Rosalyn D'Mello: The suburbs of our memory

We must pass on the nostalgia from our suburban neighbourhoods before our shared memories are forgotten in this age of high-rises

There could be an entire book just about Sunday rituals in Catholic neighbourhoods in the suburbs, like Kurla or Kalina

Despite the sheer convenience of living at a friend’s place in Colaba and the odd comfort of waking up to the familiar proceedings of the 7 am mass at the St Francis chapel right across the road, I found myself pining for the privilege of being home. So, after returning from the glorious high of the Symphony of India’s concert at NCPA, I inadvertently packed my knapsack and headed to Kurla for the night. The next evening I returned to the suburbs, even though I had only a few clothes to spare (my baggage was still at my friend’s house). As I was walking up the stairs, I ran into my downstairs’ neighbour, Annalise, whom I’ve known since she was a baby. She held within her hands a big vessel with piping hot crab curry. “I’m coming down to get a bowl,” I said audaciously. I rushed to my kitchen to get a container and just as I was about to head back out the door, I found her sister Mia standing outside with a generous helping just for me. That night, my friend Abby and I feasted on the Mangalorean-style curry, walloping it up with fresh ladi pav we’d bought from the bakery close by.

The next day as I was walking into Garden Rose Colony, where I live, it struck me that I actually did know the occupants of every apartment in the five buildings that comprise the colony. Partly because when I was a kid, my friends and I would actually go house to house, collecting old newspapers to raise funds for the annual Diwali and Christmas parties we would host, or to collect money to make the Christmas crib and the star. We knew which uncle would yell at us collectively if we made too much noise. We knew which house to go to if we were thirsty after playing relay and Lock and Key. We were always in and out of each other’s houses, and we took all of this for granted, never bothering to inscribe any of it as part of our shared history.

Months ago, after one of my columns where I wrote about Kurla, an academic friend told me how the grand narrative of Bombay’s history often marginalised suburban sub-plots. It does seem incredible that the tiny details that have punctuated so many of our lives don’t even exist as footnotes. The nostalgia for many sensuous moments only arises in closed-door conversations. There could, for instance, be an entire book just about Sunday rituals in Catholic neighbourhoods in the suburbs, like Kurla or Kalina, Vikhroli, right up to Thane, where you step out of your home to buy beer and are engulfed by a cacaphony of cooking scents; East Indian bottle masala, chicken curry, pork vindaloo, and you know the neighbourhood so well you can trace each smell to the kitchen from where they have originated. Or even the post-Mass breakfast, or the picking up of fugias and sanas from the stalls that dot the road leading to Church. And who could forget the mythical Cotton Mary, whose limited repertoire of songs have fallen on ears across generations — I went to see my darling, last Saturday, last Saturday, I went to see my darling last Saturday.

Bombay is a city of negotiations. If ever you forget that, take a ride on the local train and you’ll recognise even the wordless gestures that elucidate that fact; like the person poking you to get your attention, then waving her palm, as if cupping something invisible, to indicate, “Where”, to which, if your answer is satisfactory, you will be greeted with a finger pointing back to the person, signifying they have booked the few square inches of space where your ass is currently seated. The nebulous nature of the city’s dense landscape provokes these constant mediations. But so much of it remains undocumented. South Bombay and Bandra have had their time in the literary sun, while places further north have been relegated to the shadows.

Maybe one way of undoing this unspoken erasure is to reinforce the possibilities of oral narratives; privileging the nostalgia shared among communities before that, too, is forgotten in the age of the high-rise.

I dread to think that the era has already descended where we no longer know who lives upstairs from us, or downstairs, or even to the immediate right and left. I fear a world where you cannot ring the bell to ask your neighbour for a cup of sugar or a donation of tomatoes because you’ve already started cooking and it’s too late to go to the bazaar.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

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