Old Delhi laneways
But then we leave these roads and duck into the alleyways of Old Delhi and the day becomes more intense. Sometimes 2m wide, they are packed full of people, rickshaws and motorbikes honking through them. A big wooden trolley cuts a solid swathe.
The shops are a parade of jewellery, saris and wedding dresses in one area, then incense and religious statues, then food, and then spices.
People sit in front on plastic chairs, or perch on wooden stools or lean against walls. Two men are deep in conversation, sitting sideways on the same Royal Enfield motorbike.
Dogs find undisturbed repose.
And it all happens under the unfathomable (to me) and somewhat ominous black tangle of overhead electricity wires.
And then we burst back out into the streets of Old Delhi, which now feel so much more spacious, with their planted medians and sidewalks. Perceptions change.
While New Delhi generally refers to the planned part of this city built under British rule, Old Delhi, particularly round the Chandni Chowk market area, was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in the 17th century. It was originally called Shahjahanabad. Shah Jahan was interested in town and social planning, and architecture.
It was originally designed with canals, which he thought would reflect the moonlight pleasantly — and, in particular a central canal running through it, which has been consumed by the narrow lanes.
There have been traders in some of these for hundreds of years. But more than just places of trade, this is a place of strong community and traditions — of life running as thick and warm as blood.
And one final part of Old Delhi's story strikes me hard. In 1947, when India became independent again, it was partitioned into two separate States — one predominantly Hindu and the other predominantly Muslim, which are today's Pakistan and Bangladesh.
It was a violent and destructive period.
But in Old Delhi, where people freely show religious and cultural identities, I glimpse through a window into pre-partition India and its complex multicultural past.
Many of the shops are full of all that's needed for the elaborate and important rituals of Hindu weddings.
And yet, still today, the mesaharartis still rise at all hours to give their high-pitched wake-up calls around Old Delhi's laneways.
They will call Muslims to prayer like this, particularly during Ramadan, in a tradition dating back at least 600 years.
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West Australian
a day ago
- West Australian
Old Delhi laneways
Out on the roads of Old Delhi, the auto rickshaw beside me is crammed with cubic packages, hand-sewn into neat white bundles. Two young blokes come thundering past on a new Royal Enfield. A cycle rickshaw is piled high with stuffed hessian sacks and rolled pages, an older man walking beside it, pushing. But then we leave these roads and duck into the alleyways of Old Delhi and the day becomes more intense. Sometimes 2m wide, they are packed full of people, rickshaws and motorbikes honking through them. A big wooden trolley cuts a solid swathe. The shops are a parade of jewellery, saris and wedding dresses in one area, then incense and religious statues, then food, and then spices. People sit in front on plastic chairs, or perch on wooden stools or lean against walls. Two men are deep in conversation, sitting sideways on the same Royal Enfield motorbike. Dogs find undisturbed repose. And it all happens under the unfathomable (to me) and somewhat ominous black tangle of overhead electricity wires. And then we burst back out into the streets of Old Delhi, which now feel so much more spacious, with their planted medians and sidewalks. Perceptions change. While New Delhi generally refers to the planned part of this city built under British rule, Old Delhi, particularly round the Chandni Chowk market area, was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in the 17th century. It was originally called Shahjahanabad. Shah Jahan was interested in town and social planning, and architecture. It was originally designed with canals, which he thought would reflect the moonlight pleasantly — and, in particular a central canal running through it, which has been consumed by the narrow lanes. There have been traders in some of these for hundreds of years. But more than just places of trade, this is a place of strong community and traditions — of life running as thick and warm as blood. And one final part of Old Delhi's story strikes me hard. In 1947, when India became independent again, it was partitioned into two separate States — one predominantly Hindu and the other predominantly Muslim, which are today's Pakistan and Bangladesh. It was a violent and destructive period. But in Old Delhi, where people freely show religious and cultural identities, I glimpse through a window into pre-partition India and its complex multicultural past. Many of the shops are full of all that's needed for the elaborate and important rituals of Hindu weddings. And yet, still today, the mesaharartis still rise at all hours to give their high-pitched wake-up calls around Old Delhi's laneways. They will call Muslims to prayer like this, particularly during Ramadan, in a tradition dating back at least 600 years.
The Age
2 days ago
- The Age
Pedestrian etiquette in Melbourne has reached new lows. It's time for a ‘keep-left' crackdown
Early in the 20th century, British and colonial cities began switching their footpath rule to match that of the road. Sydney adopted a 'keep-to-the-left' rule for its footpaths in 1921 and Melbourne followed in 1925. 'Keep to the Left' was stencilled on the surface of city footpaths, with a continuous white line painted down the middle so there could be no mistaking where the left became right. Photos from the 1960s show arrow-painted Melbourne intersections with people keeping to the left and crossing in stylish, orderly streams. By 1963, The Age was reporting the council was no longer fining wayward walkers under the by-law – just asking them politely to 'please walk left'. These arrows gradually faded away, disappearing by the time the 1970s began. From there, standards slipped. And they slipped enough that in 2014 Melbourne City Council introduced a walking etiquette campaign called Share Our Streets. The campaign saw actors with giant phones wandering the streets pretending not to pay attention to where they were going. Cards were handed out with tips: Cyclists should give way to pedestrians, and those on foot should 'keep to the left'. In 2025, our city's streets and footpaths are busier than ever with pedestrians, cyclists and micromobility devices such as e-bikes, (private) e-scooters and even e-skateboards. Add to this a culturally diverse population with more international tourists and students than ever before. Meanwhile, mobile phones have created a generation of zombies who are always looking at their screen, taking a selfie, or streaming the latest series. A decade ago, the City of Melbourne installed phone-friendly tech at the crossings just outside Town Hall: green and red footpath lights on the pavement are designed to grab the attention of screen-absorbed pedestrians who might be about to step into oncoming traffic. The success of the pedestrian upgrades has been mixed. Monash University found a frightening 42 per cent of phone starers failed to check before crossing the road. Loading Honolulu was the first city to fine people who cross streets while doomscrolling, and others have now followed. Is it time for Melbourne to do the same? Victoria has a road rule that bans phone use while driving. What about the same for pedestrians crossing the road? Perhaps we could seize offenders' phones for a day? For many, that would be harsher than a fine. Walking has always been the predominant mode of transport within the CBD – up to 90 per cent of trips started and ended within the Hoddle Grid are on foot. The CBD hosts 900,000 pedestrians daily – a figure forecast to balloon to 1.4 million in the next decade.
Sydney Morning Herald
09-08-2025
- Sydney Morning Herald
Those left behind: The long shadow of Britain's nuclear testing in WA
A son, a daughter and a grandson of Australian servicemen exposed to nuclear testing have made an emotional pilgrimage up to the remote Montebello Islands to capture details of an era with – literally and metaphorically – enduring fallout. Paul Grace, Maxine Goodwin and Gary Blinco recently stood together in the ruins of a bomb command centre overlooking the scene of three British nuclear tests in the 1950s that few younger Australians have ever heard of. As the world commemorates Japan's wartime nuclear blasts in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the trio say Australians should not forget the impact of atomic tests conducted on West Australian soil in the 1950s, starting with Operation Hurricane in 1952 and followed by two more tests in Operation Mosaic in 1956. Other atomic tests at Emu Field and Maralinga bookended the Montebello series. Grace, Goodwin and Blinco all know the tests left a family legacy of death or ill-health – and lingering contamination 70 years later on several islands. On a recent expedition up to the Montebello archipelago, 80 kilometres offshore from Onslow, the trio gathered documentary and archival material while filling gaps in their own family histories. For Grace and Goodwin, the most poignant moment was when they stood on the tarmac at Onslow airport in the exact spot where his grandfather and her father posed for a photograph with No 86 Transport Wing Detachment RAAF, to commemorate the successful test of Britain's first ever nuclear bomb detonation on October 3, 1952. 'My grandfather Flight Lieutenant Ron Grace is seventh from left back row, and Maxine's father Leading Aircraftman [later Sergeant] Max Ward is third from left front row,' says Grace. 'They performed what they called 'coastal monitoring sorties' after testing, but that was code for looking for fallout – the British had promised that no fallout would reach the mainland.' Grace's grandfather wrote later: 'As pilot of the aircraft, I would have been the most exposed crew member, being shielded only by the Perspex of the front and side windows. The navigator, radio operator and Mr Hale being in the body of the aircraft had, presumably, more protection. 'Further to the above, after leaving the atomic cloud, we spent approximately two more hours in a radioactive airplane (as proved by the Geiger-Counter check) during the return to Onslow, landing, parking and shut-down.' Maxine Goodwin's father died of lymphatic cancer aged 49, when she was 16. 'He would have been servicing contaminated aircraft, so my mother and I do believe his illness was the result of his participation in the nuclear tests,' she says. 'When Paul and I looked across at the original runway where the Dakota planes would have been taking off and landing, I could visualise the busy scene from that time, and it was very emotional.' Gary Blinco's father Allen made several trips to the Montebello Islands during the test years, working as a navy diver recovering moorings in a lagoon and monitoring radiation levels. 'I knew as a young guy that my father had been there, but I didn't really know what it meant,' he says. 'I had a burning need to connect.' By the time Blinko was able to sit down with his estranged father to discuss it, the older man had been diagnosed with dementia. But he vividly recalled diving on the site of Royal Navy frigate HMS Plym, which had been detonated by one of the explosions; he recalled a depression in the seabed and 'a shiny base'. 'I'm told there was high stress about being a navy diver there,' says his son. 'I was able to swim in the water where my Dad had dived, and I walked on the beach where he guided scientists to do their monitoring. They were fully protected; he was wearing sandals and shorts.' 'The British did a very good job of keeping things under wraps and applying pressure on the Australian government to do the same.' Allen Blinko died of old age, but a 2006 DVA study of Australian participants in British nuclear tests in Australia showed an increase in cancer deaths and cancer incidence (18 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) than would be expected in the general population. 'They tried to explain these figures away, but they are really quite damning,' says Paul Grace, an author whose book Operation Hurricane gives a detailed account of the events and personnel involved in UK nuclear testing in Australia. The three descendants of nuclear veterans describe the Montebello Islands as haunting but beautiful. 'Within the landscape, you've got an incredible number of Cold War artefacts lying around, what the British referred to as 'target response items',' says Grace. 'It means stuff that they planted around the place to see whether it could withstand a nuclear blast, like World War II-era bomb shelters constructed out of corrugated iron and sandbags.' Another relic is the metal framework of the command centre on Hermite Island, which Grace, Goodwin and Blinko visited. 'It's where the scientists triggered all three bombs,' says Grace. 'It's on top of a hill with an extraordinary view over the entire island group, the only site during the tests that was still manned but evacuated afterwards.' The nuclear fallout was not limited to those servicemen involved. Still affected 70 years later are large tracts of land and seabed across the Montebello archipelago. New research into plutonium levels in sediment on some islands have found elevated levels up to 4500 times greater than other parts of the WA coastline. The research by Edith Cowan University, released in June, was supported by the Australian Radiation Protection and Nuclear Safety Agency. Visitors are urged to spend no more than an hour on some islands. Grace says the Montebello story is a cautionary tale of Australia's over-eagerness to host Britain's nuclear test series, and of UK authorities' lack of safety and casual attitude toward radioactive drift. 'It forces you to question the wisdom of tying Australia's defence to powerful allies, especially in the context of the current debate over AUKUS, where the benefits are vague and shifting and the costs will only become clear decades in the future,' she says.
