, the End of Things. The wind kicks up real strong down a narrow street, ringed by buildings, and your cheap umbrella blows out and you're soaked to the skin, your clothes clinging to you. (Showers at night become superficial, bandaids become a luxury (they fall right off). I wash swirls of dirt off my entire body at night but I don't know what the point is). Mumbai smells of wet-dog mixed with motor oil, and all the kids with their perfect hair wander around with plastic bags over their heads, looking pissed off. The Monsoon that Never Ends.

I went to go have chaat at Kailash Parbat, because I couldn't go to Chowpatty. Not in this weather. It's a small vegetarian restaurant very close to the center of Colaba, and is very well loved by the young and impoverished of the city. It's open air and gets a decent breeze, especially when the rain is pouring down, and they have every kind of chaat you could want, and tons of vegetarian food besides.

Chaat is the catch-all phrase for "tasty Indian snacks that come from the street most of the time but not always." Chaat is the lifeblood of India, the base heart and soul of the cuisine (in my mind) - it's what plain folks eat. Bhel puri, sev puri, pani puri, aloo chaat, bhala papri chaat, and on and on, too many varieties to name. Common ingredients in chaat are potatoes, dahi (yogurt/curds), chopped onion, mango, tamarind sauce, chili, lentil wafers, tomato, and puffed rice. Many chaats also involve chaat masala, a spice mix usually involving amchoor (green mango) powder, cumin, coriander, ginger, and black and red pepper. They're usually served on disposable bowls made of leaves - don't ask where they came from. All chaats share one commonality: they revolve around some form of fried dough. How can you go wrong?



My favorite chaat is bhel puri. The best way to describe it to a Westerner? Savory Rice Krispies. It's a combination of puffed rice, diced potato, red onion, tamarind and chili sauce, sev (fried strings made from besan powder), and fried papri puris (wheat bread). Most places will toss in chaat masala and chopped green mango as well. Every bhel puri cart makes it a little differently, and that's half the fun of it. No bhel puri is ever the same twice. Bhel puri is the iconic dish of Chowpatty Beach, and you are officially Doing Mumbai Wrong if you leave the city without consuming the stuff on that sandy and infamous stretch, fending off seagulls and souvenir-sellers alike. Use the papri puri as a "spoon." Kailash Prabat is said to make one of the better bhel puris in the city, and I'd have to agree. A great ratio of chutney to crunchy stuff, plenty of sweet and savory interplay of flavors, delicious and savory.



I also ordered a mixed vegetable "tawa". Pretty good, if not exceptional. Didn't really need it. Bhel puri is surprisingly filling. They do a fine thali and pav bhaji (buns with spiced vegetables) here as well. A good spot to try Mumbai-style chutney sandwiches. I've never quite "got" them.

I had come to Mumbai wanting to try Parsi food, but was pretty much totally confused. The classic Parsi restaurants seem to offer monumentally depressing menus of "Continental" stuff -think baked chicken, baked beans on toast, spaghetti Bolognese - and none of the reputed ethnic recipes of the subgroup. I remember eating at one of the supposed Parsi/Iranian restaurants and being primarily impressed by its badness. Sort of a half-assed ripoff of the omnipresent Persian and Lebanese restaurants found in the USA, with hummus that tasted powdered. Maybe the only way to get at Parsi food is to make a Parsi friend. Any takers?

I paid a visit to the Mahesh Lunch Home one day. It's one of Mumbai's rather exclusive clique of high-end seafood restaurants. The interior is futuristically blue-lit and small, and the waiters are friendly in the pompous, overly-sophisticated way of Indian servers in all quality establishments.



I ordered the rawas tikka. Rawas is India's "salmon," and it's particularly beloved here in Mumbai. It's a tasty and firm fish, and I ordered it Hyderabadi style - this means the fish is coated in a spice mixture involving plenty of green chili, and given a quick char. The flesh is firm and has a mild salmon-type flavor. Really quite excellent. Had an extremely butter-centric vegetable jalfreezi with. Bring your ghee glasses.



When I got my food, I, as is usual, took out my camera and began shooting pictures. The waiter grandly came over and asked, "Would you like me to take the picture?" Not sure what he meant. Me with the rawas - a family portrait? Taking the photograph of the food itself?

I politely declined. I always wonder what people in less internet-centric countries and age groups wonder when they see me ardently and extensively photographing my lunch. Kids these days.

I'll put together a Mumbai restaurant suggestions directory in a bit here. Seems like the right thing to do for all the major cities I hit on this here trip.

Mumbai: Gujarati Thali Again and the Sad Story of the Asiatic Society

Another rainy day in Mumbai. I'd stopped being so disappointed - it's foolish to be disappointed by rain in Mumbai - but I was by this point growinfg bored, cooped up in a moldy hotel room with only a terrifyingly huge snail to keep me company. There just wasn't a hell of a lot to do in Colaba when it rained like this. I could sit in Barista and drink surprisingly all right cappucino, and regard knowingly the boy with a copy of Nabakov and a wispy beard one seat over. I could while away a few hours in an internet cafe that smelt of pee, catching up with my friends to the sound of the Muslim owner's Arabic pop-music, piped in the background. I could leap through puddles and slosh through buckets of mud to the local gas station to purchase a Diet Coke, listening in while a Mumbai Society Lady upbraided the properitor on his disappointing biscuit selection. These were the entertainments provided to me. At least I had some books.

I tried to visit the Asiatic Society Library. The Asiatic Society certainly had a good pedigree: founded in 1804 by Scottish judge and professional dilettante Sir James Mackintosh, the society intended to gather "useful knowledge, particularly such as is now immediately connected with India". An Asiatic Society in London followed, and the current building was finished around 1830. It currently functions as a library, with over 100,000 books in the collection, andover 15,00 books classified as rare (including one of the two extant copies of the Divine Comedy).

I was hoping for a colonial and welcoming library like the one I'd found in downtown Bangalore - a calm oasis of learning full of amiable egg-heads who might be willling to talk to me. I might even be able to find a book or two on Hampi, the ancient Vijayangar empire, a personal obsession of mine. It sounded promising.


Abroad is always under construction.

. I dutifully tramped over to Kala Ghoda, slightly soaking myself. The Asiatic Society sits in the middle of a large and impressive looking ring-road, or at least it might have been when new, back when it occasionally saw something approximating maintenance. Now it's old and the buildings ae stained with grime and moss, but they retain a certain grandoise, out of place appeal - there are not very many people here, for Mumbai, and the little park in its center is a nice enough place to while away the day. (I had found myseld trapped in this part of town two years ago, in the hottest part of the day, and had stumbled slightly dazed into this park - it was so crowded with people with the same idea as my own that we all jockeyed madly for butt-space, there was nowhere to retreat. I ended up sitting half on an ant pile next to a girl studying French: I had a nap anyway).

I am sad to report that the Asiatic Society was a vast disappointment. They were theoretically renovating it - there was scaffolding up around the outside - but the interior was dusty and dirty, and the books were all locked away. (I find locked away books in a library vasly offensive - surely thre are security reasons for such, but the browsing element of a library is destroyed, the sense of discovery mooted). There was no attendant to ask to unlock the books, and it was nearly impossible to see through the faded glass, anyhow. The rain kicked up ferociously as soon as I got inside, and I sulkily retreated to the "Ladies Study Area" to look at a book on South Indian History I had in my backpack. Cooing from the ceiling: a pigeon family had taken up residence inside the library's main room.



I had lunch at the Copper Chimney, in Kala Ghoda. It's one of those upscale North Indian/tandoori places favored by power-lunchers and Punjabi families dressed up for a weekend outing. Curiously enough, it's downstairs from a trendy buffet/gelato/Wesern restaurant, and is decorated in a very contempo fashion. I went for my usual picks - tandoori chicken, tandoori gobi.


Could someone familar with Mumbai and/or able to read Hindi tell me who this man is and why he has a statue?

It always amuses me that many Westerners don't know how tandoori chicken gets that red. It's food coloring. They don't use it here, usually a sign of a higher quality establishment. This was excellent. Lots of yogurt coating left on their.

Saleem and I had been hoping to meet up again, but I recieved a call from him around 8:00 PM, after he got off work. "It's raining so hard they've stopped running the trains from Bandra," he said.

"Jesus," I said. "That's not normal is it?"

"Oh, no." he said. "Not normal." Mumbai after all is sub-aquatic city, a city mostly accustomed to being buffeted with rain. Well, within reason - there were the floods back in 2007. This monsoon wasn't flooding, not exactly, but it was persistent, it wouldn't quit, it just kept on thumping away.

The Monsoon, the goddamend monsoon. I was fairly insulated from it in Bangalore - a town with remarkably pleasant weather - but this years monsoon has been the worst in 20 years, a remarkably persistent SOB. Well, according to this article, not the worst by a long shot. (Actually, rather dry on average) Simply one of the most maddeningly erratic. Back in the day, you knew when the monsoon would start and when it would end. Now? All bets are off.

It was pissing down rain, as it had been for the past four days, and I was the only person in Golden Star Thali, situated near the Opera House, opposite Carni Road railway station. The host was small and thin and had an extremely grand manner to him: he ushered me to my seat in a fairly theatrical fashion. "It's all you can eat, madame," he informed me, as the metal thali plate was set before me.

Christ, did he ever mean it.



This montrosity is Golden Star's 300 rupee thali. Not exactly a major investment for a comically large amount of food. It's less refined then Samrat's thali, but it's a little tastier - got more "soul" as we'd say in my native tounge. Loved the stir-fried cabbage and the variant on aloo gobi. It's not as sweet as Samrat's either. (No, I didn't ask for the ketchup. Came with). The Gujarati dahi? Fantastic. I'm very keen on all Indian dahi/curd products and this did not disappoint. You cannot stop them from pouring ghee all over the plate so don't even try. They also bring you masala chaas, a yogurt drink with turmeric and ginger. Incredibly refreshing and a fantastic way to restore electrolytes in Mumbai's climate.



This is, I believe, Gujarati Dal Bati. Basically, it's dal with bits of wheat dough - these seem to be Gujarati "crackers" or biscuit bhakris. Golden Star is very fond of running specials on every day of the week, be they unlimited Bengali sweets, unlimited desserts of another sort, or other items of their choosing. See what's on when you visit. They give you a card which, if stamped ten times, scores you a free thali. I love these guys.

Gujarati Thali and Yet More Rain

The Chor Bazaar, being damp.

I had earlier that day made a desperate and completely unsuccessful attempt at visiting the Chor or "Thieves" Bazaar in Mumbai. It is supposed to be a fascinating, colorful, and slightly maddening place, full of little shops of pilfered antiques and people who might pick your pocket, the sort of thing one wants to experience while at a bazaar in a weird old Indian city. It was pissing down rain of course, the warmish pee-scented rain that Mumbai excels at, but I decided I was going to ignore the rain, I was going to join Mumbai's intrepid and hungry millions and go out and have a look. Surely Mumbaikers, accustomed to the wet, would be out in force at the Chor Bazaar regardless of the weather. I hailed a taxi. "The Chor Bazaar," I told him confidently.

He regarded me over his luxurious Marastha mustache. "As you wish, madame," he said. Idiot, he was doubtless thinking, as he fiddled with his malfunctioning and sorely needed windshield wiper.

I got there and of course, it was totally empty. A few people in colorful outfits crouched under their stalls with ponchos over their heads and resigned expressions on their faces. An occasional auto-rickshaw splashed by, tossing mud up into the air. "Why the fuck are you here?" everyone seemed to be saying to me. This was a good question, but I popped open my umbrella and walked down the street anyway. Maybe I could walk myself into something interesting. Getting lost? Not a problem - there was always a taxi, eventually.

This was a swell plan until my shoe broke. I was left standing beside the road in a considerably sized puddle, standing on one foot and trying not to think about the detritus in the water that swirled around my feet. But this was Mumbai - a cab was inevitable. Or so I thought. The rain had driven seemingly the entire city into the tender embrace of its cabbies, and all the cabs that came by were full. I waited, damp and hungry and in a remarkably pissed off mood, for about twenty minutes until an empty cab finally sailed by.

I got the cab to drop me off at the Sea Palace and hobbled inside to sulk for a bit, at least until lunch time. On the wrought-iron fence around the hotel, I spotted an immense object that resembled a sea-shell: it was in fact a freakishly enormous snail.

I gleefully unstuck the beast, palmed it, and took it inside. I am fairly certain the hotel staff noticed that I was taking a freakishly large snail up to my room, but were probably too shocked to make any sort of comment. I don't recall a No Snail clause in the sign on the wall, so it was probably perfectly all right in legal terms.



Then we had a gigantic cephalopod photoshoot.



Work it, baby. I am getting a brand new camera - Canon Eos 550 - in a few days and am drooling with anticipation over how much better macro shots of things like snails will look with that puppy in hand. That's your nerd public announcement of the day.

For lunch, I decided to hunt down one of Mumbai's signature food stuffs. I was going to find myself a Gujarati thali.

India, like the USA, is deeply susceptible to the allure of the All You Can Eat. However, India and Indians aren't overburdened with buffets - something that may come as a shock to Americans who have never encountered Indian food outside of a steam-table. In India, all-you-can-eat manifests itself in the thali, a steel plate filled with small portions of various curries. There's a profusion of places to get Gujarati thali in Mumbai. I decided on Samrat - it was both highly reccomended and reasonably close to Colaba. I didn't want to have to swim there.


Thali plate prior to filling.

I decided to try the Gujarati thali at the famous Samrat restaurant, in Churchgate. Samrat is an old, respected, and enormous place, with seating for over 200 and a cake and gelato shop attached to it. The interior is aggressively air conditioned, kitted out in the hip colors of 1975 (like many Mumbai landmakrs) and is very clean. The oldish and profusely moustached wait-staff possess that endlessly amusing, slightly snobby old-school Mumbai appeal. Pretty much everyone here gets the Gujarati thali, a mixed plate offering an assortment of traditional foodstuffs from the Gujarat region.

There's three universals with Gujarati thali. The first is that it is almost always vegetarian, in keeping with Gujurat's Hindu heritage. The second is that it is always remarkably sweet, usually flavored with plenty of jaggery. The water in dry and hot Gujarat is rather salty, and the locals believe the sugar counteracts the saline content. The sweetness of the Gujarati thali attracts the disdain of some hardcore foodies. Me - I think it's quite pleasant in moderation. Third: there's going to be plenty of it. A typical Gujarati thali joint keeps three or four servers with pots of food circulating around the eating area, ready to top off your array of little steel bowls (whether you need it or not). Come hungry.



Samrat has got the thali thing down to a science and the plate, once filled up, is truly a delightful sight. Gujaratis love whole wheat breads, and there's papad, roti, and the Gujarati's trademark wheat bhakri bread. There's a large portion of a dry vegetable curry (shaak) made with bitter melon, eggplant, carrot, and onion. The white stuff is kadhi, made with curds, gram flour, chili ginger paste, coriander, and the ever-present jaggery. It's remarkably refreshing in the heat. The spongy looking item on the right is a sweet dhokla, made of fermented chickpeas and served in a sweet curd sauce. It tastes considerably nicer then it sounds. The round ball is a kachori, a baked item filled with a stuffing of what tasted like sweet potato and peanut. The result was India's delectable answer to a peanut butter cookie. These things are dangerous.



There's a large portion of a dry vegetable curry (shaak) made with bitter melon, eggplant, carrot, and onion. The tomato dish is a sweet-and-sour curry, followed by a curry with stewed peas, and the usual chole, or chickpeas.



Gujarati thali demands a variety of condiments. There's mint chutney, sweet tamarind imli, the classic sweet peach chutney, mango pickle, and chili sauce. Some thali places will also bring you ketchup if you're into that kind of thing. (Indians really love ketchup).

Thali consumed to the extent possible - the waiters act a bit downtrodden if you refuse their endless refills - I headed outside again. Still raining. Still would be.

Mumbai: The Prince of Wales Museum, nasty Mughal weapons, Miniature Paintings, et all

The Prince of Wales museum, captured in a rare non-rainy moment.

It was raining in Mumbai.

This was not a surprise, and especially not this time of year, this particular year. This has been one of India's heaviest monsoon seasons in recent memory - many say it's the worst in 20 years. The rain usually eases up when September arrives, but not this year, not at all. Rain has been falling in sheets from the sky for months now, have gummed up the works even of this mostly-aquatic city, are slowly turning everything to mold and pulp and musty smells. I had wished for another clear day or two, so I could go check out some of the cities bazaars, but such was my lot, I was stuck with this.

I decided to go to the museum.

The Prince of Wales museum is Mumbai's primary display center. It's old, really old, at least by Mumbai standards, and it looks it too. It was built in a somewhat lurid combination of English and Moorish stylings, complete with a dome up top and a very English devotion to granite and turrets. Set up to honor King George V's visit to India, it was designed by George Wittet, the same enterprising bloke who threw together the Gateway of India. You're supposed to call it the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya now, but no one does, except for really hardcore Marathi activists. All those goddamned vowels.

It's a beautiful museum, and provides a welcome oasis of relative peace and calm in the middle of what is perhaps the world's most ADHD metropolis. (Unless you run into a field trip group. Dear God). The grounds and garden are also lovely to stroll through, and are laced with statues and Buddhist images.

You have to check your bag at the front desk if you'd like to go in. I loathe doing this, and I especially hate doing it in India. I took my wallet and my iphone with me into the museum. Didn't want to take chances. Entry fee is a mere 15 rupees for those with a student card, but it's 300 rupees or so if you'd like to take your camera with you. I coughed up.


The lofty and rather attractive interior.

I remembered and loved this museum from before, my first visit to Mumbai. It's a somewhat disorganized storehouse of cool stuff, like all the best museums are, and their are thousands of fascinating objects d' arte, artificats, and just plain oddities preserved here. Get in early: there's usually a profusion of shrieking and amped-up field tripping kids on the premises if you come later, and that's no fun for anyone. There's audio-guides on offer for a small fee, if you're into that. I'm usually not.



This is a preserved stone copy of one of the Ashokan edicts, perhaps the earliest tangible evidence we have of the existence of Buddhism.. Ashoka, who ruled from 269 BCE to 231 BCE as part of the Maurya Dynasty, was one of India's greatest and most beloved rulers. A brilliant warrior and assidious conqueror, Ashoka later in life converted to Buddhism and became an advocate for peace, maintaining a remarkably humanist and forward-thinking government. He became an avid proselytizer for Buddhism, and sent emissaries as far as the Hellenist kingdoms of the Mediterrenean.Ashoka's trademark pillars - topped with a three headed lion - are now the emblem of the Indian state. (It is a great and terrible irony that Bihar, the heartland of Ashoka's old kingdom, is now India's poorest and most dangerous state). Ashoka's Edicts are scattered throughout his old realm in India, Pakistan, and Nepal, and provide us with the earliest tangible evidence of the existence of Buddhism. Ashoka used these stone edicts to promote and educate the general public on the basic tenets of Buddhism.




They're, uh, not all exactly progressive. (Well, what was back then?)



There's a few interesting artifacts here from India's earliest past, in the (now Pakistanti) Indus river valley.



A mother-goddess image in clay, from the Mauryan period - around 2nd or 3rd century BC. The continuity of Indian artwork can be truly astonishing.





A lovely terra-cotta relief, inspired by Hellenistic art, discovered in Mirpur Khas near Sindh. Roughly 5th century AD. This guy also bears a startling resemblance to a friend of mine. Hmmmm.



A bodhisattva image of some age, looking lost deep in thought.



A Hellenic influenced Mauryana image of some ruler or another. Mainly notable for the unusual addition of a luxurious mustache. As the vast majority of Indian men take extreme pride in cultivating their mustaches, it's surprising how rarely they come up in sculpture.


A fabulous painting of a runaway elephant, from Rajasthan. Which does not appear to be online elsewhere. The internet failed me.

The Mughal miniature painting collection here is startlingly good, and, pleasingly enough, extremely well curated. The museum has gone to the effort of presenting this stuff beautifully and with lots of information surrounding it. In my estimation, miniature painting is the height of Indian art, and the mythology, stories, and history behind the artwork is more fascinating still. Each Mughal Emperor sponsored or brought about a slightly different style of artwork, and it's interesting to see their stamp on each "school" of painting.



This is a painting from the Vishnua Purana tale, wherein Krishna is established as an avatar of Vishnu. The tale tells of a time when the earth was overrun by demons. The earth, logically enough, took the form of a cow and went to ask Krishna/Vishnu for help. As seen here.



A Rajasthani painting of two gokuldas resting after a hunt (note the very dead rabbits and gazelle). Probably from 1865 to 1808.



The Peaceful Hermitage, an illustration from the Ramayana. Another Rajasthani painting - the region seemed to produce some excellent artists - from around 1649. We even know the artist's name. He was called Manohar.



A placid Deccani illustration of two philosophers, discussing the nature of the universe over tea. Probably originated somewhere near Hyderabad.


Sword hilts from the Mughal period.

The Mughals also were quite keen on weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. I'm pretty keen on weapons myself, so I enjoyed this exhibit very much. As explained here, the famous "water marked" blades of Damascus were actually made in India, near modern-day Hyderabad. They were primarily solid in Damascus and thus earned the false title. Daggers and lances were primarily used in India until rather late in history - curved and long swords were only introduced when India's Islamic conquerors arrived.



The "chakra" throwing weapon, otherwise known as a "quoit". As the museum display noted, "it was not a very popular weapon, so there are not many examples." It is true that a throwing-star type weapon is not actually practical unless you are 1. a ninja or 2. Lord Krishna or 3. Chuck Norris.



Central Asians dearly loved their push daggers - a nasty weapon that combined the forward force of a solid right-hook with a tempered Damascus blade. Yikes.



Some variants on the beloved Indian tulwar, or curved sword. I'm not entirely sure how useful the especially wiggly one might be in battle. But it looks bitching.



The personal shield and weapons of the great Mughal emperor Akbar. Akbar, a ferocious fighter, was apparently rather metaphysical and not such a bad sort, all things considered. Although illiterate, he was extremely interested in religion, and attempted to create his own religion, encompassing every extant religious tradition into one harmonious and peaceful whole. It didn't work, but at least he tried.



This Solapith art is incredibly cool, and is very relevant to the Durga Puja celebration. It's biggest in Bengal and Calcutta, and is a pretty fascinating ritual: a "disposable" image of Durga and associates, usually very elaborate and beautiful, is immersed in water. Mumbaikers do something similar with images of Ganesh.



Solapith lion. This stuff sort of reminds me of the butter art you see at American state fairs only, you know, way cooler.


Have an informative sign!



The Prince Albert has a nice collection of art from the Himalaya region - Tibet and Nepal primarily. This ferocious looking dagger is a ritual "phurpa" from Tibet, and is primarily used by Buddhist sorcerers. The sorcerers use the weapon to "stab" the demons of the air. The three sides of the blade stand for chastity, charity, and patience - the only qualities believed capable of destroying the sins of hatred, sloth, and lust.



A fantastic bronze image of a dakini, a class of Buddhist "heroine" demigoddesses. The Tibetan word for dakini translates into "sky walking woman" - in other words, these formidable women were considered capable of flight. They are considered the female embodiment of pure, enlightened energy, a sort of metaphysical sky dancer.



The remarkably convenient "gau", or portable shrine (ideal for those long business trips). They're used to house one's personal deities, and are carried with the worshipper wherever he or she goes.



These are inscribed skull-shaped cups or kapala from Tibet. Tibetan religious leaders often use cups fashioned from human skulls in religious rituals, to put a point on the imperanance of human existence. Rattles made of human bone are also used. Whose skull, in particular, is also of great import. Skulls of executed criminals or murder victims are considered very powerful, as are the skulls of 7 or 8 year old children born out of wedlock. In case you find yourself needing to craft a tantric libation cup in the near future. Stuff comes up.



This is a kinnara, a half human and half bird creature well-loved in Buddhist art. They're seen commonly in Thai Buddhist art - look on the walls of your local Thai restaurant next time you pay a visit. They are also portrayed as half-man half-horse in other regions of India, though not, apparently, in Tibet, where this figure hails from.

I managed to forget about and thus miss the fantastic and dilapidated animal collection, featuring a bunch of stuffed Indian animals in varying states of repair, put up in extremely unconvincing dioramas. Next time. Next time.