Banking on the best: my Bombay street khabris
Chance encounters with some “khabris” – informants or sources in local lingo – have proved invaluable for research on the roads I map in my city history columns
“You going out for your roadside research?” one of my kids asked some years ago. I’d laughed out loud, though that was true to an extent.
“Assume nothing, embrace everything” is a mantra which works well for me. These sources prove less random and more reliable than anyone might expect – the kerbside newspaper walas, chaat walas, paan walas and florists plying their trade peacefully in little roadside alcoves. Not forgetting watchmen at colony gates and kaali-peeli cabbies. The information mined and minted from them all is to treasure beyond measure.
Byculla flyover, Clare Road
A vanishing sight in a city saturated with towering enclaves, pavement newspaper stalls are hubs I readily gravitate towards. It was most interesting to chat with Vali Mohamed Patel, ensconced in Patel Newspaper Stall outside Readymoney Compound on Clare Road (Mirza Ghalib Marg). The famous “Khada Parsi” statue loomed close to where we met, between the two arms of the Byculla flyover.
“Print readership is down by 80 per cent since I’ve sat here from 1971,” he rued, before enquiring what exactly I was after. “Old photographs of this junction,” I said. “Ah, samajh gaya,” he responded. Promptly popping into a small rexine shop next door, he introduced its proprietor. Who, I was gobsmacked to see, took a few moments before scrolling his cell phone till he found sepia prints of the kind I wanted.
What followed was a mutually enriching exchange I’ll never forget (watch the video). “Now will you do something for us?” Vali Mohamed queried. “Yeh Khada Parsi ka putla jo hai – kaun tha yeh aadmi?”
Pleased that I could explain, I did. The 40-feet tall cast iron statue of Seth Cursetjee Manockjee, perched on a strikingly ornate Corinthian pillar, was constructed in the merchant’s honour by his son Manockjee Cursetjee in the 1860s. That was also the decade in which Manockjee most creditably tutored 13 girls in the English medium “school” he set up in his home, Villa Byculla.
I left, marvelling at the archival images on the next-door shopkeeper’s phone. And two simple men expressing how impressed they were by Manockjee’s pioneering contribution to education for women.
Madhavrao Gangan Marg, Agripada
Wedged between Byculla and Bombay Central, tough-talking Agripada has also always extended a tender tradition of social service institutions like the YMCA and YWCA, the Salvation Army and the Central Society for the Education of the Deaf. In the more chaotic heart of this precinct, I reached the BIT (Bombay Improvement Trust) Chawl on Madhavrao Gangan Marg, to ascertain whether it was once a British jail as I had heard.
Catching the eye of Anasuya Dhone from Building No. 3, I followed her into her kholi. Though almost an unannounced intruder, I found a glass of chilled rose doodh promptly pressed in my hands by her daughter Shubhangi. “My husband enjoyed working for a boss who was Parsi, like you – Limji Seth of the Bombay Cycle & Motor Agency,” she smiled, looking me up and down.
Bam. Anasuya Bai’s remarks got me researching what she so casually mentioned. Her husband had likely worked for Naushir Kharshedji Limji, the son of entrepreneur Kharshedji Limji who helmed this iconic company, originally established in 1885. The agency first functioning as a bicycle importer, later emerged as one of India’s premier automotive dealerships, holding distribution rights for major American and European car brands, including Dodge, FIAT and Chrysler, to rule the auto dealership industry space.
Kennedy Bridge, Grant Road
So much happens under and around any bridge. Kennedy Bridge, along the eastern flank of Grant Road, acknowledges John Pitt Kennedy, the Government Railway Engineer who contributed to its design and construction in 1850. Vitthalbhai Patel Road here (named after Sardar Patel’s elder brother and Swaraj Party co-founder) and Procter Road (Sir Henry Procter headed the Bombay Chamber of Commerce) skirt Kennedy Bridge.
Saadat Hasan Manto called this Pavan Pul – Bridge of Breeze. The Urdu author would walk, windblown, from Byculla where he lived, to where he worked here at Jyoti Film Studio for Ardeshir Irani who directed the first talkie Alam Ara. In 1937, Manto wrote Kisan Kanya for Irani, the first indigenously processed film. Colourful mujra dancers’ kothas around the seamy vicinity featured in Manto’s story, Haarta Chala Gaya.
Churches and chawls share walls with a pell-mell patchwork of car spare part suppliers and noisy nautch rooms. Ghungroo bells clinking on their anklets, tawaifs sang soulful to lewd lyrics at mehfils in compounds below the bridge.
Strolling the neighbourhood one evening, I spotted a middle-aged sex worker pinning her hair with mogra flower strands she haggled for. Throwing me a knowing woman-to-woman glance, she hit a hand to her head and exclaimed, “This phoolwala behaves as if I’m buying flowers for the first time, raising his price daily!” Shifting her gaze to my pad and pen, she said, “I’m tired of you journalists. Magar koi kaafi tiptop Angrez filmwale aaye 1980s mein. Woh log best – but some posh filmmakers who were here in the 1980s, were the best.” I was making notes on nearby Congress House, but put my writing pad away.
Intrigued, I tried piecing the scraps of information she offered in our casual chat. With amazing result (watch the video). They were Ismail Merchant and James Ivory, shooting the documentary, The Courtesans of Bombay. The gents were pronounced “kaafi tiptop” because of the respect they accorded her and her women friends while researching for their script. “Who won’t remember being treated nicely?” she posed. Who, indeed.
Court Lane, Borivli
Near the stone walls of Borivli Court, on entering Bhavnagri Farsan Mart, I discovered a lovely generosity of spirit while interviewing Rakesh Shah. The largesse came from his father Mukundrai, who introduced this store to suburban Borivli in 1953. Its USP? Two to three batches of namkeen items, from sev gathiya and samosa to khandvi and kachori, made fresh twice each morning and afternoon. Pointing with pride to his father’s portrait, Rakesh said, “Daily, he fed hungry tangawallas hanging around the station in hope of customers.”
As if on cue, mere minutes later, with equal suddenness and serendipity, I came upon six men squat in a semi-circle at Shahabuddin Shah Dargah in Eksar gaon. Ebrahim Mullah and Bashir Sendole repeated accounts of Mukundrai’s largesse to Konkani Muslim tangawalas – “He thought nothing of quietly packing twice the quantity of snacks they bought for 10 rupees,” one said.
When I talked to 65-year-old Munawar Chogle, who clocked in multiple duties at the now shuttered Jaya Talkies which he joined as a youngster of 18, he said, “Those days, no one was a specialist. I managed that theatre canteen, sold tickets, served ice cream for Balcony seat customers and handled the film projector.” Almost 90, Husain Chacha from Wardha declared, “This is a blessed part of the city. An Omani Baba proved his healing powers in Borivli’s wild swamps which were overrun by snakes more than two centuries ago.”
Khodadad Circle, Dadar
My curiosity was piqued at the discrepancy. From the four 1934-erected buildings that hug Khodadad Circle (better known by its former name of Dadar TT – TT being Tram Terminus), why does one alone not bear a colonial name?
Conservation architect Vikas Dilawari finds Dadar TT display sensitive town planning —
“With Indo-Saracenic style chhajjas, multifoil arches and jaali balconies, the four buildings
are splayed, respecting the site’s circular profile.” Exquisitely contoured by Sohrabji
Bhedwar, clockwise as Tilak Bridge ends, stand Empress Mahal, Empire Mahal, Imperial
Mahal and Harganga Mahal (initially Rustom Mahal, named for the younger son of
Khodadad Irani who christens this circle).
Perhaps I wore a visibly puzzled face, wondering about this. The Harganga Mahal watchman bailed me out of the bothering perplexity. I was surprised when he led me to one Ishwar Singh Chowhan, who enlightened me. The property was renamed Harganga in 1944 when it passed on to his uncle Harnam Singh and father Ganga Singh – therefore the
combine of “Har” and “Ganga”.
Harganga Mahal housed a legendary institution. Agrawal Classes, where engineering aspirants flocked. There lies a great story too. GD Agrawal reached the city from Ajmer in his teens with just Rs 29 in his pocket, from selling his bicycle. Sheer kindness saw him teach math and science to Parel mill mazdoor’s children free of cost. Compelled to turn professional on marrying, Agrawal rented a cramped Matunga room – which the family moved out of during his coaching hours. The class shifted to Harganga Mahal from 1955, producing a roster of students that included Nadir Godrej, Mukesh Ambani and Mahendra Choksi of Asian Paints.
Maratha Mandir Marg, Bombay Central
“Kya khoob picture tha. You know, Dilip Kumar rode a horse to the premiere of Mughal-e-Azam? Aur Madhubala sunder paree jaisi, palkhi mein baithke aayi thi – and Madhubala arrived like a pretty fairy sitting in a palanquin.” So said the old taxi driver dropping me to Maratha Mandir on the road to which the cinema hall has lent its name. Maratha Mandir Marg, earlier Club Road, named after the prestigious Byculla Club.
Imbibing lively movie lore like this from him was exciting. Even if it needed corroboration, I thought. But he was absolutely correct on all scores. Chewing on a wad of paan, he mumbled something about decorated elephants. Dilip Kumar had come on a horse, so what was this pachyderm angle? He was right again. The film print travelled in on festooned elephants, that August 5 night of 1960.
As it happened, the morning hour that he drove me for a recce of this crowded neighbourhood, was time for the matinee of Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge to begin. The other shows included Tapsee Pannu acing it in the nuanced Thappad. But the craze for one film alone seemed seeped into the very walls of this theatre (and still is). “Come fall in love”, the tagline invited. And my cabbie asked, “Kitni baar dekha hain yeh picture aapne – how often have you watched this film?”
© Meher Marfatia
Multimedia production & digital marketing: Danesh Mistry
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