Friday, April 15, 2016

Vintage lithographed tins

The heirloom

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Wide canvas: Idyllic landscapes, town scenes, paintings, floral designs or happy baby faces were used generously to woo the target buyer pic: Brinda Suri
Wide canvas: Idyllic landscapes, town scenes, paintings, floral designs or happy baby faces were used generously to woo the target buyer pic: Brinda Suri
Vintage lithographed tin boxes are little time machines, bringing you the charming kitsch of the late 19th century
It was in grandpa’s wardrobe for as long as I had known. A slim tin box with a removable lid featuring a bonny blue-eyed girl holding a snowy dog. It was a gift for his sons, and once its contents were over, grandma had decided it was perfect to store grandpa’s pocket squares. And quite a collection he had of jewel-tones in silk and satin. Grandpa was a stickler for discipline, so it was a treat for us grandkids to be allowed to open this box, select a piece that matched with the tie and turban.
Grandpa passed away a few years ago at the ripe age of 90. His box, however, continues to be at the same spot in his wardrobe, and opening it now is like unlocking a treasure trove of memories, with each kerchief bringing alive a story, some that go back to his newly-married days in Rawalpindi. All these years it was the inside, rather than the box itself, which had held a charm. That was until recently when, by accident, I came across the vintage section of an e-commerce site selling a box similar to the one in grandpa’s cupboard. I nearly fell off the chair when I noticed it had a price tag of $51 or Rs 3,400 approximately. The seller’s description read ‘Morton Pure Confectioner litho tin box with girl and dog picture’.
I immediately reached out for grandpa’s box. On flipping it over, as in the online image, I found Morton written in small golden letters. It was a toffee box, from a brand set up in 1849 by JT Morton in Aberdeen, Scotland. The firm later became C&E Morton, which had commercial interests in India and, in 1928, a local magnate bought its rights. The Morton brand was registered here in 1947 and is now owned by Oudh Sugar Mills Ltd. A simple tin box had opened up chapters of a remarkable legacy, hidden away from the limelight.
Morton was among the few early-20th century companies that had opted to package its confectionery items in lithographed tin boxes. Today, like a lot else, these have far outlived their original purpose to become collectors’ items and there’s a whole legion of enthusiasts out there in the cyber world sharing their collection and tales of what those boxes held: from chessmen to toy train sets to sewing essentials, laces, locks and a lot more.
Lithographed tin boxes, the kind we’re familiar with now, emerged on the shelves in 1882 when chromolithography was invented. A series of colour plates were used for the process, as a result of which multi-colour tin-sheets could be produced. By 1890, embossing was also introduced in the design and brand names began appearing in relief, often in an attractive gold finish.
The birth of the tin can, the predecessor to the box, however, goes back to 1810 when British merchant Peter Durand was issued a patent for his idea of “preserving food in an iron can coated with tin”. The early 19th century saw the rapid growth of industrialisation and cooking food out of a tin, as opposed to preparing fresh food, became a status symbol. By 1820, tinned food was being widely sold across England, France and the US.
The early cans/boxes had paper labels on them. The first lithographed tin box, not multi-colour till then, with removable or hinged lid, is said to have been commissioned in 1868 by British biscuit manufacturers Huntley & Palmers. As the popularity of their decorated containers grew worldwide, litho tins were renamed biscuit tins and, soon, other confectioners followed suit, offering cakes, toffees and later chocolates. Idyllic landscapes, picturesque town scenes, famous paintings, exquisite regal settings, floral designs or happy baby faces were used generously in an effort to woo the target buyer — women and children. Christmas, coronation and royal births saw limited-edition theme boxes.
Litho tins arrived in India at the beginning of the 20th century and became fashionable soon enough. Till a few decades after the Partition, most tins were decorated with European themes. Mid-Sixties onward, the Indian sensibility crept in and, alongside Victorian patterns, calendar art gods-goddesses, mythological tales, protagonists of folk legends, grand palaces, national symbols such as the tiger, lotus and the Tricolour graced tin boxes of companies like Nutrine and Parle as well as a host of mithai and confectioner shops throughout the country. Unlike today, when brand names are splashed boldly across a product, the images did the talking while the trade name stayed almost hidden, usually on the rear or the sides in small font.
Over the centuries, the charming patterns and shapes were what appealed to buyers, who would put the boxes to good use long after the goodies inside had been polished off. While tin boxes were being lovingly preserved and recycled in homes across the world, who could have thought these would become collector items some day.
Published in BL ink, Business Line 

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Lucknow


Brinda Suri
Rumi Darwaza, an iconic structure, commissioned in 1784.

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Travelling back in time




The writer takes a walk right into the history of the magical kingdom of Awadh, its nawabs, architecture, and graceful culture. Winter is the season — and the reason — to put on your walking shoes and step out into Lucknow’s streets.

Ye Lakhnau ki sarzameen... ye rang, roop ka chaman… Mohd Rafi’s captivating voice gave musical soul to the Guru Dutt classic Chaudavi ka Chand. But on this balmy morning, his rich voice is filling the air at Lucknow’s ‘Jarnail wali Kothi’ and recreating the splendour of Awadh of the past, when it was a jewel in the crown of Hindustan.

Awadh has been romanticised down the centuries. It’s often used as a backdrop in popular cinema, feted by wordsmiths, and endlessly hailed by connoisseurs of fine things and good food. How was Awadh born? The term Nawab (from the Persian ‘naib,’ meaning ‘deputy’) was originally used for a provincial governor under the Mughals and his primary duty was to uphold the sovereignty of the Emperor. The decline of the later Mughals saw the rise of the nawabs. One of these was Nawab Saadat Khan, who established the state of Awadh in 1722, which remained a force to reckon with till the First War of Independence in 1857.
The Awadh dynasty traced its lineage back to Neyshabur north-eastern Persia (Iran). The nawabs of Awadh were a feisty and arty lot who, during their reign, seamlessly wove Persian sensibilities into the local milieu: the Persian language flowered; buildings were commissioned; poetry, music and dance resounded; able jurists, architects, scholars and not to forget shahi khansamas (royal chefs) visited regularly.

 It’s this history I’m exploring during a conducted walk through Lucknow’s Qaiserbagh. The heritage district is almost an open-air museum, unravelling splendid structures and delicious stories at every step. The spirited team of Itihaas, led by raconteur Smita Vats is taking us around and magically bringing alive the past with music, visuals and even fragrances. A little attar is dabbed on our wrists. The scent is unmistakably gulab. “It’s not just any fragrance,” says Vats, “this was Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s favourite. It's said when the plucky Nawab met the wily British he hugged them and it's believed they would say, 'we reek of his smell for days!'."

The nawabs freely borrowed architectural genres, giving birth to the Awadh style. Chhattar Manzil a palace built between 1798-1814 AD in Mughal-French-Awadhi vocabulary remained the seat of power of the Nawabs till 1847 AD. On the banks of the Gomti, it has an astutely designed ‘taikhana’ (basement) that was used in the searing summer. As I head towards the spectacular Lal Baradari or Coronation Hall, constructed during the reign of Nawab Saadat Ali Khan II (1798 -1814), Vats points out to the road we crossed to get here. “This was laid by the British; it was earlier a sprawling royal neighbourhood filled with gardens and fountains. The road sliced and divided the complex, a method typical of the British to establish their supremacy.”
Fiercely protective of their people and kingdom, the Nawabs did pander to British interests but resisted too (the third nawab Shuja-ud-Daula lost the Battle of Buxar in 1773, leading to a British Resident being placed in the kingdom, and the last nawab, Wajid Ali Shah, being banished to Calcutta in 1856.) Indeed, the British tried every trick to dull the shine of Awadh. They succeeded in making the Nawabs puppets but they couldn’t suppress the spirit of the land. It’s no wonder then that the annexation of Awadh was the last and most difficult hurdle the British had to cross to become masters of India. It is said that when Wajid Ali Shah faced the ignominy of exile, he told the British: “Taj (crown), takht (throne) le sakte ho, dastakht (signature) nahin”. Ironically, the takeover misfired as Awadh avenged its ruler’s insult and whole-heartedly participated in the Revolt of 1857; and a distance away, The Residency, which bore the brunt, stands mute witness to the uprising.
The walk concludes at Wajid Ali Shah’s Qaiserbagh, which has fantastical structures like the Parikhana, Marmari Bridge and Safed Baradari. What’s striking is the ornate Lakhi Darwaza, the west gate, built in 1850 and so named because it cost Rs. 1 lakh. It’s engraved with the Awadh insignia of twin fishes, an emblem adopted now by the U.P. government. This is an emblem I notice on all the buildings of those times, and it has a legend too: the first Nawab Saadat Khan, while still a Mughal governor, was crossing a river on his way to Lucknow when two fishes leapt into his lap. The locals aboard saw it as an auspicious sign and soon, Awadh was established. The nawab eagerly incorporated the fish into his kingdom’s emblems. The fish is part of Persian customs too, so I’m sure the insignia has another fish-tale. The twin fishes are now part of the UP government seal.
Later, the fish motif grabs attention when I visit the fourth nawab Asaf-ud-Daula’s iconic structures commissioned in 1784: Bara (or Asafi) Imambara and Rumi Darwaza. Interestingly, the design for the imambara was selected through a process of competition. The winner was Delhi architect Kifayatullah, who legend says so impressed with the design that he was rewarded with a burial place alongside the nawab inside the imambara. The imambara is among the largest arched structures in the world to have no beams supporting the ceiling. It also has a Bhulbhuliya or labyrinth on the periphery of the first floor that’s interconnected through identical 489 doorways, which were meant to confuse an invader. In today’s times, it’s visitors who get lost and can’t find the exit. True to tradition, my group got separated from the rest and we had to rely on cellular network to trace our way out of this quirky passage of history.
The cultural legacy of Awadh is connected to a great extent with Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. And the reasons are clear. How many kings have been not just patrons of the performing arts but proficient in them too? The Nawab was gifted musically; his thumri in Raag Bhairavi, Babul Mora Naihar Chhooto Hi Jaaye, is sheer genius. He composed poetry, under the pseudonym Akhtarpiya while his pen-name was, well, Qaiser; the dance form of Kathak was revived by him and elevated to the level of a classic; and theatre was encouraged. He gave form to a unified dress code, the Awadhi angrakha (a front overlapping kurta) and dupali topi (cap), as well as the greeting of ‘adaab’ (which simply means ‘I bow to you with respect’). The now famous ‘chikankari’ (or the Persian embroidery form of chakeen, which essentially means passing thread through white cloth to embellish it) also took root here.
The Awadhi ‘dastarkhawan’ (or tablecloth but, metaphorically, meaning fine dining) evolved and ‘dum pukht’ (or the Persian style of slow cooking) reached culinary heights. During the trip, I met the engrossing royal scion Nawab Jafar Mir Abdullah, a personification of Awadhi culture and a gourmet, who highlighted the nuances of its cooking. “Awadhi cuisine is about zaika (taste), khushbu (aroma),peshkari (presentation) and most importantly the jod (balance),” he explained in mellifluous Urdu, adding, “The disguise of a dish was at its zenith in Awadh. A sweet could be presented in the shape of a sour dish and vice-versa. The guest had to deduce what he or she was about to taste. Innovation was in vogue as today’s guest was tomorrow’s host. So chefs were always trying to outdo each other.” As I discovered, present-day Lucknow’s famous Tunde ke Kebab or Idris ki Biryani is just a drop in the vast ocean of this gastronomy.
History books do teach us about Awadh, but nothing I saw today could have prepared me for this history lesson — both tangible and intangible.

Edited version published in The Hindu 







  http://www.thehindu.com/features/magazine/brinda-suri-on-travelling-back-in-time-in-      awadh/article8202874.ece#comments


Monday, December 28, 2015

Resort review: Aamod at Shoghi


Have you ever aspired for a little place nestled in the hills? Till you pocket it, check into Aamod at Shoghi for a prelude.    

Picture this: A forest in the hills... the elegant oak racing up to the skies, a burst of shy rhododendrons somewhere in between, a poker straight deodar commanding attention and the ubiquitous pine preening unstoppably. Step on the edge and what greets the eye is a panoramic view of rolling green hills, happy flowers of the untamed kind, a few hamlets yonder, terraced fields tip-toeing up the slopes, lots of squinting blue skies, and oh! the sparkling sound of silence. So capturing are the environs it almost seems someone's pressed the pause button. It's a feeling so typical to the hills. It's a feeling Aamod at Shoghi induces. 

Aamod's USP is its location. On the NH 22, at Shoghi, a few km short of Shimla, and deep inside a reserved forest. Yes, you read that right. It's a lovely woody forest and not a tree was chopped to make place for the cottages which are quirkily placed at varying levels, most of them requiring you to hike and catch a breath as you make your way up towards them. The reason, this is not a place for wobbly-kneed elders or unfit juniors. On the flip side, should you decide to come here you are bound to feel a whole lot agile at the end of your stay. Nature has a way of cajoling you to do the dare and feel triumphant.    


Aamod offers a lot and does so with a large heart. It's got a spry courtyard restaurant right at the entrance which in a way sets the ball rolling. Adjoining it is the dining hall where a live kitchen whips up a range of cuisine. If the way to a guest's heart is through the stomach, Aamod strongly believes in that dictum and pulls out all stops to cater to your whims, even if that means baking a cake at night for your special occasion, which they did for a guest during my stay. The breakfast buffet has quite a choice and at dinner they pleasantly surprised me with guchhi soup. My pick would be its authentic Himachali spread, something you'll rarely find on the menu in these parts. Ever tasted the combination of sweet malpua served with savoury pumpkin? It's a traditional starter in the hills here, which I felt was very gourmet, and a clear winner.   

You're endearingly enveloped by nature at this true-blue eco-resort and you needn't step away for an up close green experience. Should you be in a mood to lazily unwind, you can do just that on a cosy chair outside your cottage. Else you could make your way to the charming machhan-like deck, a perfect spot to coil up with a book or just gaze into the forest and tune into its stillness or the song of the bird. Topping it all, however, is indulgence at the hilltop spa with a view, and its irresistible open-air jacuzzi. 

For those with an adventure bone there are easy trekking trails and hikes in the vicinity, mountain-biking, rock-climbing and rappelling, besides a host of team-building games. I opted for the railway trek which was literally round the corner and provided the thrill of walking along the century-old meter gauge track of the Kalka-Shimla toy train and seeing it whistle past me as it entered the tunnel. Quite fairytale like, that. The trek also gave me an insight into forest wealth besides clear morning views of the hills and its picturesque homes. 

I challenged myself to a bit more off-roading and joined my group on a cycling outing. Not having sat astride a bike in years I thought I'd be all rusted. That was not the case, though, and I covered the 6-km distance quite alright. To be true it was all downhill, thus! The reward at the end of the pedal-pushing was lunch at the Nal Thalak village home of Roshni Devi and Hemanand. It was food prepared with dollops of passion and regard and was delicious in its simplicity. What further sent the tastebuds soaring was the 24-kt liquid gold a.k.a. home-made cow-milk ghee, which Roshni Devi streamed onto our thalis. Fragrant and bursting with flavours, it got most of us asking for repeats.  

My tryst with adventure did not end there. Aamod has a comprehensive in-house 10-obstacle course, which includes flying fox. I would put this down as an absolute must-do. Considering my bulky profile I didn't think I would be able to go past the first rung of the hurdle. The fact that I could do it all and quite effortlessly goes to the credit of the two instructors Ravi and Jeetinder whose faith in their abilities and the equipment inspired confidence.  

All's good at Aamod, however, the cottages, I felt, required a little TLC. They are basic  -- yes, they have comfortable beds, running hot water, electric blanket, room heater, telly, de rigueur tea tray -- but lack a certain snugness associated with a place in the hills. The interiors on the whole are a tad monotonous (Pray tell me, why does one have to view the same set of black and white prints on every wall, be it in the rooms or dining, where in fact one wall has repeats?!). My experience is based on my stay in one section of the family suite. I had the desire to see other cottages to be able to present a fairer view but somehow that did not materialise. That apart, service at Aamod is with a smile, the locally-drawn staff being an enthusiastic lot, which irons out all glitches. 


Quickly: 
What: Eco-resort 
Where: On NH 22, at Shoghi, 13 km short of Shimla 
Tariff: Rs 5,600 onwards  
Resort-o-meter 
Location: 5
Ambience: 4.5
Cottages: 3 
Food: 4 
Activities: 4.5 


The visit was on the invitation of Aamod at Shoghi via Escape Route.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Postcards from Lucknow


Bara Imambara complex:(left) Asfi masjid (right) entrance
The dual fish motif, the coat of arms of Awadh, at the entrance of the Bara Imambara

Rumi Darwaza, next to Bara Imambara. Yes, tongas still ply here.
Chandeliers galore at Chota Imambara
Jarnail Kothi is known
 for its Roman arches and design
Lal Baradari, once a Coronation 
Hall now houses the state
 Lalit Kala Akademi   

La Martinière Boys' College (above and below) was founded in 1845. It's the "only school in the world" to have been awarded royal battle honours

Chikan-kari: The embroidery is said to have made its way here from Persia. Many meanings of the term abound, of which chikeen or 'running thread through cloth' seems the pick. It began as white on white, and that by far still looks most elegant.
The attar you dab so fondly is prepared the old-fashioned way in copper vessels. The best comes from the city of Kanauj 
Hazratganj: The brand street of Lucknow

Lucknow has dedicated bicycle tracks. And all very well 
marked. Surely it has nothing to do with the fact 
that the ruling SP symbol is bicycle, or... ;-) 

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Leh town Heritage Walk

Sofi House, Leh 

The writer takes a walk through Leh and finds beautiful stone pathways, quaint buildings and the traditional way of life still intact

In Leh, past and present walk hand in hand. If one moment you’re in a cyber café connecting with the world, the next instant you could mistakenly think you’ve strolled into a medieval film set as you walk through the winding alleys of an old town.
Monastic chants and the azan harmoniously ring intermittently through the day in Leh and the latter is a calming background score when I arrive at Manikhang, a busy inner lane in old town. I’ve decided to explore the area and this is a convenient starting point. Around me lies a maze of mud brick-houses with flat roofs and pretty wood-work windows accentuated by chequered glass-panes. Stone pathways rise steeply and lime-washed stupas stand in silence. Adding more drama to this living theatre is the 17th century Lehchen Pelkhar or Leh Palace, its under-restoration nine-storey structure spectacularly looming above the residential quarters and playing reminder of a grand era when the town was on the crossroads of Central Asian trade on the fabled Silk Road. This cluster of 200-odd houses is considered among the world’s most historically-intact Tibeto-Himalayan urban settlements.
As I walk the lanes, elderly bearded men with prayer caps curiously peep out of hole-in-the-wall shops packed with old-fashioned ware, women clad in maroon goncha (the ample Ladakhi woollen robe) exit homes and an aged goldsmith, sits bent over a design. It’s crumbling but tremendously atmospheric. So enveloping is the quaintness that I can almost hear a caravan of double-humped Bactrian camels from Bukhara halting somewhere here and merchants off-loading carpets, oriental silks, lapis lazuli, and more for a barter with local traders. If ‘back in time’ needed a visual representation this is it, notwithstanding the reality check provided by boards of cellular companies and the satellite dish, an adjunct on a few rooftops.
A significant bit of restoration work is on in the old town and two organisations quite involved in it are Ladakh Arts and Media Organization (Lamo) and Tibet Heritage Fund (THF). I leaf through their brochures and maps, and decide to follow a trail that’ll show me the extent of perseverance and triumph achieved by the two associations in lovingly preserving Leh’s legacy. A mingling of regional Buddhist traditions and those inherited from Central Asia have melded in Ladakh. The walk is all about coming up close with that way of life and not tick-marking monuments.
The first stop is the late-19th century Sofi House built with a blend of Tibetan and Kashmiri styles by a trading family from the Valley. It has striking elements of Kashmiri residential construction like dub(over-hanging balconies) with pinjarkari (wooden lattice work) shutters.
The traditional roof in Ladakh is quite an art in itself, and conservationists are taking meticulous efforts to remove all traces of modern mortar in projects they have undertaken ain order to rebuild the ceilings conventionally, with wooden beams, willow-stick joists, straw mats, local yagtses grass, soil, clay, and donkey dung, which increases solidness and strength.
In these parts, a donkey is a sturdy workhorse. Till a few years ago, once their usefulness was over, the donkeys roamed the streets uncared for. That was till a nice girl from South Africa called Joanne Lefson set up the Donkey Sanctuary here. Do stop by and meet these lovable jacks and jennys and contribute a little something for their upkeep.
My next halt is Lakruk House, a well-preserved original construction. From its terrace I get the best panoramic view of Leh old town — a sea of brown (mud) structures — cascading down the slope; the fluttering prayer flags and blue skies making it very picturesque.
After a pause I ascend the local way – up the rocky mountain path. I reach Red Chamba Lhakhang (Red temple of Maitreya) completely out of breath and what further takes my breath away are the 15th century wall-paintings that were discovered underneath lime plaster by THF. A collaboration of European and Ladakhi restorers have painstakingly brought them back to life.
Later, I get a peek into Munshi House, former home of the royal secretary that’s now being converted into an art centre by Lamo. The descent as expected was easier and I wrap up my tour at the lively Chutayrangtak Street, right behind the 17th century Jamia Masjid. This is where the delightful aroma of fresh bread and biscuits baked by Kashmiri naanwais (bakers) makes almost everyone halt for a tempting gaze.
By next season there will be another reason to stop here: the Central Asian Museum should be complete for visitors to view the cross-cultural influences, particularly from Kashmir, Tibet, Baltistan, Samarkand and Yarkand that have shaped Ladakh.
It is aptly situated in the Tsas Soma complex, which was once a caravan serai. Opposite it, quite incredibly, is a meswak tree, revered by Sikhs, as it dates back to the 15th century when Guru Nanak Dev visited Leh and sowed it. And you thought Leh was only about its airport and the jeep tours to Pangong Tso and Nubra Valley.

Published Sunday Magazine, The Hindu