A coffee tour of South India

Don't ever make the mistake of ordering a chai in South India... for South India is the land of coffee. This is the drink of choice, a daily ritual for many, and South Indians can't live without it. If you've never had a cup of South Indian coffee, you're in for a surprise... there are many things that make it unique. 

In an article I wrote for the in-flight magazine of Silk Air, I explored the history of coffee-growing in the region and evolving trends in South India's coffee culture. You can read it here.

You can read some of my other published articles on India here.

Life in a slum in India

While I was in Mumbai in January, I took part in a walking tour of one of its biggest slums. I remember reading about these tours of Dharavi, one of Mumbai’s most population-dense neighbourhoods, when they started a few years ago and spawned a debate on ‘slum tourism’. “It’s voyeuristic to peek into poor peoples’ lives,” slammed some. “This is a reality of Indian cities, and how 55% of the population of Mumbai lives,” pointed out others. My take is that slums are certainly a facet of every Indian city and ignoring them won’t make them go away.  But I don’t know if I would have chosen to go one of these tours if I wasn’t researching a travel article on ‘off-beat’ walking tours in Mumbai...

On the bus in Bangalore

On the 201R going from Indiranagar to Jayanagar... Just after Ejipura signal, an auto-rickshaw driver knocks on the bus door and starts yelling at the driver. Apparently the bus had scratched his auto-rickshaw. A shouting match follows. The door closes and we continue on our way. The bus stops a little further away and the auto-driver is there again. More animated shouting. Door closes, we move on, stop again (heavy traffic). This time a different auto-driver is at the door shouting at the bus driver… looks like the first auto-driver has already mobilized his auto-driving buddies. Auto-driver #1 then shows up and now there are three people in the shouting match, with the bus conductor also joining in to make four. Another auto-rickshaw shows up and blocks the bus so we can’t move forward. The auto-drivers want the bus driver to get off the bus and come look at the damage on the auto-rickshaw. The commotion is now blocking traffic at Sony World signal so we move on.

The bus stops after the signal (traffic light for non-Indians) and a whole bunch of auto-rickshaws pull up too. The bus driver and conductor get off the bus to examine the auto-rickshaw. More shouting, more people. The auto-drivers’ beige uniforms now outnumber the bus driver and the conductor. Passers-by stop to see what all the shouting is about and a small crowd has formed. The back-and-forth shouting goes on for 10 minutes. The bus driver starts walking back to the bus at one point and things seem to suddenly heat up, with the shouting getting louder and body language becoming more aggressive, but he goes back to the auto-rickshaw. Meanwhile people on the bus are making impatient noises and some have got off to take another.

The small crowd then moves towards the rear of the bus to examine the body for evidence of the collision. More animated discussion. Finally the driver hands over a wad of cash to the auto-driver. He takes it, counts it, puts it in his pocket and all the angry faces suddenly dissolve. No more shouting. Everyone walks back very casually to their respective vehicles and we’re on our way again.

Packing up

It didn’t take long for our neighbours to figure out we were moving. I guess they were alerted by all the pieces of furniture disappearing through the front gate as buyers came to pick up the things I had put up for sale on an expat forum.

My landlords started getting inquires about our apartment from prospective tenants. The fruit seller asked me if we had a television to sell. The electrician told me he was interested in ‘kitchen items’, and the maid blatantly told me: “Whatever you don’t take with you, give to me.”

Then one day as we were parking the car, the security guard who’s stationed at the office just opposite the house approached us and asked if we were selling our car and for how much. A few days later, as I was returning home from the market I saw three men studying our car. One of them (who works as a driver for the director of the office) approached me and asked when ‘Sir’ was coming home that evening because someone had come from Mysore to buy the car! Later I found out from my landlord that the security guard had decided to look for a buyer for our car and take a tidy commission for himself.

We sold anything of value easily. Also, I learned it’s very easy to get rid of unwanted junk. After 6.5 years I had accumulated a lot of it.

I had tons of paper to get rid of – magazines, brochures, pamphlets. I filled several bags and waited for the paperboy to come by, but of course weeks went by without me hearing his timid knock at my door.

So one day just as I was reaching home, an older man on a bicycle yelling ‘Paypaar!’ was passing by, so I told him I had some paper for him. His eyes grew wide when I presented him with my many bags full of unwanted paper. He started pulling out his scale from his canvas bag, but I told him I didn’t want to get paid for each kilogram, and that he could take all of it. His eyes grew even wider and he put his hands together in a very respectful namasté and bowed his head, which made me feel uncomfortable because this ‘gift’ of waste paper he was grateful for was just junk I wanted to get rid of and he was actually doing me a big favour by taking it away.

Then there was the issue of getting rid of the real junk: stuff I couldn’t impose on anyone. Stuff that has to be thrown out in the garbage. But something as simple as putting out the garbage is not such a straightforward task. I had filled several bags and I've learned it’s not a good idea to leave them unattended on the roadside… because if it’s not picked up quickly, the contents will end up all over the road, the work of stray dogs or the rag pickers who open and sift through garbage bags. But how to catch the garbage collection van? By the time I hear it and run outside, it’s gone. So I solicited the help of my ever-helpful landlord who told me he’d keep an eye out for them. They didn't come on Monday or Tuesday, but they did show up on Wednesday. I knew they were there because I heard my landlord yelling at them. “Why haven’t you come the whole week?” he berated them. He told them to pick up the bags I had left just inside our gate. The garbage collector started to make a lame excuse, saying they only pick up the garbage left on street corners, not in front of houses… Then he saw the 10-rupee note my landlord had in his hand (he was prepared), and quickly shut up and picked up the bags, pocketing the tip. (My landlord then launched into a long tirade about corporation employees and how they’re too lazy to do their jobs and that the only way to get our garbage collected was to pay them a few rupees every week which we shouldn’t be doing because they’re already getting a salary. Like I said, it’s not as easy as putting your garbage bag on the curb!)

It’s amazing how liberating it feels to get rid of stuff… as our furniture disappeared and the house was slowly purged of years of accumulated ‘stuff’, I felt lighter and lighter. I happily gave away things (to the delight of the maid) and felt more and more liberated. However, once the moving boxes were packed with only our essential and beloved things, I no longer felt so light-hearted as reality hit me.

After almost 7 years, we're leaving India!

Things India has taught me

Following a somewhat related post I had written on habits I’ve picked up over the past 6+ years of living in India, today’s post is on things India has taught me.

India has taught me to tolerate noise.

One thing I’ve definitely learned in India is to put up with noise. Of course noise is omnipresent here. Mornings start with the koel birds exchanging their melodious calls from the treetops. I love waking up this way. Then the morning sounds start: the sweeper women sweeping the road, the sound of the newspaper delivery man’s moped, traffic on the main road, and the jingle played by the garbage collection van. A little later on, the pushcart vendors start making their rounds, calling out in sing-song voices whatever it is they have for sale: tomatoes, mosambi, tender coconuts, brooms, carpets. These are the pleasant sounds. The traffic noise is less pleasant: the constant honking and blaring of horns. Then there’s the excruciating ‘reversal music’ which plays whenever a car reverses and just adds to the noise pollution. On the next street there’s a marble works from where the sound of a circular saw is constant during the day and it sometimes continues late in the evening. When we first moved here the sound really grated on my nerves, but of course now I hardly notice it. Can it be possible I’ve become immune to noise? Last week there was some work going on behind the house, accompanied by loud banging and the sound of electric tools. I wasn’t happy about this but somehow I managed to concentrate on my work. Even a friend I was talking to on Skype asked me how I could stand all the noise in the background! Then at night, the street dogs keep up a steady litany of howls, barking and noisy bickering as they fight to defend their territory. And of course, there’s also the sound of the watchman’s whistle. Somehow I’ve learnt to sleep despite all these noisy nocturnal disruptions. Thank you India, I can put up with noise and tolerate it and find it almost strangely comforting!

India has taught me to not take people at face value.

I used to get upset when a friend would suggest meeting up and then come the day we agreed on, the friend in question would be unreachable and wouldn’t return my calls. I’ve learnt that appointments here are very, very tentative and last minute disasters are daily occurrences. Not that the friend in question doesn’t value our friendship, it just meant that something really did come up, like she was just too lazy to get out of the house that day. Now I don’t take appointments seriously at all and am not surprised when things don’t go as planned. In a way, I like the fact that nothing is written in stone and there’s always a window open for spontaneity.

India has taught me to take everything with a big pinch of salt.

I have noticed that people make things (and themselves!) sound a lot better than they really are. Also, lies seem to be a social necessity. These are often just little white lies about nothing really but somehow they’re necessary. For example, someone will never turn down an invitation but will always come up with an excuse why they cannot accept the invitation when really they just don’t want to attend. Everyone lies and everyone knows these lies are not to be believed but they’re there to save face and avoid offending. Somehow in the ‘West’ we put a lot of value on honesty and are scandalized by blatant lies, but this seems socially acceptable in India.

India has taught me to be cautious and distrustful.

This can be good and bad. I never pay for anything upfront… not until the goods are delivered and in good condition. I scrutinize every 10-rupee note I’m handed to make sure the shopkeeper’s not trying to get rid of a torn or unusable note to an unsuspecting customer. I realized how cautious I’ve become when I was in Cambodia in December and had booked a taxi to the airport. The travel agent had asked for advance payment and I initially refused. If you pay for a taxi upfront in India you can be sure it won’t show up! (But it works in Cambodia.)

India has taught me to be patient. And impatient.

I expect things to take a long long time and then I’m pleasantly surprised when they don’t. I’d rather pay more to send an inland letter by courier than wait in lines at the post office.

India has taught me to try to understand things intuitively and trust my gut instinct.

I’ve noticed that if someone doesn’t understand what you’re saying because of a language barrier, rather then just saying: “I don’t understand” and give up, they make the effort to try to understand by picking up on key words or trying to guess what you’re saying. And even though they may not understand the actual words I’m saying, they do understand what I’m trying to say, because they’re reading non-verbal clues and using their intuition. And it works!

India has taught me to be flexible.

I am unfazed by bugs, I know what to do with a toilet with a broken flush, or smoke coming from an electric socket, and have seen so many rats – dead and alive – and even chased them out of the house (unwanted gifts from my cat), that none of these things evoke the ‘OMG!’ reflex anymore.

India has taught me how to focus.

My powers of concentration have improved after attending many concerts and dance performances. I no longer get distracted by ringing cell phones, loud conversations and screaming kids running up and down the aisles. I also take liberties to share observations with the friend sitting beside me (but I whisper) and get up for breaks when the chief guest makes his (always too long) speech.

These are just some of the things India has taught me!

Read the sign IV

India's a land of quirky signs. After Part I, Part II and Part III, here's part IV of Read the Sign...

Why learn Kannada?

Wherever you decide to live long-term, it’s always good to learn the local language. Learning at least a few rudimentary basics can take you a long way and help you connect with the local culture.

Many newcomers to Bangalore don’t bother learning Kannada, the local language. Many people come to the city from North India and can get by easily by speaking Hindi. English is also spoken by many people here. This ease of communication is also due to the Kannadigas’ amazing flexibility: many speak several South Indian languages, Hindi and English in addition to their native Kannada. As a result, many Indians from outside Karnataka living in Bangalore for a long time don’t speak Kannada at all. My landlady (who’s from Kerala) said she never learned Kannada in the almost 30 years she’s lived here because there are so many Malayalam and Tamil speakers living in our neighbourhood.

I also have the feeling that many North Indians don’t bother learning Kannada for chauvinistic reasons. The impression I get is that since they already speak Hindi, they think they don’t have to learn Kannada, a Dravidian language which they consider ‘inferior’ to their mother tongue. “Kannada sounds like the noise that’s made when you shake a tin can full of stones,” I’ve been told, or: “Why are you learning Kannada? You should learn Hindi instead, they you can use it all over India.”

Of course knowing Hindi would make practical sense, especially when travelling in North India, and this is the reason why many foreigners living here learn Hindi when they decide to study an Indian language. However, since I spend 90% of my time in Bangalore, it makes sense to me to learn the language spoken by its locals.

I’m glad I decided to learn Kannada. It wasn’t easy though. The first step was finding a teacher, which was not at all easy. Government officials make a lot of noise about outsiders who don’t know Kannada, vehemently declaring that they must learn it. But if the government is so adamant about this, then the Department of Kannada and Culture should organise Kannada language courses and provide proper training and support for aspiring teachers. After trying a few classes with teachers who turned out to be inexperienced or clueless about grammar or how to teach languages (I wrote about one experience here), I did finally find an excellent teacher who gave me a good grounding in the language. Unfortunately, after two years of weekly classes with her, she suddenly suffered a heart attack and passed away.

I couldn’t bring myself to find another teacher after that. But I did try to use my Kannada as much as I could. Our domestic help doesn’t speak English so I use Kannada with her. She even called up her brother one day and handed me her phone, telling me to say something to him in Kannada! Then there are many opportunities to speak Kannada in the neighbourhood with shopkeepers I deal with almost on a daily basis. They know I’m learning so they always make it a point to speak it to me. There’s the market sellers, the courier lady, the photocopy man, the ironing man, the man who runs the taxi company I sometimes use, the lady security guard in the metro, and of course the auto drivers.

There are indeed many good reasons to learn Kannada and knowing the language has often worked to my advantage. The fruit sellers at the market often give me extra fruit. Either they’re charmed by my Kannada or they’re overcharging me and feel bad so they give me an extra guava or banana – I’m not sure which is the real reason!

Then there was the time I was able to avoid a traffic fine because I said a few words to the police officer in Kannada. When the right turn from Old Madras Road onto 80 Feet Road was suddenly no longer allowed, a police officer stopped our car. He explained the new rule and then said: “So what to do?” This was the signal for a bribe. Then for some reason, he asked where we were going. When I answered: ‘Manege hogthaiddivi’ (We’re going home), he laughed, and then waved us on. No fine or bribe paid!

At the airport, the immigration officers can be difficult for no reason. When I was last leaving India on a trip, the stern-looking officer looked at my residence permit and asked me in a very gruff way why I wasn’t registered. If he had taken a moment to look over my documents he would have seen that I am indeed registered at the FRRO and that everything is in order. I answered simply: “I am registered, Sir.”

“Who are you in India with?!” he barked at me next. An unaccompanied woman must be a cause for suspicion – what would she be doing in India alone? I answered that my husband is employed in India. I then repeated the same thing in Kannada: “Nanna yejmaanru illi kelsa madthare.”

The stern officer’s demeanour suddenly changed completely and his frown literally turned upside down.

“Oh ho! Very good!” he said, beaming me a big smile. “Kannada mathadthira?”

“Howdu, naanu Kannada kalithaiddini”, I replied.

“Kannada kalithaiddira?! Tumba chennagide!”, he declared, stamping my passport with a flourish, no further questions asked.

Then just yesterday I was trying to catch an auto-rickshaw from MG Road to Racecourse Road but the pesky auto drivers didn’t want to use the meter for such a short distance and were all asking me for an inflated price. In these situations, I just keep trying and eventually find an honest person. The fifth driver I stopped also wanted extra fare. When I answered "Tumba jaasti" and walked off, he called me back: “Baani, Madame!”.

“Meter haktira?” I asked before climbing in.

“Neevu Kannada mathadthaiddira, adakke meter haktini!” he replied. (Since you’re speaking Kannada, I’m going to use the meter.)

We drove off and I got the usual questions fired at me: Where are you from? Do you work in Bangalore? How long have you been here? Do you like Indian food? Isn’t it too spicy for you? I have heard and answered these questions a thousand times so can answer them easily. He seemed impressed. When we stopped at a traffic light, he called out to the auto driver stopped next to us: “Anna! Nodi! Foreigner Kannada mathadthiddare!” The other driver gave me a smile and head bobble in appreciation.

When we arrived at Racecourse Road, my auto driver shook my hand and thanked me for learning Kannada. I paid him and told him to keep the change, but he refused. “I told you I would go by the meter!” he said, and drove off.

Free fruit, traffic fines avoided, frowns turned upside down, auto drivers who use the meter, appreciative smiles and head bobbles. Many good reasons to learn Kannada!

Seen in the Bangalore metro

At MG Road metro station I noticed two notices posted at the entrance. Each one features the picture of a Namma Metro security guard and tells how they acted with honesty and integrity when they returned valuables to their owners.

The Namma Metro security guards take their jobs seriously. Step too close to the yellow line and you’ll hear the shrill blast of a whistle. When a train arrives, the chorus of blowing whistles is almost deafening. One guard even blew his whistle at me because I took the stairs instead of the escalator! Namma Metro security guards are whistle happy. They also seem to be honest folk. Here are two examples:

More doors and doorways

You can see more doors and doorways here and here.

Wheels

Cardboard cop

Have you heard of Bangalore’s cardboard cop? Chances are that you have. The cardboard cop has been making news all over the world and has been featured in The Telegraph UK, ABC Australia, The Huffington Post, the BBC, and even a website called Weird Asia News, to name only a few.

This cardboard avatar of a traffic cop is the Bangalore Traffic Police’s way of multiplying their presence on the city’s roads and getting motorists to follow traffic rules. This cop is indefatigable, available 24/7 and bribe-proof. But will this cardboard replica make a difference?

After reading about him in the paper one morning, I had my first encounter with the cardboard cop when I rode past him in an auto-rickshaw on Raj Bhavan Road. There he was, standing with his arms crossed, peering into traffic. Since I had read about him only a day or two before, I knew this was the fake cop, and anyway his two-dimensional appearance was not very convincing and gave him away almost immediately.

Of course once you’ve seen him you won’t be fooled twice. Apparently the police have already foreseen this and plan to replace them from time to time with real policemen.

I wanted to take a photo of the cardboard cop on Raj Bhavan Road for this blog post but when I went there on Sunday, he was no longer around. Has he already been posted to another part of the city? Or was he one of the cutout cops who was stolen, after only two weeks on the job?

Click on 'play' on the image above to see a TV report about the cardboard cop!

Market lady

When I first moved to Bangalore over 6 years ago, there were supermarkets opening all over the place. I had wondered in this post what would happen to the neighbourhood markets and walking vegetable vendors. Would they lose their business to these big chains?

I have the impression that markets are still thriving and that many people still go to markets because they know the vendors and because they have the opportunity to bargain.

The same vendors still walk up and down my street several times a day with their pushcarts full of vegetables and many of my neighbours buy from them because they conveniently stop at their door and because they’ve been buying from them for years. A friend pointed out that if she ever needs some special vegetable she can always ask her regular vendor to pick it up for her and he’ll be sure to deliver it to her door the next day. You can’t beat that for convenience.

Last time it was the ‘puncher man’ I had featured in a previous post inspired by The Hindu’s “I am” column. Today I take a glimpse into the life of a market vendor, again courtesy of The Hindu.

The column by Deepa Ganesh tells the story of Lakshmamma, who’s been selling fruits and vegetables for the past 40 years at different markets across Bangalore. She works for almost 16 hours a day, leaving home at 4am to go to the wholesale market at Yelahanka. She then travels with the bags of vegetables she’s bought by bus, not an easy task, all the way to the Income Tax Office where she sells her produce on the pavement. She gets home only after 8:30pm. In the article she also gives some interesting observations on the city and how it’s changed over the years. You can read the column here.

Meet some of the market ladies of Bangalore:

Timepass

This is an Indian expression I love which is unique to India.

Timepass is ‘passing the time’. Or it can refer to an activity that’s used to ‘pass the time’.

A few months ago, I was on the train in Andhra Pradesh travelling from Visakhapatnam to the Araku Valley. A newspaper vendor was passing through the car. Instead of calling out ‘newspaper’ to attract potential buyers, he said: ‘Timepass!’.

Reading the newspaper is an example of ‘timepass’. Other popular timepass activities are watching TV, eating or sleeping.

Timepass can also be used to refer to a hobby, one which helps pass the time.

Samosapedia defines timepass like this:

“Wasting or whiling away time. Transliteration possibly of Kannada phrase "Kaala kaleyavudu" meaning "losing time," which has the same meaning. Also means doing something for leisure but with no intention of accomplishing anything.”

Timepass seems to be a fine art!

Puncher shops

Walk down any street in Bangalore and you’re sure to come across a ‘puncher shop’. This may be an actual small shop or just a dedicated space on the sidewalk. Instead of someone wearing boxing gloves, you’ll find a man repairing bicycle tires. For some reason, ‘puncture’ is systematically misspelt; that’s just one of the quirky quirks of India.

Cars, trucks, scooters, motorcycles, bicycles, pushcarts all have rubber tires which get invariably punctured at some point or other. The ‘puncher shops’ provide a handy roadside service, anywhere, and almost anytime.

The Hindu has an interesting weekly column called “I am” which features “men and women who make Bangalore what it is.” I enjoy reading these little personal vignettes about ordinary people doing ordinary jobs like vegetable vendor, paper collector, brick maker and yes, puncture repairer.

Recently the column featured T. Balasubramanyam, a puncture repairer with his own shop in Malleswaram. He reveals a few details about his daily job. He keeps busy from morning to night, repairing up to 20 flat tires a day. You can read more about him and what goes on in a ‘puncher shop’ here.

Newspaper wars

If you’ve been following this blog, then you’ll know that I’m a loyal reader of The Hindu newspaper. Why? Because it’s the best paper in India in my opinion. More specifically because the quality of journalism is high, it has more international coverage than other papers, there’s no ‘page 3’ fluff the tabloids like to publish, it reprints articles from The New York Times and The Guardian, and the weekend edition has interesting cultural supplements, including the Literary Review.

This week, the paper reported record readership growth, attracting an additional 50,000 readers over the past three months, the highest growth among all the English dailies.

Though The Hindu is the number one paper in Chennai, the city where it originated, readers in Bangalore prefer The Times of India, a paper which is only slightly better than a tabloid. I lost all respect for this paper when the headline of the international page announced that Prince William had broken up with his girlfriend (back when he and Kate were going through a rough patch). The paper also has a popular city supplement with its infamous Page 3 which features a run down of parties, gallery openings and other socialite events with pictures of couples holding champagne glasses. To be featured on Page 3 is a matter of great pride in some circles.

When I ask people why they bother to read the Times, they usually answer: “Because I’ve always read it”, which doesn’t seem like an answer to me, but to each his / her own.

The Hindu’s recent growth in readership most likely has something to do with the aggressive advertising campaign it had launched against its competitor over a year ago when it launched in Chennai. Probably responding to its image as a conservative, ‘boring’ paper which is perhaps also an allusion to the city it was born in, it has been promoting itself as the intelligent paper, the paper to read to ‘stay ahead of the times’, a clever reference to that other paper.

Of course the Times responded with an equally aggressive (but less clever) campaign which tried to declare that it is the paper read by the ‘social elite’ in a ridiculous article which I wish I could locate again. It also reacted with these newspaper ads:

What followed was a battle of television ads, with both papers taking stabs at each other. While the message in The Hindu’s ads is that reader of that other paper are only informed about what’s going on in the celebrity field, the Times is trying to allude that The Hindu has ‘news that puts you to sleep’.

Watch the ads here:

Chantal’s passion for kolams

I had heard about Chantal before I met her. It was the director of the Mylapore Festival who had told me about this French woman passionate about kolams (also called rangoli), the intricate drawings which adorn the doorsteps of many homes in India. This annual neighbourhood festival features a kolam contest and Chantal is there every year, taking photographs. Then I came across her name more recently, while reading a book on Chennai. In a chapter about Mylapore, the author mentions a few foreigners who have a fascination for this vibrant neighbourhood and visit it every year during the Margazhi season (which falls in December) to soak in everything it has to offer.

Like many other dance and music lovers, I’m also a regular visitor to Chennai every December and have been attending the ‘December Season’ since 2002. It’s not only the music and dance I enjoy, but also the lasting friendships I make with others who are passionate about the Indian arts.

We were introduced by mutual friends. I have always been fascinated by the intricate beauty of kolams and so was happy to meet Chantal who has written two books on this traditional art. She also has a deep interest in Indian classical dance, having studied Mohiniattam and Kathakali in Kerala for many years. So we had many things to discuss and share.

As we were exchanging mobile numbers, email addresses and website links, I was delighted when she said: “India Outside My Window, C'EST TOI??” So she had also had a first contact with me through my blog, which she had already visited and said she appreciates for its high quality. Thank you Chantal!

With her long black braid, kohl-rimmed eyes, Indian clothes and tilak mark on her forehead, Chantal manages to blend in in Mylapore, while not going unnoticed. Many of the kolam-drawing maamis of this conservative neighbourhood have had the opportunity to meet Chantal and have their designs photographed by her over the years she’s spent studying and documenting the kolams of Tamil Nadu.

Since we were both staying near the Kapaleshwarar Temple, I asked if I could join her on her early morning wanderings through the narrow streets of Mylapore on her search for the first kolams of the day. She was more than happy to have company.

We meet at 6am in front of her hotel, and rush off hurriedly down a side street in a part of Mylapore I had never explored before. It is at dawn that pious Brahmin women carry out the task of drawing a kolam on their doorsteps. “I want to catch the women while they’re still drawing the kolams,” she explains. “Because afterwards they quickly get erased by footsteps and scooter tires.”

We don’t go far before we come across a dark figure in the half-light, stooped over from the hips, drawing snake-like interlacing lines around carefully placed dots. “This is a sikku kolam,” Chantal explains. I had seen this style of kolam many times but had no clue it had a name. The lines are formed effortlessly, creating a perfectly symmetrical pattern. But I know that drawing a kolam is not as easy as it looks. The fine rice powder is carefully ‘poured’ between the fingers onto the ground to create an even line. Some women can even draw two parallel lines simultaneously with ease.

“Did you hear that?” Chantal asks me. It was the sound of a drum at a distance. “That means the procession is underway.” We rush off towards the sound, towards the Vishnu temple. Since Mylapore is dominated by the majestic Kapaleshwarar Temple dedicated to Shiva, I had no clue there’s a Vishnu temple in the same neighbourhood. “Women draw elaborate kolams along the procession path, so we’re sure to find some elaborate ones here,” she explains. We soon find a group of temple priests carrying a statue of Andal the saint on a palanquin.

We stop to admire an elaborate kolam decorating the ground in front of a corner house. “This is an Iyengar kolam,” observes Chantal. “What’s typical about kolams drawn by this Brahmin Vaishnavite community is this ribbon-like motif,” she points out. “Come, there’s a lady who lives down this street who draws beautifully.” We head off in a new direction and on the way meet Lakshmi who’s coming back from making an offering to Andal. “I haven’t been able to draw a kolam this morning,” she says to Chantal, almost apologetically. “My husband is not well.” As if to make up for it, she invites us inside. Chantal is thrilled. As we climb the stairs, she tells me in French that women also draw kolams indoors, in their puja rooms and often around the stove. She relishes the opportunity to be welcomed into a Brahmin home where she can see how women decorate the spaces which are most important to them. Lakshmi shows us her puja room which is decorated with small kolams and prayers written in Tamil.

The kolam is a wonderful example of how art is used as an everyday ritual in India. The kolam is auspicious because it protects, keeping the evil eye away, and welcomes visitors and of course the gods, especially Lakshmi, the goddess of the household, who brings prosperity.

This art is handed down from mother to daughter though sometimes it’s the household help who has the task to draw the daily kolam in front of the doorstep. Chantal feels that this tradition is not in danger of dying out, but she does notice a decline in creativity with the younger generation. That’s why she thinks the kolam contest held every year during the Mylapore festival is so important, because it stimulates the imagination of its participants. She is also happy to notice that more and more young women are taking part.

To learn more about Chantal’s work, visit her website.