Gangadharan Menon is a hard man to miss. At 68, with a flowing socratic beard, long white hair and dark-rimmed glasses, he looks more like a kindly wizard than the pragmatic teacher, author, artist, environmentalist, photographer and committed family man that he is. Softly spoken and reflective, his interests are so varied that our two-hour conversation touches on subjects as varied as botany, film, language, social systems, and folk art. Ganga – as he is known to his friends – is many things, but he is first and foremost an explorer.

Much like Mumbai, the city that has shaped so much of his identity, Ganga is the product of an interplay of varied social, cultural, historical and professional influences. He was born in 1956, in a small village in India’s Southern state of Kerala, where he lived with his grandparents until the age of five. “My love for old people and old things is probably from that time,” he says smiling. While he is a dedicated admirer of all things vintage, his early years in that small Kerala village also imbued in him a deep and enduring interest in nature. Today, that manifests in the form of a lush terrace garden humming with birds, bees, and butterflies. “I’ve counted over 18 different species across the seasons!” he says brightly.

The long way home

As befits a former English teacher and a copywriter, Ganga values words, pausing mid-conversation to frame his thoughts. We are talking about his home, where, almost unnervingly for a city like Mumbai, you can still hear more birdsong than car horns. Ganga, his wife Anita, and their son Akash, now 36, discovered this Mumbai row house almost 30 years ago, and knew instantly that it would be their home. “This was the 52nd house we had seen!” Ganga explains. Anita immediately liked it for its large kitchen, while Ganga appreciated its high ceilings and good bones.

The decision to create their home in this little hidden village came with some unexpected challenges, though—the first being the lack of noise. Before moving here, the Menons had lived close to a highway, where the constant rumble of traffic only ceased in the early hours of the morning. “When we moved in, we couldn’t sleep because it was so quiet!” Ganga recalls. Their previous home had also been much smaller, which turned out to be a mixed blessing. They moved their belongings easily, (“All our furniture could be carried on a single handcart,” he recalls, chuckling), but because purchasing the house had depleted their finances, it took them almost three years to set up this much larger space.

A museum of memories

Today, their house is also home to Ganga’s mother, his son and daughter-in-law, his granddaughter, Arundhati, and their two dogs, Oreo and Mia. Mumbai homes are typically compact, matchbox-sized spaces, making this kind of multi-generational living a rarity, but Ganga values the old tradition of housing extended family under one roof. In local parlance, these living situations are referred to as “joint families,” and Ganga believes that they are more conducive to sharing life experiences, with the family elders bringing valuable wisdom to the equation.

“In India, you don’t call your mother an ‘old woman’,” he explains. “You refer to her as vriddha, which is Sanskrit for ‘one who has progressed.’” His use of etymology to explain this decision is characteristic of his teaching style—creating connections between language, meaning, and perception—but his tone conveys the emotional truth at the heart of the matter: after his father’s passing, he did not want his mother to live alone.

This belief that age is progression, an augmentation of layers and complexity rather than decline, extends to all corners of the Menons’ home. Everywhere you turn are artworks and objects resonant with memory and meaning. Canvases painted by his students and friends adorn the walls, and a foldable, X-shaped book rest from a trip he and Anita went on 25 years ago sits atop an old wooden chest in the bedroom. A 1931 oil painting of Anita’s father’s great-grandfather casts a benevolent gaze on everyone who enters the library, while heavy wooden cupboards from Mumbai’s Chor Bazaar (literally, ‘thieves’ market’) stand sturdily with their backs to the walls. “My house is a museum of memories,” Ganga says, fondly.

Ganga teaches art at a local college, and works by his students share equal shelf space with those by nine-year-old Arundhati. Whether the objects are actual antiques or technical novelties, he treasures them all.

Proudly, he points out a series of brass objects and traditional lamps from his mother’s old house. “These lamps – called nilavilakku – are very close to my heart,” he says, explaining that he considers lamps to be unusual design objects. Their fine brass work makes them beautiful in themselves – “but they are completely transformed when they are lit,” he adds. Ganga recalls one especially memorable Diwali not long back, when the family lit up every single one of the 30 lamps in the house. “It was just so beautiful,” he says. “To me, a lit lamp is the ultimate symbol of joy – and it has nothing to do with religion.”

Arcadian rhythms

In a village slowly being consumed by the concrete march of urban expansion, Ganga is that rare thing: a dedicated environmentalist. In this home’s back garden, he has grown thick-canopied trees, where birds of many varieties noisily flock, and the first-floor terrace is lush with flowering plants, many of which he planted to attract and host butterflies. A covered swing on the terrace faces a birdbath, providing the perfect vantage point from where to watch the many winged visitors (Anita is a dedicated birder) – and Ganga’s writing table in his first-floor bedroom overlooks a small balcony that gives him a ringside view of the avian activities higher up in the trees.

In the middle of our conversation, Ganga suddenly stills, gestures at me to be silent, and beckons me closer to the window. A purple-rumped sunbird has hopped onto the balcony and is dipping her beak into the pink flowers potted there. Ganga’s delight at this surprise visitor is contagious, and I find myself enchanted by this tiny bird and her flyby lunch. The city seems far, far away.

To Ganga, this bedroom is a space for work, play, and rest. The writing desk from his advertising days occupies one corner, and Arundhati’s books and toys take up almost all of the storage space (her grandfather’s bedroom is also one of her favourite places within the home). These days though, this room is more about leisure and siestas — the latter being what Ganga most looks forward to on days he doesn’t have to teach.

The big picture

As an advertising professional for almost three decades, Ganga was familiar with Annie’s work, remembering how iconic Rolling Stone Magazine was for writers and designers back then. “It was kind of a bible for us,” he recalls. To then be shot by one of the people who made it so iconic was almost surreal. “Not even a dream come true because I never dreamt of such a thing!” he says, the astonishment animating his usually tranquil face.

Ganga recounts how Annie photographed him: in his terrace garden in the heat of the afternoon, dappled by sun and shade. After shooting for about an hour, she walked up to him, showed him a picture and asked the astounded Ganga if he wanted any changes. “That’s the great thing about her: her humility,” he says. “She was asking me! I mean, I almost had tears in my eyes.”

A photographer himself, Ganga believes a good photograph is born out of both patience and love. You might say the same of a home like his.