Jagdish and Kamla Mittal Museum

'My grandfather believed jade green was the most aesthetic colour to view art in,' grins Naveen Beesa, as I take in the soft hue washing over the room we're seated in. 'He felt white was too bright, and even advised against wearing bold colours as it interferes with how you look at art.'

The late Jagdish Mittal, who passed away in 2025, aged 99, was among India's most influential and respected art collectors. His home, shared with his wife Kamala, is where he founded the museum in 1976. It sits on an unassuming lane in Hyderabad's Himayathnagar locality. 

Over the decades, this space has drawn artists, writers, scholars, judges, diplomats, dreamers, connoisseurs, passionate collectors and at least one former Chief Minister – all arriving to experience works spanning the 9th to the 19th century.

What to see

The sheer scale of Indian craftsmanship across civilisations tumbles out in this collection, object by breathtaking object. Rare Indian miniatures from the Pahari, Deccan and Rajasthani schools. Jain textiles from Gujarat dating to the 14th century – widely believed to be among only three known surviving examples of Indian embroidery. Striking pieces of Bidri, a 600-year-old art form now nearly extinct. Manuscripts, scrolls, Kalamkari textiles with gold inlay techniques whose skills were lost centuries ago. 

Objects from the collection have travelled far beyond Hyderabad – appearing at the Met and the V&A, and at global showcases like the Islamic Arts Biennale. Among its highlights: folios from the Bhagavata Purana commissioned in Mewar around 1660–70; a 50-foot-long Cheriyal scroll painted in natural dyes (a logistical challenge to show visitors, Naveen laughs); and delicate drawings from the Bundi and Kota courts dating to the late 17th and early 18th centuries – remarkable because they weren't courtly commissions, but rare vignettes of daily life, meant to train future artists within the family. Then there is a rare coco de mer bowl, once carried by Sufi mystics for alms, inscribed with a date from 1865. Each piece is a glimpse into artistic traditions that have, in many cases, silently faded away.

What you do on an appointment

The Jagdish and Kamla Mittal Museum defies every conventional expectation of what a museum looks like. There are no glass cases, no wandering galleries. Visits are strictly by appointment. You're seated on a simple moda, and one of the family members – Naveen, his wife and art historian Shailka Mishra, or his sister Uma – brings out a basta (portfolio), unfolding its contents piece by piece. Each object is presented at leisure, its history, provenance and context emerging through conversation.

You can request specific pieces or genres – researchers and scholars often do – though access depends on conservation needs. Textiles, for instance, stay tucked away in humid weather.

On my last visit, I spent two unhurried hours with 18 exquisite Pahari paintings – among them the celebrated A Parrot Perched on a Mango Tree; a Ram Tethered Below, dating to 1670, from the Golconda school, displayed at the Met in 2015 as part of the Sultans of Deccan India exhibition, a work that has confounded art historians for centuries with its image of an improbably oversized parrot.

And then there is the part that feels almost unbelievable: you can hold the objects. Priceless bronzes, rare vessels, fragile artefacts – handled carefully, of course, and always when seated. 'My grandfather insisted on it,' Naveen tells me. 'He believed objects should be held as gently as a newborn. Touch helps you understand their emotional value.' Once viewed, each piece is laid flat so nothing is toppled by accident.

Even the room itself feels like an extension of the collection. Shelves of books line the walls. Around you sit tribal bronzes from Bastar and Khond, Bhuta figures from 17th and 18th-century Malabar, Deccan incense burners, and brightly painted Kondapalli toys. 

An eye that arrived first

Jagdish Mittal's journey began in 1948 at the Sati Poush Mela in Shantiniketan. He spotted a fisherman carrying a basket covered in embroidered cloth – Kantha work, the centuries-old Bengali tradition of stitching layered textiles from worn fabric. He bought it for five rupees. Decades later, that same piece would be displayed at the Festival of India exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, in 1985.

The timing, in retrospect, was extraordinary. India had just gained independence, and aristocratic families across the country were beginning to divest their collections. His instinct meant he acquired some of the finest works available. His collector's eye was so finely tuned that people at art exhibitions would notice which paintings he paused before – and purchase them.

Shailka puts it simply: 'His foresight, to recognise how rare these objects would become, was extraordinary. And the diversity of what he collected gives us such a rich understanding of the past.'

That spirit endures. The museum remains free to visit. And each appointment comes with what may be the greatest gift of this particular moment in time: hours of undivided attention, generously given. Not many places offer that anymore.