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There’s a story behind everything

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Indian Ink


Growing up in a newly liberalised India, I watched a lot of American sitcoms. Most shows were reruns of old seasons. The exception being the last season of Friends which aired only a day after the US release. It was through these shows that I learned to associate tattoos with a certain persona. And that persona was not remotely Indian or tribal.

It was only after I left the bubble of the community in which I grew up, that I learnt how tattoos were commonplace in rural areas of the country—especially family names and religious symbols like ॐ (aum). But it wasn’t as glamorous as the tattoos I saw on foreigners.

A few years ago, I learned about the Māori practice of Tā moko through a wonderful (and particularly rage-inducing) podcast titled Stuff the British Stole. Tā moko tattoos looked beautiful. That they held deep meaning and weren’t just superficial marks to look cool, made them even more majestic. No wonder the tattoo artist was considered sacred.

It’s funny how I was more aware of tattoo practices outside India than our own. Fortunately, that changed recently, during the India Art, Architecture and Design Biennale 2023.

Much like the Polynesian countries where tattooing different parts of the body holds meaning, tribes in central India too ink themselves with meaningful patterns and motifs.

Godna: Digging into Tradition

Godna is popular in tribal societies, particularly in the areas of Rajanandgaon and Surguja, Chattisgarh, Dindori, Madhya Pradesh and Madhubani in the Mithila region of Bihar.

My investigation into Godna led me to this short film by Shivam Vichare that shows the materials and motifs popularly used in the Baiga tribe in Dindori.

Using kajal (soot collected by burning herbal oil) and needles, ladies mark their bodies at various stages of life. Girls from the community must have their foreheads tattooed as preteens to be accepted into the tribe. Tattoos on the chest are made post marriage and childbirth.

Mangala Devi explains the meaning of some of the motifs—a form of prayer for the individual and family’s wellbeing. One pattern for the chest represents the beehive. Just as the beehive is dripping with honey, so may the home be full of nectar. Diyas on the knees signify light in their lives. And the bull’s eye is for the wellbeing of the cattle, so that they may plough the fields.

Like the Baiga Tribe, the Bharia, Bhil, Gond, Kol and Korku tribes hail from central India—home to some of the world’s oldest prehistoric cave paintings.

Many of the motifs used in Godna and other folk art are elements from nature. Expressed in simple line art, these symbols were created by the earliest graphic designers.

On display at the Biennale were some patterns from the collection of Indira Gandhi Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalaya (also referred to as the National Museum of Humankind, or Museum of Man and Culture) in Bhopal.

I don’t fancy myself ever having the courage to get permanently inked, but these patterns are beautiful and definitely worth ogling over. Enjoy!

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Studio Perfect

Somaya Sampat Studio

Packaging cartons collapsed into sheets line the lofts in our apartment—set aside for that dreaded day when we’ll eventually have to move out. Little nooks and corners stare at me. Some of the empty spaces immediately scream at us, “Look at how much space is wasted!”

Living in a rented apartment, we have little control over what modifications we can make. Certainly, with the way rents are rising, we wouldn’t spend our money revamping someone else’s home! But that doesn’t stop us from dreaming.

We snap pictures of ideas we like and save Instagram posts related to sustainable home improvement. Whether we’ll ever use them is anybody’s guess!

The Samatva pavilion at the India Art Architecture and Design Biennale 2023 was one such inspirational visual feast. On the outside, the pavilion was a stony medieval building. The entrances to the rooms within seemed to have been renovated in colonial-style arched doorways. But the exhibits within had a warm, welcoming feel.

Of the entire exhibition, spanning 7 pavilions, Samatva was the one that was the most intentionally designed, explaining to the layperson what the terms mean.

Site: an area of ground on which a building is constructed, historically occupied by male architects, contractors, workers, etc. but women have neem challenging this status quo.

“This side has day care facilities along with housing for construction workers.”

Studio: a space where an architect, artist, designer, etc. works, and that is often found in a state of disarray but always creatively stimulating.

“Our studio always smells of coffee and fresh ideas!”

And yes, of course, there was a map!

Binding all the exhibits was a common design element—the red dot.

We saw aesthetically set up studio spaces with glimpses of architectural work-in-progress. Intentionally messy, but true to their word, stimulating.

Below are some pictures we saved for later.

Hopefully, one day we’ll have a space we can call our own—when we can finally free up some loft space and get rid of those packaging cartons. A time when we can drill nails into the walls and put up all our artwork (and the two guitars we now have).

Will we find these pictures when we need them? Only time will tell!

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Space Matters

3D architectural site plan as a wall display from Somaya Sampat's Studio

For the past few years we’ve been looking to buy a home, and we’ve looked at numerous fancy flyers by builders. But nothing has ever caught our imagination. Year after year, all we’ve seen are towers of concrete, embellished with heat-trapping glass. These so-called modern constructions conveniently ignore the realities of climate change. The prospective home buyers are effectively going to live in ovens, necessitating the use of air conditioning, further compounding the problem.

We love open, airy spaces with ample natural light, and yet, these townships pack houses like sardines. Projects these days claim to include rainwater harvesting, just to hop on the green bandwagon. But few even venture close to recycling grey water from kitchen sinks. With every house invariably keeping RO water purifiers, it makes sense to collect the waste water from these appliances for sanitation use. There is also immense opportunity to use rooftops for solar energy. None of these ideas are earth-shattering. Indeed, many of them have been implemented in other parts of the country. But the big builders of Delhi-NCR seem to lack inspiration to truly innovate.

If only they’d hired (or taken inspiration from) the architects of the calibre featured in the Samatva pavilion of IAADB23.

The Sustainable Eco-Literate Architect

Revathi Kamath’s treatise on the sustainable eco-literate architect.

The pioneer of mud architecture, Revathi Kamath wrote in her treatise on the sustainable eco-literate architect:

The architectural mind needs to be aware of the mathematics of complexity and geometries of nature—Mandelbrot sets, Julia sets, Berkhoff’s bagel, Koch curves, Buddhist and Hindu Mandalas—the list is constantly growing. The immense beauty that is latent in the use of these conceptual tools needs to be appreciated and replace the simplistic dogmas of the “cleanlineists,” the functional packaging of commercial space in boxes, the squares and rectangles on Vaastu and Feng-Shui pandits, layouts of military camps and cantonments, imperial palaces, administrative centres and corporate parks.”

Humanity must seek inspiration from nature and build to sustain, instead of merely using and dumping resources indiscriminately.

Take Kankana Narayan Dev, for example. Hailing from Assam, the architect takes inspiration from traditional, sustainable methods of construction in her work.

Furniture and building blocks that incorporate bamboo.
One of Kangana’s homes made with bamboo.

While Kankana works primarily with bamboo, Goa-based Tallulah D’Silva‘s material of choice is mud.

Tallulah D’Silva’s homestay that incorporates mud for construction
Revathi Kamath’s studio featuring a hand-crafted mud wall.

Sustainability wasn’t the only theme of Samatva. So was social inclusion and designing with empathy—something commercial builders could learn from.

One project that caught my eye was Sandhya Naidu Janardhan’s slum redevelopment work.

Building With Empathy

Sandhya Naidu Janardhan’s design process while working on slum redevelopment.

While on our home hunting spree, we visited dozens of construction sites. We sat in lavish sales offices, browsed through glossy brochures, walked inside heavily decorated sample flats and watched the brokers point at realistic scaled model of the buildings. The sheer amount of marketing glitter around these projects was mind-boggling.

But when you’re redeveloping a slum, it’s not as glamourous. You likely won’t have access to the kinds of resources the builders have. It would have been easy for Sandhya to have just drawn some cookie-cutter plans and got them approved without anyone batting an eyelid. But she chose to involve the community in her design process. The hallmark of a good designer is to understand the needs of the user—in this case, the people who would eventually live in the spaces she’d design.

Low fidelity models made with paper and wooden blocks.

By far my favourite exhibit was the small models made with paper and wooden blocks. Proof that one doesn’t need fancy photorealistic models to communicate a vision. What is needed, though, is the willingness to perform sound user research.

Would any big construction company ever care for their customers as much? We’re yet to find one that does.

The image at the top is a display from Somaya Sampat, formerly Somaya & Kalappa Consultants (SNK), at the Samatva Pavilion of IAADB23.

This post is a part of a long-ish series on the India Art, Architecture and Design Biennale 2023.

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Shaping the Built

Design in Bharat

India’s cultural history dates back to prehistoric days. Yet, when it comes to design, the world seems to consider Europe as the centre for excellence.

The India Art, Architecture and Design Biennale 2023 (IAADB23) was a welcome initiative by the Ministry of Culture to show the world (and more importantly, to Indians) what they’ve ignored (or perhaps wilfully tried to destroy, almost succeeding at it).

The initiative captured public imagination. From quirky installations to mind-blowing paintings, and from replicas of temples to modern art, there was something for everyone.

The Red Fort, with its sprawling lawns and numerous barracks was an appropriate choice. To house the cultural history of a nation as rich and diverse as Bhaarat, would have taken nothing short of a small army.

The entire showcase was divided into seven pavilions, each with appropriately beautiful names:

  • Pravesh (Doors of India), Rite of Passage.
  • Bagh-e-Bahar (Gardens of India), Gardens as universe.
  • Sampravah (Baolis of India), Confluence of Communities.
  • Sthapatya (Temples of India), Antifragile Alogrithm.
  • Vismaya (Architectural Wonders of Independent India), Creative Crossovers.
  • Deshaj (Indigenous Design), Bharat x Design.
  • Samatva (Women in Architecture and Design), Shaping the Built.

While the installations at Vismaya and Pravesh made it to Instagram reels, Deshaj was the one that I was looking forward to. But the pavilion that ultimately had the biggest impact on me was Samatva.

Samatva: Shaping the Built

Inside the Smartva pavilion, a signboard reads, “Caution: Women at Work.”

Curator Swati Janu introduced Samatva thus:

The root of the word Samatva (Sanskrit: समत्व) is sama (सम) meaning ‘equal’ which forms the essence of this exhibition and the reason why we showcase women architects here.

Historically and even today women have not been given the same opportunities and recognition as men in the fields of design, architecture and planning, be it in pursuing the profession or being widely published or invited to speak at panels.

Even before we entered the pavilion, we saw these graphics reminding us about the poor representation of women in architecture.

The information visualisation nerd in me, however, couldn’t help but appreciate how beautifully well the information was presented. Using nothing but coloured dots, the series of graphics showed the gap in gender participation in architecture. Yellow dots represented men, while red ones represented women. The saddest visualisation was entirely yellow.

Graphic depicting the gender gap amongst Presidents of Council of Architecture.

Since 1972, there hasn’t been a single non-male president of Council of Architecture.

As architect Amrita Nayak puts it, “Often women have to work harder to be ‘listened to’ by senior leadership, in comparison to men with similar expertise or experience.”

I have been fortunate to have been heard in my work environment. But Amrita’s experience is all too familiar in a social setting.

The picture gets somewhat better when it comes to recognition of women in architecture, with 12 red dots against 88 yellow ones. The Pritzker Prize is an international award given annually to recognise the contributions of a living architect.

“It took 26 men winning the coveted Pritzker Prize for Zaha Hadid to become the first female winner in 2004.” – Sonali Rastogi, Co-Founder and Principal Architect, Morphogenesis

Graphic depicting the gender gap amongst Pritzker Prize winners.

One reason why so few women have been awarded the prize is because there are fewer women who practice. 20 red dots to 80 yellow ones.

Beside the visual, another eerily relatable observation by Amrita reads, “As a practising architect, one often finds oneself walking into a room (or a site) where you are the only female present.”

Graphic depicting the gender gap amongst practising architects in India.

“As architects, we are meant to build inclusive spaces. Why did we not make an inclusive framework for society?”

– Jaya Nila, Architect and Founder, The Architecture Place, Bengaluru

Amongst this sea of yellow dots, one visual represents hope. On the graphic for the number of students of architecture in India, the sixty red dots outnumber the yellow ones—a fraction short of forty. A tiny fraction of blue comes in too, to represent the transgender section of society.

However, as academician and architect Rajshree Rajmohan points out, “One is studying/practising and at the same time grappling with social impositions and gendered expectations.”

Graphic depicting the positive gender gap amongst practising architects in India.

Equanimity is a concept that is rooted in Indian culture, but centuries of colonialism slowly eroded it. But hope springs eternal, and there are some signs of revival. We have a long way to go to rediscover our roots and I hope initiatives like IAADB don’t get restricted to quirky social media shorts but spark genuine conversations around design in Bhaarat.

This is the first of what will likely be a long series of posts dedicated to IAADB23, as I have just stumbled upon the treasure of memories in my digital archives. Stay tuned for more!

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The Drum House

Entrance to the Red Fort, Shahjahanabad, Old Delhi, India.

If you’ve seen Hindi movies or plays set in the Mughal era, then you’ve heard that familiar refrain, “Azeem o Shaan Shehenshah…” An announcer describing the arrival of royalty.

At the Red Fort in Shahjahanabad (Old Delhi), musicians would make announcements from the Naubat Khana, or Naqqar Khana (Drum House), letting the public know that the Emperor or a royal dignitary had arrived.

Announcements were a tiny part of the musicians’ job description. The Mughals were great patrons of art, and musicians would perform five times a day at chosen hours.

As is apt for any hall that houses artists, the Naqqar Khana is elaborately decorated. Unlike Islamic architecture in other parts of the world where motifs are strictly geometrical, Mughal architecture heavily incorporated natural themes, particularly flowers, in addition to traditional calligraphy.

Here’s a closer look at the intricate details of the Naubat Khana at Red Fort.

The Naubat Khana or the Naqqar Khana inside the Red Fort, Old Delhi, India.
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The Bazaar Under the Dome

Chhatta Chowk, Red Fort, Old Delhi, India.

My only memories of the Red Fort are from school trips. And while India Gate, Qutub Minar and the Baha’i temple made quite an impression, I couldn’t quite remember anything about the Red Fort. Except that there was a very crowded market at the entrance that was a nightmare to get through.

So, when we learned that the India Art, Architecture and Design Biennale 2023 was held inside the Fort, I got excited. Finally, an excuse to fill in the memory gaps. 

Turns out, there really wasn’t much to fill in!

Entrance to the Red Fort, Old Delhi, India.

The Fort looked plain, barren and empty. A mere shell, in comparison to the mighty and rich forts of Rajasthan. The only exciting part of the monument: the bazaar! 

Called Chhatta chowk (translation: covered bazar), the 17th century market had the typical souvenir stalls. Glittering jewellery and carved statues, fridge magnets and stoles. Each shop full of shoppers examining the items with keen eyes.

As we moved closer towards one of the shops, a long line of school students crossed our path. Holding hands and forming a file to ensure no one gets lost. None of them was one bit interested in the wares.

As we waited for the students to cross, my thoughts went back to our school trip. It was boring and tedious for us, but it must have been a hundred times worse for our guardians—the teachers who accompanied us on those trips.

Originally posted on Instagram on 1 April 2024, this post is part of a series where I attempt to reverse social media—to reclaim my life from other platforms.

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The Bathtub Clams


Vinodeni had her task cut out. 30 minutes. Her newest clients didn’t have a moment more to spare. She shed her soft-spoken veneer and turned into the Willy Wonka of the Aquarium. “Okay! We have a short time, so I’ll prioritize and guide you through the most important exhibits.” She said, in an excited voice.

“Do you eat seafood?” Him, yes. Me, no. “Oh, no worries! I was asking because we’ll see some of the tastiest fish the Andamans have on offer. But hopefully, you’ll still enjoy it.”

The Aquarium next to the Aberdeen jetty is a small, likely under-funded museum dedicated to the marine life around the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. It wasn’t on our planned itinerary. But seeing that it was right next to our lunch place, and still had 30 minutes before closing time, we figured, why not? It was, after all, our last day at Port Blair.

We were welcomed into the otherwise dull-looking compound by a gigantic skeleton, displayed proudly to entice the casual onlooker. The entry to the main exhibits was through a small door. But first, we had to buy our tickets. And it was at the ticket counter, that my eyes lit up. Even if we didn’t go inside, my day was made. For by the ticket counter was the mythical creature my father told me about when I was a kid. But we had our tickets, and twenty five minutes to race through it all.

And that’s when we met Vinodeni, our museum guide.

Perhaps the word aquarium wasn’t an appropriate one. The inside of the museum looked more like a chemistry lab than a lively underwater showcase. Rows of shelves, stacked top to bottom with preserved specimens of marine life, each several years old. Vinodeni lamented the loss of some specimens during the tsunami, as she continued to show some not-so-appetising seafood in chemical filled jars.

Next up, the living exhibits. Vinodeni requested us to keep the flash of our cameras off, so as to not disturb the marine wildlife. The rooms were dimly lit, presumably to mimic the sea lighting, but the tanks themselves had artificial lights and bright colourful backgrounds.

A fish and a starfish compete for attention on a busy background.

The fishes were beautiful, of course. But the exhibits I was most interested in were the seashells and corals.

I’ve been beach combing from the first time I visited the sandy beaches of Chennai. I’d admired my grandmother’s collection of small, pretty, colourful bones sorted neatly by type and displayed in fancy bowls. My mother’s collection had much larger ones, in various shades of brown. But it was my father’s collection that awed me the most. Almost entirely white and massive, these were deep sea creatures on our mantlepiece.

Several thousand kilometres away from home, in a dingy room, there they were, familiar faces. Now, thanks to the museum, I could give them names.

Vinodeni told us about how these exquisite creatures are now critically endangered. They’d been pulled out from their habitat and traded for their beauty. And now, there are too few of them in the wild. I flinched a little as she continued, “they don’t belong in our homes.” She then reaffirmed what we’d learned just a few days earlier—that even the abandoned seashells on the beach are reused by other creatures.

Vinodeni probably realised that I felt a little guilty, so she changed her tone a little and told us that those who acquired them in the past weren’t aware of what would happen. But now, the Government is trying to fix things.

It is now illegal to trade some varieties of shells. And the airport strictly screens baggage to catch anyone taking seashells and corals out of the archipelago.

Lunch time was creeping up, and mindful of the closing time, Vinodeni ushered us to the exit. “There is one more exhibit that you must see, but you’ll need to step outside in the sun for that.” We obliged. She took us towards the giant skeleton at the entrance of the museum. “This here, is a full skeleton of a Sperm Whale.” She then rattled off a quick set of facts about the creature, including why it was named thus. The way Vinodeni spoke made it abundantly clear that she was passionate about marine life.

With our tour over, we continued to chat for a while. I asked here where she was from, and she said she was from Port Blair. Her ancestors were from Tamil Nadu, but since she was born and brought up there, she considered the Andamans her home. “Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked me. After all, I too had grown up in Delhi, and though my roots lay in Madurai and Thanjavur, I was certainly more of a North Indian.

And perhaps that’s one reason why seashells excited me so much. It was that North Indian kid that was so enamoured by marine life so far away from where she grew up. Which is why I was excited by just standing next to the ticket counter. My seafaring father had told me about the fantastical creatures that lived deep in the ocean, especially the seashells the size of bathtubs. And seeing the Giant Clams in person was a dream come true.

The Giant Clam—almost the size of a bathtub. This pretty much sums up why I’ve always wanted to visit Port Blair. Throwback to when a little girl’s dream came true.

Our trip to the Andaman Islands left a deep impact on me, particularly my relationship with seashells. I still adore them, and proudly display our collection at home. But ever since that trip, I’m mindful to not pick any more. They’re someone’s home, and they deserve to be used for that purpose for as long as possible.

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The Temple Voice

Close-up of the sculptures on the walls, Gwalior Fort Complex, Madhya Pradesh, India.

The elaborate sculptures adorning the temples in the Gwalior Fort are too many to count and too beautiful to describe. Many have been weathered by the strong wind. The many kings who fought, captured, and lost the Fort seem to have left the temples untouched.

That they have very strange names takes nothing away from their beauty. The “saas” is big, bod and stands proudly, imposing her might on anyone who dares think contrary to her wishes.

The “Saas” as seen from the “Bahu,” Gwalior Fort Complex, Madhya Pradesh, India.

The “bahu” stands at a distance, more towards the edge of a cliff and doesn’t care for attention.

The “Bahu” from the point of view of “Saas,” Gwalior Fort Complex, Madhya Pradesh, India.

Inside the large temple, one gets the feeling of being engulfed by Sahasrabahu, the one with a thousand hands—hands that are dancing, playing music, worshipping, meditating.

Who was the guardian deity of these temples? No one can tell for sure. There are conflicting tales about Shiva and Vishnu. Some claim that these are Jain temples.

Folklore says that the ruling king dedicated the large central structure to his mother, an ardent devotee of Lord Vishnu. The smaller temple was to pacify the king’s wife—a Shaivite.

Tourists take pictures, climb over the walls, and walk precariously along the beams that form the triangles overhead. But few venture close to the sanctum sanctorum.

Teli Ka Mandir, Gwalior Fort Complex, Madhya Pradesh, India.

A short distance away, the Teli ka Mandir stands tall. If the building could speak, I might have said, “I am Dravidian.” As I was imagining the walls speaking to me, a man hurried out from inside the temple, cursing under his breath. He looked livid and frantically looked around so he could vent his rage. When he found someone who looked like a caretaker, he let him have it.

“This is a temple! Why are people wearing shoes and trampling all over? Have you stepped inside? It reeks of bat filth.”

“Such a fine architectural monument and you are letting it go to waste. Is this the devotion this was built for?”

The man’s lament fell on deaf ears. The caretaker gave an indifferent glance. “It is no longer in use, sir,” he said, and walked away.

The sanctum sanctorum of all three magnificent temples were dark portals. Beauty graced all the walls outside and inside the halls leading to the small room meant to be the throne of the presiding deity.

If the walls could speak, they might have been as indifferent to our presence as the caretaker was to their plight. With their structure reduced to architectural candy, and the real purpose long given for bats to live in, there was no longer anything left to say.

Still salvaging old work from the archives, I discovered this story’s handwritten draft from May 2017. This too, is a part of the ebook The Speaking Rock. If the pictures are grainy, it’s because they’re from a phone camera from 2016.

I was both proud and awestruck by my phone camera’s prowess back then. It pales in comparison to what my phone can do now. And digital technology today still doesn’t match up to film camera clarity. But grainy footage notwithstanding, it reminds me of some wonderful memories we made almost nine years ago. Isn’t that what pictures are for?

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The Eternal Smile

One of the stone lions at the entrance to Gurjari Mahal, Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh, India.

We walked past the stony gaze of the lions guarding the giant entrance. Fresh monsoon grass peered from beneath the sandstone tiles. The wings of the Fort kept a keen watch from above. The ninth Queen of Raja Maan Singh surely must have been special to get this much attention.

We walked on what was the front porch of the Gurjari Mahal and trekked up a steep path leading to the Palace. To our right was a well-manicured lawn. And to the left, a steep rocky path that seemed to lead nowhere.

The Palace had a short and narrow flight of stairs that led to a beautiful courtyard. Intricately carved stone statues of God and Goddesses here, pieces of floral patterned pillars and walls there.

The word museum was, perhaps, not very appealing to most tourists. Even those who strolled in didn’t stay long. The cool breeze only enhanced the peaceful ambiance of the courtyard.

“Do you have a ticket for your camera?” A portly man asked as we began freezing moments for our album.

We showed our ticket.

“Well, then please use only one—either your phone or the camera. Please!” Beneath his small smile, the request was firm.

I put away my phone and smiled sheepishly. Half expecting the man to run back into his administrative chamber after we had complied with his request, we turned to continue our exploration.

“Oh but first you must come and see the Salabhanjika!”

The Salabhanjika is the museum’s prized possession—a miniature statue that epitomizes femininity. We had read about the sculpture being guarded closely and were under the impression that we’d need special permissions to see her. So when the gentleman invited us to take a look, we happily accepted.

We followed him to his office. A small dark room furnished with a simple desk and a few plastic chairs. The medieval walls were covered with yellowing photographs and newspaper clippings about the sculpture. Behind the desk was a cell. Deep inside behind steel bars, stood the small, smiling Salabhanjika.

“She’s called the Indian Monalisa!” His voice was filled with pride at being the guardian of a rare sculpture. Like many of the exquisite sculptures that we’ve now become accustomed to seeing, Salabhanjika was breathtaking.

“When she was first found, she looked like this,” he said, pointing towards a grainy print stuck on the wall. “Her head was found later and was fully intact, so we could piece her together. We were lucky.”

“Look at her carefully. The more you look at her, the more she’ll smile back at you! Look at her from any direction and she’ll look towards you.”

We looked again. And she did, indeed, appear to be smiling more than before.

“Please take a picture. Go on, go closer. Make sure you switch off the flash!”

We leaned in, the lens of our camera wedged between the steel bars. Click!

“She’s been insured for five crores!” our host could hardly contain his excitement.

Five crore rupees. The Monalisa is insured for a hundred million dollars.

Salabhanjika’s smile grew wider.

I wondered, if she had been discovered before the Monalisa, would Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting be called the Italian Salabhanjika?

She stood there silently. Still smiling, and letting the question remain unanswered.

Salabhanjika is a Sanskrit word meaning ‘breaking a branch of a sala tree’. There are many intricate sculptures of Salabhanjika in Hoysala and Bednur. But the one in Gwalior is reportedly the only one that smiles.

This story is part of my digital book, The Speaking Rock.

Originally written in 2017, the ebook was published on the Juggernaut platform. 

For those who aren’t aware, Juggernaut was a publishing platform that claimed to democratise publishing. It’s slogan, “You don’t need to know anyone to get published.” It provided writers access to publishing tools and a marketplace where readers could connect with writers directly. The Speaking Rock was one of three ebooks I had published with them. My story Free Bird also won a short story contest and was featured in their anthology collection.

I loved that platform, even from a design perspective. I even wrote a glowing review on Design Tuesdays.

Unfortunately, the platform soon introduced a paywall and put my stories behind a paywall (without offering any royalties). And thereafter, the platform disappeared altogether, taking my work with it, leaving me hanging high and dry. I felt betrayed. I felt bitter. I kicked myself for being naive. Of course, their business model wouldn’t pay their bills.

For a good three years, the site just showed an ugly “under construction” message. No way to get in touch with them. No way to retrieve my work. I had made peace with the fact that I’d lost my stories—until a few days ago, when I found a draft on Google Docs that had one of the stories. And when I saw the draft of the Eternal Smile sitting right under my nose on WordPress, I almost cried.

Funnily, when I opened Juggernaut’s website today, I found that it was no longer under construction. (The internet archive’s Wayback Machine reveals that the site was still down as recently as 5 days ago!)

There is no mention of a writer’s platform, and no way for any one to log in and retrieve their work. Today, the website is just like another publishing site that displays influencers and popular media icons who’ve published with them. So much for democratising publishing!

As for me, I’m happy that I can finally share Salabhanjika’s smile with you. I’m still looking for that photograph we took. I’m sure it’s there somewhere in our virtual closet.

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Good Vibrations


It was my first visit to Dubai, and I wasn’t handling the timezone difference very well. On most days, I found myself waking up at 4 am.

Tossing and turning around in the soft hotel bed, try as I might, I couldn’t sleep. Fortunately, the hotel was walking distance from the Jumeirah beach. If I was going to be groggy during the meeting hours, I may as well enjoy some time with the waves. So I strolled up to the beach every morning and watched the waves crash on to the silent shore, waiting for the sun to rise.

On one of the mornings, I heard someone play music. It wasn’t hard to locate the source. Still dark, I could make out the outline of a man, his head covered and in his hands a giant horn-like instrument. I sounded something like a bugle, but not quite.

Vernon playing the Shofar at Jumeirah. Picture taken with permission.

I waited for him to finish his piece and mustered up the courage to talk to him. “Where are you from,” I asked. “India,” he responded.

It took me a while to recover from the surprise revelation. “So am I! Where from? And what are you doing here?” I rattled off the questions in quick succession.

He told me his name was Vernon, and he was from Mumbai. By profession, he was a personal trainer.

His client was sleeping that morning, and he decided to extend his stay at the shore.

He then explained to me the significance of the instrument he was playing. The Shofar is an Israeli wind instrument. He played it early morning by the beach, before beginning his day.

Vernon explained a few verses from the Bible and how the instrument was his path to spiritual cleansing. We continued to speak about vibrations and how everything in nature is connected to different types of “waves”.

When the sun had come up fully, he took leave. I lingered around at the beach a little while, reflecting on our conversation.

“There are no accidents,” he said. “If my client wasn’t asleep, I’d have left a long time ago. God wanted me to play for you.”