STATION 1
You’re now at our first stop:
Neckarmünzplatz. This square is a hub for Heidelberg’s tourist groups. Just to your right is the Tourist Information Office.
Behind you, buses arrive from all over – maybe even the one that brought you here?
STATION 1
These objects remind me of the time when I started to become interested in South Asia, as a teenager. They were (45 years ago) still very exotic in Germany, and I was unsure what they were for. But I liked them, as they triggered my fantasy.
They remind me of my trip to Bali, and specifically the rice plantations.
The upper left one reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen. She had a few similar baskets. Some of them had handles that allowed them to hang from the ceiling. She often grabbed them down from the ropes and fetched things. She also kept her bracelet in one of them. Others were used for washing, shopping, etc. We made them ourselves along with straw hats and bamboo ware. Hence, it reminds me of the scene where a group of females, young and old, sit in the courtyard and make these out of straws, bamboo, or reed.
The basket in the top left instantly brings back memories of my father. At home in Kolkata, we used a similar basket to store potatoes. On Sundays, while my mother took charge of the cooking, it was my father who prepared the vegetables. I can still picture his hands reaching into the basket, selecting the right potatoes for the day’s meal, and skillfully peeling them with a boti—the traditional curved blade found in many Bengali households.
I choose the simple, rectangular jute tote bag (second from the left) – a widely used carrier in everyday life across Bengal and beyond. It’s modest, functional, deeply textured, and evokes layers of memory.
The Bag My Mother Never Threw Away
It was always hanging behind the kitchen door—
a jute bag, fraying at the edges, toughened by turmeric and time.
Stitched by hand at a women’s cooperative in Shantiniketan,
its fibers carried market whispers,
fish scales, coriander stems,
and the smell of early morning sweat.
When I see this bag, I see my mother’s hands—
callused, purposeful, rushing to negotiate the day.
That bag knew the art of bargaining,
of carrying heavy things without complaint.
It sagged when full, never broke.
Years later, across oceans and borders,
I still remember the way it would rest
on the edge of the rickety kitchen counter,
quiet but never invisible.
Now in this museum, it stands still, watched—
stripped of its motion,
its intimacy flattened into a curatorial caption.
But I remember it alive.
Not as an artifact,
but as a companion to my mother’s labor,
a quiet witness to the rhythms of home.
When I visited a tea plantation in Sri Lanka, I saw several people—mostly women—working there. They skillfully balanced large baskets like upper right photo on their heads, something I found impossible to imitate. These baskets were filled with a number of tea leaves. I realized that these women were not only skilled in maintaining and cultivating the tea plants, but also in the physical movements that could apply to their everyday lives. Through their work, I supposed that they had developed bodily techniques and movements.
These objects remind me of going shopping along with my mom as a younger child along the busy streets of Chennai around the Kapaleeshwarar temple. We’d usually take the scooter (two-wheeler) and try and fit a billion vegetables and grains in these things! Bags lasted many years and never gave up 🙂
The basket reminds me of the bread basket at my grandmother’s house and also of the basket they use to collect alms at church
STATION 1
Living in railway colonies we always had access to gardens and open space. My family is very orthodox and offers prayers twice every day. In the mornings someone or the other would do a survey of the garden, the bush hedges, and the lane that we lived on and collect flowers in a small cane basket for the prayers. During summer vacations this was my job and joy.
The basket is a very common object found in India. Probably more common than the other objects in the picture. But it doesn’t revive a particular memory for me. But the bag with the title “Bombay Bag” does. It is because of the peacock. I grew up in Sushant Lok, Gurgaon, Haryana in India. Near our house, there used to be a temple with a large pond and peacocks used to be there in plenty. I visited the place a few times. But don’t even remember the sight of peacocks, though I surely would’ve seen them. But I remember my parents talking about the peacocks vividly, particularly the male peacocks dancing.
The upper left one reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen. She had a few similar baskets. Some of them had handles that allowed them to hang from the ceiling. She often grabbed them down from the ropes and fetched things. She also kept her bracelet in one of them. Others were used for washing, shopping, etc. We made them ourselves along with straw hats and bamboo ware. Hence, it reminds me of the scene where a group of females, young and old, sit in the courtyard and make these out of straws, bamboo, or reed.
Yes, these baskets and tote/jute bags definitely stir memories for me. They take me back to my childhood, being dragged along with my mother to the open-air market for our daily shopping. I can still recall the narrow, muddy streets flanked with stalls, the air full of smells from fruits, vegetables, and flowers, and the voices of hawkers loudly calling out their prices.
My mother would carefully scan every stall, searching for the best produce, while I carried multiple jute bags, each one growing heavier as the shopping went on. Once we were done, the real challenge began-trying to load everything onto her scooter. I would sit behind her under the hot sun, juggling two or three bulging bags, while she navigated through the peak city traffic back home.
For me, these simple objects-baskets and jute bags-are more than just containers. They hold the memory of those bustling markets, the bond of those everyday errands with my mother, and the chaos and warmth of a city alive.
The basket (Kudde in Tamil) reminds me of whenever I visited my mother’s village, Erode. My grandma’s brother used to fill the kudde with cow dung that he collected from the cowshed every morning. Scrapping the dung with two wooden sheets and pilling it into the basket. I associate the smell of cow dung with the basket and the scrapping sound of the wooden sheets. The cow dung then was carried home and watered down in a steel bucket. The mix was then used to wash and coat the cement flooring outside the house referred to as a vaasal in Tamil. Upon drying, the vaasal would have this distinct aroma of cow dung, it is believed to keep away certain pests, insects and mosquitoes at night. It is also believed to have a sanitising effect in most tamil villages.
The basket reminds me of my time in primary school when we were asked to bring a jute basket as a part of a cultural dance event. I remember going to the outskirts of the town with my parents where people hand make and sell these baskets just outside their house. I associate this basket with the idea of the riding to the banana/ bajri/ tobacco fields in the monsoon season so that I can dance with it the next day.