Abida Parveen

Last night Delhi turned on a sublime evening of Sufi music in the mughal gardens surrounding Humuyun's Tomb. Abida Parveen, a Pakistani Sufi singer, filled the still dusk air with her music of the mystics. As a fat moon rose gently above the dome of the Tomb I leant my back against the monument walls and soaked in their warmth. Summer is here. Delhi is magic.

Get a feel for Abida Parveen here:

Man strolls through a railyard as the Shatabdi Express rolls by

Sachin made two hundred not out...

Snippets of other people's lives

Block printing

If you're ever strolling in the shadow of Jaipur's Amber fort, go visit this chap, a genuine, old school, block printer. I'd never appreciated the effort and skill that goes into the block printed cloth seen in so many Indian textile shops. This one was destined for an Anokhi shop near you.

Petals

I think when India is done with me and I'm living in less-cheap-flower locales, I'm going to miss this aesethic touch. Fresh and fragrant rose petals laid gently on the surface of water in elegant bowls. Very calming and beautiful.

Man on a small town train platform near Jaipur

The all-knowing parrot

The man sat cross-legged on a raised platform with only a caged parrot for company. He carried the weight of the world on his slouched shoulders. A painted stripe on his forehead gave him a quasi-spiritual air - there were clearly important things on his mind. Laid out in front of him were two columns of blue patterned cards, as if he was engaged in a game of solitaire. Intrigued, we enquired. The parrot, it turned out, was able to predict the future. The parrot master said something in hindi (not unlike abracadabra) and theatrically raised the door to the cage. The all-knowing parrot leapt out and after a few seconds of frantic activity picked a card from the pack. And so our futures were told. Some were promised twins, others great wealth. I was told my business (?) would expand in the coming year, but I would have to make it happen on my own. And something bad that was to have happened was no longer going to happen (unclear whether the parrot had intervened on my behalf or not). Another random interlude in Delhi town.

Truck Art in Punjab

Who said truck drivers weren't sensitive souls. I'm sure there are a few Willy Nelson fans on the roads of northern India. But there's also a hellavalot of trucks that flaunt the creative side of their drivers. Take this one for example. A handpainted mural on the back depicts a supersized maiden and her supersized goat, towering over a house and a beautiful lake. In the background mountains rise from fertile plains and the trees hang low with fruit. I'm not sure what the message is, but judging by the steam coming from her backpack, and the goat's stubborn blocking of her efforts to pick fruit, I'm guessing there is something cosmic and profound going on.



The second message is less subtle - BLOW HORN. And for those out there who might be a bit shy about deploying their dipper at night, the instruction is there - USE it. On the side of all these trucks is the firm statement: India Is Great. Quite so.

Whisky is Risky - the sign says so

It's mist they assure me

When you think Delhi you think HOT as HELL right. Well, for a few weeks a year, Delhi pretends it has a winter. Here is the view from my window as I landed in Delhi a few weeks back.

Class warfare on the streets of Delhi

Mr Chai Wallah has become a bone of contention in my street. A new apartment block has been build next door (slowly and generally on sunday mornings). The owners, ready now to rent their swanky apartments, want to wipe away the whiff of the workers who built it. Every day of construction, Mr Chai Wallah kept the spirits of the workers up with his sweet tea. But now the building is complete, and he's built a loyal following in the neighbourhood, the owners want him and his innovative chai-on-wheels trolly out. So I'm starting a save Chai Wallah movement. He now parks his trolley outside my house, close enough to stick it up the apartment block owners, but far enough away to avoid offending the nouveau rich tenants.

I love seeing the world from an aeroplane. Flying back over Australia you see the most magnificent landscapes, impossible to absorb from the ground, but magnificent displays of abstract art from above. Here's one from my latest visit to the gallery in the sky.

Rahman in Sydney

A few thousand miles away, at a concert in the west of Sydney, an Indian musician attracted 70,000 fans on a stormy Saturday night. His message of peace and respect resonated through the summer air. A few raindrops hinted at a downpour, but it held off, as if in deference to the spirit of the occasion.

A sad day

I went to a funeral. It was such a sad day. The mist hung long into the day as we drove through the countryside to a village in Punjab. Crowds were gathered and emotions ran high. In the midst of a family’s profound grief, I got an insight into India and its people that I shall never forget. They’d lost a son in my country and they were understandably angry and looking for answers. But they welcomed me, a stranger, as a guest. I sat with them, and ate with them, and shared their grief. This gesture, of offering hospitality to a visitor even on the worst day a family could imagine, said much about the generosity of spirit of India’s people. I was deeply humbled. I’ll never forget them.

The gap

It’s been a little busy in the part of my life that pays the bills. Far too much serious tapping. But it’s a new year, and it’s sure to serve up some adventures and nice things for my camera to play with. India’s been a little difficult of late. It’s tested my optimism and outlook. But the less said the better. Sometimes I think the world would be a happier if people just turned off their televisions, closed their curtains and put on some beautiful music.

My resident chai wallah

A chai wallah has set up shop outside my house. This fact warms my heart like it warms the bellies of the labourers on my block. Everyday when I leave and when I came home, people are gathered around his chai trolly for milky sweet tea and conversation. I love the way people stand behind the hotplate with him, watching as he tosses tea and sugar in an arc from their containers into the boiling pot of milk. It's an elaborate and flambouyant process, transforming the mundane to something quite sophisticated - so sophistacated that his clients have a choice of drinking from a glass or taking their tea away in a plastic bag. I think he fears I might object to his presence so he stands up every time my car passes by. So not only does he add awesome street texture but he provides a daily boost to my ego. I don't recall being quite so polite when I was a coffee making student.

The importance of hills and oceans

It may be because I grew up on a hill, and have holidayed near an ocean every year, but I’m finding my psycho-topographical needs are not being met by the flat inland expanse of Delhi. A recent visit to Mumbai, which is blessed with both hills and ocean, reminded me of these invisible but visceral wants.

The Delhi of many kingdoms sits grandly in the middle of a vast plain, dissected by ancient rivers that have seen better days. But modern Delhi has succumbed to the bloating of the middle aged. Unconstrained by geography it has eaten all the pies, sprawled out into adjoining states, low density for the most, cars essential, and Delhites undertaking massive daily treks to get from A to B.

And because it is so big, and so flat and so low rise, there is nowhere in the city where you can get a decent view of the path ahead as you trundle around town. There are a few vantage points atop five star hotels. And the minaret in Jama Masjid has an amazing view over the rooftops of the old city. But most days are spent focusing on the immediate action at street level. There are charms to this, but for the most, it feels like a train ride in the dark – you can’t see where you’re going, or measure how far you’ve come. You’re just moving from one busy flat space to another.

Where Delhi has let itself go, Mumbai has been forced, by a chronic shortage of land, to build up. Mumbai is blessed with ocean (to gaze at) and hills (to gaze from). I know nobody would ever accuse Mumbai of being well planned, but the incidental views make it a much easy city to digest. And the higher density gives Mumbai a humanity (perhaps too much humanity) which the vastness of Delhi sometimes misses.

I have a controversial plan for Delhi, which is yet to find a seconder, and will require some fine tuning before I take out full page newspaper ads. Suffice to say it would ameliorate the topography issue by building up where previous generations built out (and perhaps importing a few hillocks). Those who know my views on Canberra will be utterly unsurprised by my ideas on what makes a city liveable.

Until I bring this plan to fruition (and given it involves the removal of politician housing on quarter acre blocks in the heritage sector of town, this is not so likely), I will just have to get my hill and ocean needs on weekend trips away.

The pigeon man of shahjahanabad

On a recent late summer evening, we were taken to meet one of old Delhi's (allegedly) famous pigeon racers. I've not really a pigeon person, but rising out of the clamour of old delhi to Mr Pigeon's quiet rooftop, as the sun dipped lazily over the horizon, was quite a nice moment. We climbed from the rear of a packaging shop, pungent with glues, up a dark spiralling staircase and emerged just as a flock of Iranian racing pigeons landed in synchronised formation. These were not your standard flying-rat pigeons, we were told, these were prestige pigeons! They had each been named after a different bollywood star, and of course Mr Bachchan was the biggest and pluckiest of the lot - demanding to dig his head into the scattered seeds before the rest. Mr Pigeon's son had learnt to speak pigeon and with clicks and whistles instructed the birds to rise into the air, to circle the platform a few times and then to return. Set against the pink sky, with the call to prayer echoing across the rooftops from Jama Masjid (the city mosque), this was a sight of delhi I won't forget in a hurry.

Sachin rules the dusk

Cricket: Everyone knows Indians love it. But I had a moment this week when it really, truly sunk in. I was walking home from my local shops, around dusk, in the latter stages of an Australia-India one day match. As I passed house after house, the guards were outside crouched around small radios in clusters, hanging on every word of the Hindi commentary. Cars drove by and spilled snatches of cricket out their windows. And in the shops people stood before televisions, halting work to take in the developments – passers-by peered inside for a score. On the field of battle itself, Sachin Tendulkar was tearing apart the Australian bowling attack and the whole country was hanging on every flash of his willow. It reminded me a little of Kathy Freeman’s run in the 2000 Olympics when the whole of Australia just stopped and watched and joined the moment. Magic.