How does a Once Upon a City column exactly come together? Chance encounters with surprise 'sources' in unlikely spaces impart local lore to treasure
The oratory near Ranwar village square, Bandra. Pic/Bipin Kokate
I wish.” Words packing a world of wistfulness. Thinking these monosyllables inwardly each morning a fresh precinct pulls me towards it, I’m well rewarded. Invariably, there wait delicious secrets to discover at every turn.
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I wish to meet an interesting local. I long to stumble upon the unexpected. I hope for “Aha, didn’t know this” surprises. The answer lies mostly in the affirmative, if sometimes slow to come. With happy anticipation I ask myself, who will I meet today?
Contrary to popular perception, I land in vicinities with only a smidgeon of knowledge about them. The adventure lies in finding out. Kannada fiction writer Yashwant Chittal puts it succinctly: “I don’t write what I know. I write to know.”
Aaditya Acharya and his father Deepak in their sweets and farsan shop, D Damodar Mithaiwala at Khodadad Circle, Dadar. File pic
The pleasure and power of oral history is palpable. Finally, it is “making the little stories of Mumbai matter” (the subtitle of my book inspired by this column, Once Upon A City) that leaves readers and writers equally content. There is joy in tramping around to map a Bombay more sinned against than sung of. Seek the unexpected, surrender to it and you reap rich.
On the street, completely off the cuff, I prefer those impromptu, unscheduled “interviews” which often work better than prepped exercises. Their spontaneous anecdotal quality is infectious and irreplaceable. While this is true across town, here are nuggets from suburban wanderings, before heading southside soon.
The time I crisscrossed bucolic Borivli gaothans unearthed fine family histories. Left with a last hour to wrap up the week’s research before sitting to write, I very much wanted to hear from early inhabitants of Eksar village in the suburb’s west. After the handwringing that afflicts ferreting authors in pursuit of an idea, a voila moment struck. In the clearing close to Shahabuddin Shah Dargah, I suddenly came upon not one but six Eksar old-timers, casually smoking on bucket chairs arranged in a semi-circle.
Figuring that I’d just met Rakesh Shah, proprietor of Bhavnagri Farsan House, Ebrahim Mullah and Bashir Sendole spoke of his father Mukundrai’s largesse to Konkani Muslim tangawalas. From the day he opened shutters in 1953, Mukundrai fed hordes of hungry horsemen hanging around Borivli Station for customers. Quietly kind, he thought nothing of slipping in twice the quantity of snacks they afforded for a couple of rupees.
Architect Atul Chemburkar choosing fish at the Chembur market named after his father, the Harishchandra Chemburkar Mandal. File pic
Wizened wise at 87, Husain Chacha from Wardha related, in an unhurried drawl, how an Omani Baba proved healing powers in these swampy wilds overrun by snakes two centuries ago. He confirmed the suburb gets its name from plantations of bora fruit berries, falling to the ground in thick carpets.
“Angrez log insisted on spelling it ‘Berewlee’,” laughed Munawar Chogle who clocked in multiple duties at now shuttered Jaya Talkies. Joining as an 18-year-old, he went on to be general factotum—“I managed the canteen, sold tickets and ice cream for Balcony seats, and handled the projector.”
Another chance encounter cropped up in a sleepy Chembur gaothan threatened by extinction, with monster towers already dwarfing the charming core. Treading its tiny trails to nowhere in particular, I bumped into 70-year-old Chandrabhaga Varoshe, about to retire for an afternoon nap. She stubbornly held on to her roots—“Amche Chiplun gaava saarkhe ugda aahey [It’s airy like our Chiplun village].”
Generations of Chemburkars have witnessed critical changes in this brash, booming eastern city belt, one of 15 villages of Trombay Island, linked to the mainland in 1910. Varoshe was glad I had heard that the word Chembur stems from the Marathi “chimboree” (big crab), as Kurla does from “kurlya” (small crab). Balancing on what was roughly a 1 x 5 foot wooden plank, young Kolis would go “mud skiing” on wet earth. Loading their catch in straw or bamboo baskets on the plank, they deftly propelled the contraption. They rode it with one hand and leg, using the remaining pair of limbs to pedal the plank forward.
Brimming with local lore, a friendly waiter at Jeevan, possibly Vile Parle’s oldest restaurant, proved a real find. While his colleagues served as usual, flitting from table to table, he popped up and stayed at my side, bearing tales to enjoy through a spicy thali lunch. First, he quizzed me about how I thought the suburb came to be called Vile Parle. Without allowing for a crack at an answer, he launched forth.
Vali Mohamed of Patel Newspaper Stall knows the history of Clare Road, Byculla, well. File pic
“Idlai Padlai sounds like a snack on our menu! That’s what Vile Parle once was —Padle village near Santa Cruz and Irle near Andheri. Together they named the railway station Vidlai (Idlai to those dropping the V) Padlai.” Others hold that this alludes to the Shiva temples of Virleshwar and Parleshwar. Pronounced Virle Parle in Marathi, the colonial pronunciation slurred to Vile Parle.
My khabru led the way through humming kitchens to the office of Vasudev Joglekar and his son Vidyesh. When their eatery was introduced in 1951, it wooed patrons with a thrifty six-anna lunch with dessert in pure ghee. As parting shot, he directed me to Vishnu Stores. Stocking traditional nibbles like poha chivda, upvaas wada, papad and puranpoli, Tejas Gokhale’s success story started in 1949 when his grandfather Purshottam founded a pickle business with wife Lalita’s tangy mirchi and amba lonche.
Closer to home acres, the authentic route to East Indian life in Bandra passes via its parishes, ringed by crannies and crevices of tiny, bunched hamlets. With his heart and hearth rooted here, the late Fr Larry Pereira, bequeathed a bloodline from the Pereiras and the Fonsecas, was my gracious guide along Ranwar village paths.
Pipe-puffing, potbellied uncles relaxing on ancestral cottage verandahs recalled kids chasing pigs and hens fattened for Christmas, Easter and the September Fair. Women of the house purposefully added starch in the animals’ diets, to flesh them out for succulence. They were a quaintly familiar sight, walking narrow alleys with pails of rice soup balanced on their heads.
Strains of “I’d like to teach the world to sing”, wafted from a window. Startled, I jumped on realising the serendipity of the moment. Exactly where we were standing outside the oratory, erected by Reverend H Pereira to mark his Sacerdotal Silver Jubilee in December 1905, I bumped into Teresa Marquis. She was the music teacher students remember as much for her voice as for her tight curls. My mind leapt to that New Seekers hit she taught us over 40 years back. As I glanced up to where this 1970s tune played, both of us grinned at the memory.
In neighbouring Mahim, I’ve been humbled by the character and colour, strength and tenacity that thrive on Mori Road. “Mori” is the Kolis’ word for shark. This has always been Grit Street. Past rows of dusty kirana stores and itinerant hawkers near the post office, Shibanibai lined up a pavement array of laddoos, chana and chikki. She sold these to supplement her painter husband’s pay, to bring up three children. “You should speak with a Koli. Don’t search too hard. They are right there,” she advised.
I could barely believe my luck when, opposite her scrunched squatting space, in Maqhdoomi Restaurant, I found Chandrakant Meher finishing lunch. This was where his Koli family used to troop to for occasional treats of double maska-pao and khari biscuits. “The kingfisher-filled mangroves are gone and Mahim creek smells foul,” he remarked. “But now I think we have less communal clashes in our area and look forward to peace.”
An even sunnier attitude greeted me at Dadar’s Khodadad Circle. A florist settling with his blooms and starting to thread torans, on the footpath fronting Dayaram Damodar Mithaiwala, was surrounded by irate housewives. Trying to beat back his tiredness, though frazzled by the crowded commute on a peak-hour train running late, he smiled, placating them. They grew mollified by his mild manner. He pointed to the sweaty T-shirt on which his young daughter had scrawled a meme—Haar ke aagey jeet hai, Dadar ke aagey seat hai.
A stray encounter midtown confirmed again how seemingly unlikely sources can lend amazing learning. I recollect a conversation on Clare Road, Byculla. Its north end—named after John Fitzgibbon, 2nd Earl of Clare, Governor of Bombay from 1831 to 1835—is bookended by the Khada Parsi statue.
Spotting Vali Mohamed flick a duster over publications at Patel Newspaper Stall, open since 1971, I got chatting. He excitedly summoned the next-door shopkeeper selling rexine, who whipped out his cell phone to share stunning archival images of this junction.
Vali Mohamed pointed to the monument beside us, saying, “We’ve shown you nice photos. Now you must tell us something. Who is this ‘Khada Parsi’?”
Seth Cursetjee Manockjee, I explained. The monument was erected by his son Manockjee Cursetjee. Championing women’s education, Manockjee offered 13 girls the first English school in 1859 from his home, Villa Byculla, near this Y-flyover junction. That was the beginning of The Alexandra Girls’ English Institution, as we know it, at Fort. “A great man, to educate ladies,” Vali Mohamed’s friend said. Fleeting but fulfilling minutes with two street vendors, swapping snippets of history about a city meaningful to us all.
Author-publisher Meher Marfatia writes fortnightly on everything that makes her love Mumbai and adore Bombay. You can reach her at meher.marfatia@mid-day.com/www.meher marfatia.com
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