Bom Bahai Diaries 2: Of Faith, Food and Filosophy

One evening, Vicky enthusiastically called to declare, Sir this time we will go to Mohammad Ali Road to have Nalli Nihari and what better time than the evenings of Ramadan when the main street and every corner in this part of the city looks like a beautifully adorned new bride.

Hmm.. I quite like the idea. Let us do it. The third of the original Three Musketeers however said, No, I will give this place a miss. It is so crowded and suffocating there that you can hardly eat in peace with the maddening crowds pushing and jostling and at times people even wiping their oily hands on your clothes.  

The Vasai local reached Churchgate sharp at 4.50pm and within ten minutes, the Goregaon local arrived. We were pretty ecstatic to have reconnected after almost a month, which seemed straight out of a Manmohan Desai movie in which, out of nowhere, two strangers suddenly realise that they both have identical moles on their left bums… Bhai…mera bhai!And off we hopped onto a Kali-Peeli (Mumbai taxi) to Minara Masjid at Mohammad Ali Road to explore and enjoy heritage Mumbai.

As we got off the cab, we saw the beautiful masjid full of people, offering their evening prayers in unison. It looked so serene and divine that I could not help saying, Vicky, I always admire the people who undertake a rigorous month long fast, from dawn to sunset. That, according to me, is faith and that by doing so the faithful believe that they come closer to God and his blessings. Faith is something that is beyond the realm of science and reasoning. Vicky looked at me and smiled. He said, Sir, we are also one of the faithful. Otherwise how else can someone explain our landing up at Mohammad Ali Road every year at Ramadan without fail. Hmm … Vicky, you’re talking pretty deep…hmm…

The 250 years old Minara Masjid is one of Islam’s oldest places of worship in India. The masjid contains 21 tombs and is said to be the resting place of several Sufi saints. The masjid is an architectural marvel and during the period of Ramzaan comes alive even more with the road being illuminated with lamps of all types that brighten up the mosque and the streets. As the Iftar starts, the place is buzzing with hordes of devotees and an equal number of food lovers that walk the lanes to eat some of the best street food anywhere in the country. You name any food and it is readily available here… freshly cooked. The aromas of the dishes fill the air and the weak hearted may suddenly feel lost and suffocated in the din of the place. For the foodies, this is the ultimate paradise….keema parantha, tandoori kebabs, rolls, baida roti…the list is endless. This is the melting pot of humanity where the rich and the poor, the faithful and the foodie all come together in showcasing unity in diversity that is the true tehzeeb of this land.

Vicky, do you know after whom this famous street is named? Vicky once again looked at me and the music connoisseur that he is, said, Sir, Bob Marley once said, Life is one big road with lots of signs. So, when you are riding through ruts, don’t complicate your mind. I agree with Bob that things like who, what, why, which, where and when only complicate life. We are here to enjoy the food and not to worry about street names and their origins. 

Hmm..Vicky, deep and right thoughts indeed but since I have done some homework, allow me to share with you something about this road as we have some time on hand before they start serving us food at restaurants. Having lived in the city, I, too, have wondered who Mr Mohammad Ali was…was he one famous cook who brought the month-long festival to this part of the town because the other person with the same name I knew was The Greatest Man in boxing gloves who could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Funnily, there is an ongoing dispute whether the road is named after Nakhoda Mohammad Ali Rogay or Mohammad Ali Jauhar. Mohammad Ali Rogay was a philanthropist and trader from Bombay who participated in trade with the early 19^th century with China and a prominent leader of Konkani Musalman community. Muhammad Ali Jauhar (1878-1931), on the other hand, was a prominent freedom fighter, member of the Khilafat Movement, President of Indian National Congress in 1923, founding member of All India Muslim League and one of the founders of Jamia Milia Islamia apart from his work to expand the Aligarh Muslim University. So, I once again agree with you Vicky that names do not matter, it is the matter that matters and here what matters is food and Noor Mohammdi beckons us to quickly grab the seats lest we miss the first serving of Iftar.

While we waited to be served, I gave Vicky one more piece of simple advice. The Japanese way of good living is called Ikigai which recommends that you should not eat to your full stomach’s capacity. In short, always eat light and stay healthy. Vicky once again looked at me with amusement and said, Sir, if we wanted healthy food, we should not have come here in the first place. Forget anything about going light here, Sir. Not eating brimful of Nalli Nihari and Haleem at Noor Mohammadi is like missing out the goodness and the real light in our lives.

Hmm….Vicky, mere shagird, that’s deep…very deep. You are sounding far too philosophical today and now let’s order the food we’ve come for. 

Noor Mohammadi is an iconic restaurant in Bhendi Bazar on Mohammad Ali Road. Started in 1923 by Rashid Abdul Karim of Moradabad, the restaurant completed a grand century recently serving authentic Mughlai and Nawabi cuisine. The interiors are quite modest but here you never look at the walls, the ceiling and the heat of the missing air-conditioner. You come here not for luxury but for good food and that is something you are never disappointed about. The present-day owners claim that it was their grandfather who brought the famous Nalli Nihari dish to Bombay. This is also the food joint where film stars and culinary artists come to enjoy the delicacies with fingers dipping in the slurpy gravy that no soap can cleanse in one go. Sometime in 1986, Sanjay Dutt came to the restaurant and declared that he was also a great cook. Based on his direction, a new chicken dish was made and later christened as Chicken Sanju Baba and added to the age-old menu. You can also find an original painting by one of Noor Mohammadi’s patron, MF Hussain apart from multiple awards decorated in this place where the prices are reasonable and the food simply outstanding.

After enjoying our gastronomic delights of Nalli and Haleem with tandoori roti, our stomachs now felt being stretched to almost its fullest. We decided to wrap up our early dinner here at NMH. With the evening setting in and every street being illuminated, it was now the time to take a leisurely walk around the khau galli to see the variety of food being served there. I warned Vicky in Robert Frost’s lines twisted to suit the mood, the lanes are narrow dark and deep to which he promptly replied, yes Sir, the streets are crowded and illuminated with endless places to eat. Hmm…todayVicky really seemed in the groove with some serious philosophical repartees...hmm. Without arguing much we walked around and saw the place bustling with life and energy. Vicky remembered his college days when they had little money in the pocket and all they could afford was goti kebab (you may check the dictionary for the translation) and, on a good day, a roll each. 

We, finally, went over to the sweetest place in this area, Usman Suleman Mithaliwala’s shop. This is a must go place when at Mohammad Ali Road. You will find a gold medal in a frame but could not make out for what they had won the same. The spread of sweets there was just phenomenal but what caught my attention, as it does every time I come here, is the making of the giant size malpua. I could see Vicky’s tongue drooling and said, Buddy, all good things in life are short and sweet. Vicky said, not always true, Sir. The malpua here is very sweet and very big at the same time. So let us take a plunge into this boiling kadai to enjoy the sweet malpua with rabdri. 

Hmm.. Vicky, do I see a halo behind thy head?

Suleman Bhai, a young bakery assistant from Poona came to Bombay in early 1930s in search of work. He started his small outlet outside the Minara Mosque. Slowly business picked up and a full-fledged outlet was established in 1936.The ‘Usman’ in the shop’s name was added as a mark of respect for his father. For close to 90 years, this family run sweet meat shop has been delighting its customers without fail. All their items are unique but for once even Vicky said that he could not eat anymore. The shahi tukda and their firni or kheer in mud vessels are some of the sweets to die for. Vicky suggested that we have their other special sweet called Aflatoon. This is an original sweet made by Suleman Bhai out of mawa, eggs, sugar, rawa, ghee and dry fruits that is kept in a desi oven. He named it after the Greek Philosopher Plato but also means maverick. Seeing Vicky in an Aflatoon avatar in his thinking like Plato today, I somehow avoided eating the sweet lest he move into an even a higher plane of philosophy.

Iftar is meant to be shared and not had individually. I remember when my office was in Lower Parel, not far from here, one planned evening of Ramadan would bring all the fasting folks here for a super meal. This tradition was something we all looked forward to and continued for many years till my office moved elsewhere. Today, both Vicky and I were apparently having fun while eating the ambrosia and yet at the same time were missing our families in all this celebration. Instead of enjoying the festivities any further, we quickly packed the best of food and sweets we had had and some more as well and went towards the station to catch the first train home. Both reached home in good time and enjoyed the sumptuous food with our loved ones. Ramadan Mubarak!

SS and Vicky

The Pyramids, The Dome and The Square

Calcutta is enchanting
Calcutta beckons me
Calcutta gets me exploring
Calcutta gets me tasting more and more…

Yes, Kolkata is one place where I always run short of time to see the heritage places and eat at equally old joints. I was recently there for a short time and went to some of these places and, as usual, fell more in love with this city despite all its decadence and economic stagnation. Kolkata is an enigma and paradox where pockets of modernity like the underwater metro along with the archaic snail-paced trams and hand-pulled rickshaws still chug people to their destinations in some pockets. Come, let me take you down….

The Pyramids

You must be wondering…a Pyramid in Kolkata? No, there is none. I was just referring to the shape of the Bengali shingara, in the making of which a simple twist and fold of the outer covering gives it its signature triangular shape. The little conical savouries look like the pyramids in miniatures. Please do not call this beautiful gastronomic delight samosa.

Ode to a Samosa 

Oh Samosa, my love
Love ya four seasons long
Want you morning, day and night
Your crispy coat and hot spice inside
Always make me ask for more
But when I go eastwards ho
And devour the smaller and tastier Bengali shingara
I start singing a song
Of love deeper than thou
Don’t ask me why
Maybe for its thinner crispier coat
Maybe the potatoes inside are cut finer
Maybe it’s the added crunchy peas and peanuts
When they come close to me, my lips reach out to kiss
My mouth goes munch munch
Soon they melt away after every crunch
In Kolkata they also make the shingara
With cauliflower and call it phoolkopir shingara
The mutton one is simpler to remember.... motton shingara
And the Bongs also have maachher shingara with you know what’s inside
So darling Samosa, I shall soon be back to you
Please do excuse my minor misdemeanour
On this temporary detour
My love for you shall never die. 

I find these shingaras completely irresistible and had the Egyptian Pharaohs known about these delights from the East, they surely would have made sure their subjects packed them bagfuls for their journey into the next world. This time, while I relished the regular shingara, I also had another version of it which quite blew me off. One was the malai shingara made of khoya and dry fruit stuffing and chocolate shingara which had a filling of chocolate fudge and dry fruits. And this extraordinary twin pyramids came to us from an old friend of D who bought it at the famous confectioners Girish Chandra Dey & Nakur Chandra Nandy of Ramdulal Sarkar Street. This father-in-law and son-in-law duo family has been perfecting its art since 1844 at a small shop with grilles outside giving the outlet the appearance of a jail. While the city keeps growing older, the tradition of making fine sweets goes on forever.

The Dome

Meet the country’s oldest post office, the Kolkata GPO with its magnificent dome and rows of marvellous Corinthian pillars which, apart from the Howrah Bridge and the Victoria Memorial, often appears in movies and calendars of yore as an integral part of the skyline of this heritage city. The GPO at Dalhousie Street was celebrating its 250^th year of existence on March 24, 2024. I did my little reconnaissance of the place in the limited time at hand and then returned home to do my research and kicked myself for not having spent more time there. 

Did you know-

a.      Where the GPO is located is the site of the first fortification of the infamous East India Company called Fort William?

b.    The imposing building which houses the post office today was designed in 1864 by Walter B. Greenville and was completed in 1868.

c.   The alley beside the post office was the site of the guardhouse where the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta happened in 1756. After Siraj-ud-daulah, the ruler of Bengal, defeated the East India Company forces stationed at Fort William, over a hundred of the captured soldiers were kept in a tiny room which was no more than 14 by 18 feet and the following morning only a handful survived.

d.  The red building adjoining the present GPO is the original building and was called the Calcutta Collectorate by the British Government after they took over the reins of power in 1857.

e.    Kolkata GPO is one of the 5 GPOs with a Philatelic Bureau and I was lucky to lay my hands on the special cover to commemorate 250 years of the iconic GPO.

f.      In 1896, the clock on the dome which can be seen from all sides, was added to this imposing structure. It was built by the manufacturers of the fames Big Ben of London and cost a sum of Rs 7,000.

India’s first post office was established in 1774 by Warren Hastings. The British East India Company had cemented its position after victories at the Battle of Plassey in 1757 and Battle of Buxar in 1764. With the Treaty of Allahabad, they won the right to collect tax on behalf of the Mughal Empire and, hence, needed to develop strong communication system for movement of men, materials and money safely and quickly. In 1793, Lord Cornwallis introduced the Permanent Settlement system that helped the zamindars to amass huge wealth and the responsibility of postal system was vested in them. This is the time when the country saw the emergence of runners who would run night and day carrying bags full of documents, letters and currency from one post office to another braving all difficulties. Since then, the postman became a part of people’s lives delivering messages of joy and telegrams of sadness and money to the needy. Alas, today, with the onset of social media, the post man is someone you get to see for a handful speed and registered posts and on days following Diwali when they come knocking for the annual bakshish.

The old Collectorate Office also houses a museum which I could not see because the person with the key had still not arrived till 11a.m. All I could do was to somehow take pictures of the runner’s life size statue and an old post box standing outside the museum. This GPO must be also the only one in India to have a café aptly named The Parcel Café. This café is beautifully done up and you can even buy memorabilia including the holy Gangasagar Gangajal.

The Market Square

Let me now jump over from Dalhousie to Lindsay Street and shift focus from buying stamps to relishing cakes. By the mid-19^th century, the number of Britishers in India had increased and they wanted market exclusively for themselves. The Calcutta Corporation quickly agreed to their demands and commissioned Richard Roskeli Bayne as architect and Mackintosh Burn as the builder of a shopping arcade which opened on January 1, 1874. Since the Chairman of the Calcutta Corporation, Sir Stuart Hogg, had shown tremendous support for the project, it was decided that the market be named Sir Stuart Hogg Market. This was later shortened to Hogg Market and the native Bengalis referred to it as Hogg Shaheber Bajaar. But the earliest provisional name, New Market, remained most commonly used. For us in the late 20^th Century, this was the place where we bought some of our best clothing, watches and kids’ dresses. This place was the go-to place for everything and old timers would joke that you could even buy tiger’s milk at the new market. Today, this market looks pretty run down with not many people thronging the narrow lanes. Seems the love for malls and online purchases has run down the sheen of this market place. However, for us the attraction for this place till this day has been and remains a bite at Nahoum’s bakery.

The bakery was founded by Nahoum Israel Modecai, a Baghdadi Jew in 1902. Over the years this store has been passed down to his sons and their sons. For those who have met  some of these gentlemen, you might recall with amusement how they would sit comfortably on their chairs and handle cash without actually counting every penny. After the death of David Nahoum in 2013, people thought that the shop would close down but then it continued, thanks to his brother and dedicated and loyal staff who now manage the store. A picture of three generations of Nahoum adorns the store which has stood the test of time without making any change to its layout of decor. The wooden cash till is still as operational as it was over a century ago. Most importantly, even the food and the taste has not changed and so attracts people throughout the day. If you step in after 4 p.m. on a working day, all you can get to buy would be the bread, for the cakes, pastries and puffs would have been sold by then. In a city with the new malls and stores coming up all over, the Kolkata folks of all ages continue their love story with Nahoum’s.

Apart from all these historic places, no visit is ever complete without doing a round of places I call Hogwards…. breakfast at Flury’s, the continental lunch at the Indian Coffee House at New Town, evening snacks at a cousin’s place with fish cutlet, fish roll and fish finger, pan-Asian dinner at Peter Hu…yes Peter Hu and not Cat for once. Had sweets galore…innumerable rounds of fish once again at Mama Bari and, nowadays, a home-delivered special cuisine from my friend Anurita’s Kitchen has become a must for us on our visits to this city. This time we were treated to an exotic and authentic Sri Lankan plate by her. Finally, you end up with a big burp and on return home, the weighing scale shouts…Get off, fatso!!

SS

Resting in Peace

There appeared to be much commotion and the people were to be seen all over the place, some inside the house and others on the road outside. They were all talking in hushed voices and their faces looked sullen. Some young men seemed busier than the others and a closer look revealed that they were putting together a simple wooden frame with bamboo cords tied at the corners and flat, wooden planks at the lower end. A body wrapped in white bedsheet was placed on it and people started placing flowers and wreaths on top. The white sheet of cloth was pulled down slightly to reveal the face of the old man lying there. There were cotton balls stuffed in both his nostrils, tulsi leaves on his eyelids and some sandalwood paste on his forehead. A handful of agarbattis were lit to give the air a serene smell and the pundit was chanting the Vedic scriptures appropriate to the occasion. A lady in white saree sat next to the man and was in tears. She was in the company of some other women who, too, were teary eyed and the collective crying could be heard quite a distance away. Close to the body stood a kurta-pyjama clad man in his early thirties and a young woman in saree. A small baby, no more than three years old, was also to be seen crying while holding on to the saree pallu of the lady standing. This couple appeared to be related to the departed man for they were seen to be giving some directions to the group of active youngsters on what to do next. By now the hearse had come and the man was lifted on to the shoulders of the young men and the related man was seen to be heading the procession with an earthen pot, slung with coir cords, held in his hand. Now the crying sound of the women grew louder as did the collective and rhythmic sounds of the men….ram naam satya hai…The body was placed in the carriage with care and the vehicle slowly moved and the men and women started walking slowly along. While some people followed the hearse in their vehicles, others dispersed to their respective homes.

When all had departed from the house, there were just three souls left behind in the departed man’s house…..his wife, his little grand-daughter and his big , black dog. The lady was crying for her partner of long, the baby was crying that her parents had not taken her wherever they had gone and the dog was the only one who maintained a stoic silence. The dog lay quietly under a divan in the living room without any movement. On normal days this Doberman, called Ivan, would charge at outsiders and bark ferociously at the smallest pretext. But today was very different for this ever alert dog. The death of the master of the house was something even this ferocious animal understood and reacted with calmness and quietness quite unlike his usual demeanor. The old lady meanwhile wiped off her tears as she saw the time on the wall clock. It was seven in the evening and time for Ivan’s dinner. She had already prepared Ivan’s favourite mincemeat and chappatis in the afternoon itself, which was well before the sudden demise of her husband. The dog, who was an integral part of the family, had to be fed and this was one task she would do diligently come rain or sun. She went to the kitchen, heated the food, put it in bowl and called Ivan to eat. On normal days, Ivan would rush to the bowl and finish the meal in no time but today he lay still under the bed. No matter how much the lady tried to make him come out and eat, the dog did not budge and just kept looking blank and motionless. The food and the water just lay there untouched.

The lady’s attention now went on to her sobbing grandchild who was a bit too young to understand the mysteries and emotions relating to life and death.  The kid was crying louder than ever before as she was missing her parents and, maybe, in her own way missing her grandpa who would constantly carry her in his arms and walk around the garden showing her flowers during the day and the sky with the moon and stars at night. The lady washed her hands repeatedly before proceeding to the kitchen once more to prepare hot rice to which she added with a big dollop of butter, a boiled egg and a sprinkling of salt. She now bent down to lift the little baby and hold her tight close to her chest, kissed her on both the cheeks and placed her on top of the dining table with a bib round her neck. She even tried to sing a song but the little one just would not be pacified. She kept on crying and tears were rolling down her chubby cheeks. With great difficulty, the old lady was able to get the baby to eat the meal and the crying had now taken a break. The kid now said, “Nani, play with me.” The lady was terribly sad for she had lost her partner for over forty years but here she was facing a dilemma. While she was planning to now have some time of her own to grieve, the kid was oblivious of the tragedy in the family and wanted to play. She forced a smile and nodded her head in agreement to the demands of the kid who was now getting into her elements and started giggling and mumbling.

The first game they played was hide and seek. There were a lot of places for the little one to hide, and even though the granny knew the hideouts, she made sure to act as if she did not know and kept looking here and there to the utter amusement of the girl who would giggle from her place of hiding. When the granny had her chance to hide, the child would quickly find her and feel happy at having won the game. Now the action moved to the board game of Ludo. The granny made sure that the best dice numbers were always for the girl on the opposite side and in no time ensured her four green dots moved into the central victory box while her own red dots remained either inside the starting box or somewhere en-route to home. The little one was now all bubbly and excited and forgot all about the tears which were flowing down a little while ago. After the second straight win, the kid wanted the granny to sit with her as she showed off her knowledge about the nursery rhymes in English and Bangla. She rattled off rhymes one after the other by just looking at the picture in each page as the granny flipped through the pages. Having heard these rhymes on the cassette player many times and having rattled them off in the presence of her parents on a daily basis, she seemed to have mastered them all. The only flaw that you could find was in some of her pronunciations which sounded funny especially when it came to some typical Bengali ones. By now the little girl was tired and both she and her granny slipped under the mosquito net to rest. It was now granny’s turn to tell fairy-tales.

For how long the story telling session lasted is not known but when the girl’s parents returned after cremating the old man some hours later, they found the main door of the house open and the rooms illuminated. As they walked into the bedroom they saw the dog lying quietly on the floor next to the bed. The little girl was sleeping atop the granny like a frog with her hands and legs spread in four directions and the old lady, too, was asleep. An unexpected peace had dawned on the louse. While the old master of the house was resting in eternal peace after the embers had cooled down at the cremation grounds, the people he left behind, too, seemed to be resting in peace at home. He surely must have been a good soul who would have troubled none in his lifetime or even after.

SS 

Wagon Load of Love

Night had fallen early in a small railway township in the south eastern part of the country. There was an eerie silence as the roads were all empty. There was not a soul out on the streets as all the frightened, mask-wearing men were cloistered within the confines of their homes. Not all… the main door of a guest house opened and two strange men walked out. One was a portly, short, middle-aged man, with a long staff in hand, who walked ahead, followed by a slim, young man holding something in his hands, a few steps behind. The two walked for some time and arrived at a place where a few skinny dogs with their skeletons almost exposed and eyes drooping as if crying for help…crying for morsels of food, which during those times of the pandemic, had suddenly vanished. The residents, who used to throw out their garbage for the dogs to forage through, and some good Samaritans who fed them biscuits from time to time, had all gone missing.

Kamal…inko roti de do…said the man with the staff and his orderly quickly obeyed by giving the hungry dogs chapatis from the casserole he was holding in his hands. The two men stood as the dogs quickly ate their meal that and then looked up at their saviors with their tails wagging. The dogs would come closer and a gentle rubbing of the palm and a little tickle on the back is what they got from the two men as they moved ahead. They went to a couple of more drop points and made sure the stray dogs in the colony got one good meal.

This activity of making about twenty-five fresh chappatis each night and feeding the strays in the colony became a routine activity for the two men for almost four months. For the dogs this was, possibly, the only meal they were getting during the entire day and they, too, would wait at their regular places at the same time every night. Slowly, as the pandemic waned, other people too started coming out of their homes and helped in feeding the dogs some more food. However, for the dogs, the two night walkers were their best friends. The portly benefactor also arranged for all the street dogs in the colony to be vaccinated.

The two men had started naming every dog in their own way depending upon their unique behavior, look and size. The dogs also started to understand and respond when called by their names. One such dog was Chulbuli or one who is full of spirit and energy. She had lost all the pups of her first litter during the Covid times. She was now carrying once again and Kamal took special care of her by giving her extra food each night. Finally, the big day arrived and Chulbuli gave birth to four pups, all of whom looked healthy. Funnily, the mother had a brown coat all over and the pups were all black…almost.

By now the two men had moved from the guest house into the duplex bungalow allotted to the  gentleman who happened to be a very senior railway official and the other was his Man Friday. Soon, they were joined by the son of the Railway Man who took a fancy for Chulbuli’s pups. The son convinced his father to bring home one of the pups. The three men now gathered with the pup in the centre to perform the naming ceremony. Seeing that the little dog with shiny, black coat all over except his front paws and a little bit of the fore legs which were white as if he had on a pair of socks. They all agreed to rightfully call the pup ‘Moja’ or ‘Socks’.

Moja

Moja was now the most loved person in the house and was being pampered by the son. The pup would eat, sleep and bathe with the young man most of the time but was allowed to go out of the bungalow to meet his mother and other family members whenever he wished to. Moja’s dual family members, both inside and outside the bungalow, never bothered with his absence since they knew for certain that he was with his other family and was well taken care of. Moja soon turned into a handsome dog who would walk with a confident gait and moved around the colony as the master of all he surveyed.

The Railway Man and his Man Friday would still go out on their post-dinner long, evening walks and loved meeting the street dogs who would come to them and at times follow them around. One evening, they found a lone, sick looking dog near the park. As they went close to the dog, the creature started shivering as if fearing the usual wrath of humans that he was so used to. The dog, who seemed unfed for days, had cut marks on its body and blood was tickling down his left ear. The two men reached out to the poor creature and brought him to their home. On proper examination, they realized that this was a Doberman pup but it appeared that his ear cropping operation had all gone wrong. The dog’s owners threw him out of their house expecting him to die. After all, there was no way they could keep an imperfect Doberman which otherwise would have been their trophy to show-off to the world.

The two men tended to the injured dog who slowly came back to normalcy. The injury to the ear healed and he was allowed to live with his imperfection, yet was loved more than those who might have paid a handsome amount to buy him as one from famous lineage and exotic kennel. Surprisingly, this Doberman is one of a kind and is not aggressive at all to the humans who caused him so much pain. He craves only for love. Possibly, the stains of his abusive childhood would have had its impact on his docile character now. The dog soon became an integral part of the Railway Man’s house and was named Arpa after a river that flowed past the town they lived in.

Arpa

There were now two dogs who lived in the same bungalow but they gradually started marking their territories. If Arpa would bask in the sun lying close to the front gate, Moja found his place of comfort at the backyard of the house where the fruit trees grew. Neither transgressed into the other’s territory. Once outside in the open fields, they played happily together chasing birds and one another. The dogs were never put on leash and yet, if you were a visitor to this house, you would never hear a growl or a bark. The two dogs just wanted to be loved. They would at times get jealous if one of them was being given more attention and made sure that he got an equal share.

Playing Together

The Railway Man’s son went back to his world but the house found a new lease of life when the Man Friday’s little son came to join his father, along with his mother, in the annexe of the bungalow. The little boy had no fear of the two dogs in the house. He would often play with them and on some occasions even take a stick in his hand and gently tap them on the heads and say something to them, exactly in the same way that his father would do with him whenever he was naughty. If Kamal ever tried showing off his training skills by asking the dogs to shake hands which they would comply with without fail. Unfortunately, not understanding the toddler’s gibberish, they turned a deaf ear when the little boy asked them to do the same….Moja, chake hans! The undaunted kid would then sit down on the floor, hold one of front legs of the dog and pull it up, forcing it to do the handshake and then give a big smile of success. The dogs knew the baby well and were always protective of him and never showed any irritation or anger.

The Railway Man is due to superannuate in some months. Someone asked him what would happen to the two dogs post his retirement because maintaining them in a high-rise flat, where he would soon shift, would not be easy. He just smiled and said, I will take Arpa to my house in the hills and Kamal will take Moja to his new house at his new place of posting.

I know of many people who love their pets but found this pure love for animals, especially for those that are stray, sick and abandoned, exceptional. Wondered if Yudhishthir, the eldest Pandava, was kept out of Gates of Heaven when he tried entering with one black dog, whether the toll gates will open nice and smooth just like they do for KYC approved Fastag vehicles whenever these two souls arrive with their two black dogs in tow.

SS 

Ambrosia

High above the sky lies a celestial palace, the size of which is far bigger than the planet we, the people, ever inhabited. This place is also very populous. After all, the people here have to manage all the bodies in the universe and beyond, people of different religions, shapes and sizes. The good part is that even though the so-called living creatures they look after may be at each other’s throats, there exists a very secular atmosphere up here. In fact, you can also call it the highest form of socialism where everyone is an equal, the gods and goddesses, the saints and prophets, all live in harmony, and every day come together once to break bread in a huge hall. As I walked into this hall, I was completely bedazzled with the beauty of the place. For those of us who believed that Vatican Museum and the St. Peter’s Basilica are the most beautifully decorated and magnificent structures on planet earth, this hall is about a hundred times its size. I could see the great masters, hanging in air, painting the unending walls with their palates and brushes and sculpting with chisels and hammers. There was Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli and Raphael at work, all making much more beautiful, ornate and sharper paintings and statues than what they had created five hundred years ago. Every day in this dining hall, cuisine of one type is made and gets repeated after all other known varieties have been served. This place is also very democratic, for the times the food variety is laid out here is directly proportional to the number of gods and goddesses of a particular religion. In short, the Indian food gets repeated more than any other variety for reasons known to all…there are more gods worshipped there than the number of people! I had won a bumper lottery ticket in the netherworld which entitled me to one meal in this heavenly place. Having beaten a lot many crooks and fraudsters, I was looking forward to enjoying the meal here and I sure was in luck to be treated to Indian food after ages.

School of Athens by Rafael 

As I walked into the hall, I could hear lovely music being played. My happiness knew no bounds when I heard old Hindi film songs once again…all immortal classics of Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar, Mukesh… They even had a radio jockey here, for after every song he would announce in his smooth yet husky voice….Behno aur Bhaiyon yeh agla geet…. One of the high priests sitting there said, while swaying to the lilting sound of Lata, “Good that this new RJ is here. The earlier one was not half as good. He makes the atmosphere of the dining room more serene and food more enjoyable.” Even the Popes and Mullahs agreed and said that they should ask him to play more often even if the Indian food was not being served. I sneaked to the corner where the RJ’s box was and knocked his door. He smiled and opened the door….”Arrey Ameen Sayani ji…. I shouted… since our childhood we have heard you on the radio doing the Binaca Geetmala and our parents had enjoyed tuning into Radio Ceylon for the same. One thing has always intrigued me, why were you doing the Hindi songs from Radio Ceylon and not Aakashvani?”

Ameen smiled and spoke gently, “It was in the early fifties when India had just got its independence. The then Information and Broadcasting Minister B.V.Keskar banned Hindi film music and promoted only classical Indian music. The film producers and record companies who wanted to promote film songs were upset. Using a powerful short-wave transmitter left behind by the Americans in Ceylon, Radio Ceylon started airing programmes to India. Better sense prevailed after a few years and I was back on Aakashvani and Vividh Bharati. Apart from the Geetmala, I enjoyed doing the Bournvita Quiz Contest. The youngsters I encountered there were really bright and I was lucky to have the answers given to me by the programme managers without which I would not have been able to answer even a single question. Now I am happy here. There is no choking of the media here… complete freedom. I now present Prabhuji Geetmala at the real Aakashvani Radio Station where I not only play songs from Hindi films but also classical songs and on special occasions the new age rap and digital music.”

The feast was now about to start and I quickly seated myself near the entrance where I expected to get the first servings of warm and delightful food meant for gods…ambrosia. But I was shocked to see the technological advancement at this place. Food just flew in from all over and settled before each individual. There was no separate section or queue for veg or non-veg, vegan or non-garlic. Here food was termed food and was same for all. There was so much of goodness in every bite and all I had to was just think of a second helping in my mind and my plate and bowls would get replenished on their own without anyone coming with a dirty bucket and an equally greasy ladle to pour you the broth as it was in the world below. Once all the courses were done, everyone stood up and broke into an applause that lasted for more than ten long minutes. It was quite deafening but also a way to express the complete appreciation and acknowledgement that everyone was more than pleased with the food served here that day. I could not agree with them more…. it was like the food I had tasted once in a while in my mumma’s kitchen when I roamed the planet earth. A loud announcement was made, “Let the chefs come and accept our heartfelt congratulations for preparing such a wonderful Indian meal. We also would like them to tell us what they had served and what made these dishes so special.”

Five men gently walked into the hall. One by one, they started talking.

“Sir ji, myself Radheyshyam Misra from Gorakhpur. I made the starters called Gobi Manchurian.”

“Oh, then Misraji, this dish is not actually from India. This must have its origin in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia which is very close to Manchuria in China. It must be the local cuisine of that region.”

“Nahin Sir ji. It is very much Indian. Original Chinese food is bland and lacks any colour. Our dish is different with many spices and looks dark. It is said that in the Cricket Club of India in the 1970s, there was a Chef called Nelson Wang. When a customer requested him to create a new dish from what was available in the kitchen, Wang used chopped garlic, ginger and green chillies and instead of adding garam masala, he put soy sauce and corn starch with the chicken. This became quite a hit everywhere but you must remember a large part of India is vegetarian. So some of us started using the same recipe and in place of the chicken, we put in gobi or cauliflower and to make it even more exotic some added mushroom. We also use MSG or mono-sodium- glutamate and spice was according to the customer’s demand from mild to very hot. Gobi Manchurian is a great starter and at road side eateries, this dish increases the sale of country liquor and beer.

Misra ji the Gobi Manchurian today was excellent but you seem to be a young man. How come you have come to these gates so early?

Sir ji, my food joint was in North Goa in a place called Mapusa. The local civic body there has recently taken a strange call to ban Gobi Manchurian. They say, we are using synthetic colours, sauces of dubious quality and some are also using detergents in the making of this dish. Sir ji, I had a good business at Mapusa but after they enforced the ban, I had no work. I jumped into the sea and came floating here. But I am sad now. I have my wife and three small children in my village in UP. Don’t know how they will manage in my absence.

That is so sad. Don’t worry Radheshyam. We will look into this soon…. Next! Two people walked into the hall, both named Kundal Lal.

“Please don’t be confused. We are not identical twins but our lives then and, even now after our arrival here, are quite intertwined”, said one of them. “Sir, we are Kundan Lal Gujral and Kundan Lal Jaggi and we made for you today, our signature and original dishes of butter chicken and dal makhani.”

KL Gujaral spoke first. “Sir, I had a restaurant in Peshawar, now in Pakistan, where I often faced a typical problem of my barbequed chicken drying out. I started searching for a sauce which could rehydrate them. I, finally, found the solution in ‘makhani’ or ‘butter sauce’. This led to the creation of butter chicken which was made from bits of tandoori chicken and loads of butter sauce.  This became an instant hit with my customers. When I moved to Delhi after partition, my restaurant, called Moti Mahal, was where Indian and global dignitaries would come to and enjoy the food, and butter chicken in particular. Recently, this man, Kundan Lal Jaggi’s grandson, opened a restaurant, once again in Delhi called Daryagunj, and is claiming that his grand-father was the first person to cook butter chicken in his old hotel in the city.”

“Sir, this man is not speaking the truth. I owned a hotel where Gujral and another friend were partners. It was in my hotel that butter chicken and dal makhani were first created and served to customers. I, too, had high and mighty kings and queens and ministers coming to my hotel for food and to them butter chicken meant the food cooked at my place and not at Gujral’s. Now our descendants are locked in a court battle to find the truth.”

“Dear Kundans, firstly, we wish to thank you for serving us such wonderful dishes today. Meanwhile, keeping in view the dispute the two of you are having plus Misra ji’s sad state, I would request our latest luminary guest to step forward and take up these two matters for finding some amicable settlements up here, for we know how long the Indian courts down below will take.”

An old man in suit stood up in the hall and waved to all the attendees. “My Lords, I am Fali Sam Nariman. I was an Indian jurist who held many posts including Additional Solicitor General of India from 1972 but resigned when the Government of India declared a state of Emergency in 1975. I also had the dubious distinction of representing Union Carbide in the infamous Bhopal gas tragedy. Later in life, I was a senior advocate in the Supreme Court of India with specialization in constitutional matters. My son, Rohinton, went on to become a judge in the Supreme Court.”

“Dear Fali, we are indeed very fortunate to have you amongst us. You will be quite busy up here, I can promise you that. Troubles of the planet earth are most pressing and they never seem to agree to anything but we try and find solutions to those unfinished cases here.”

“Next Chef, please!”

“Aadab Meherbaan. I am Imtiaz Qureshi and I cooked the Dum Pukht Biriyani and Dal Bukhara along with Kakori Kebab and Warqi Parantha.”

“You were the toast of the day, Imtiaz Mian. Please do tell us about your dishes a little more and please feel free to make them more often.”

“Huzoor, I started my culinary journey with my uncle at a tender age of nine when he was cooking for a British regiment in colonial India. Later, I joined a catering company which served Indian soldiers during the Indo-China War of 1962. Here I got a chance to serve the then Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, who was so impressed with the food that he recommended me to the Ashok Hotel that was opening at Delhi. Later, after stints at many big hotels in the capital city, I became part of ITC Hotels and ended my career as the Master Chef of their group of hotels. Two restaurants there have been named after my signature dishes, Dum Pukht and Bukhara.”

“Sir, I continued the Awadhi cooking tradition of my family. Dum Pukht, which translates to ‘choking off the steam’ was a method of slow cooking. Meat and vegetables are partially cooked and placed in a cauldron and sealed with a ring of atta (flour). The food then cooks in its own juices and steam, retaining the flavor of the ingredients. Simultaneously, burning coal is placed on the lid, allowing the food to be heated from the top and bottom. All my life, I have not used any measuring instruments. I have always relied on my andaaz (instinct) and measured ingredients by my palm.”

“Subhaanallah Imtiaz Mian. You are a great addition to his family and a jewel in our kitchen. Now can we have the last man who made the sweet dish.”

“I am Bhim Chandra Nag from Kolkata. Sir, the dish I prepared today is called Ledikeni. The sweet had its origin when I made it to commemorate the arrival of Lady Canning, the wife of the then Governor General of India, Lord Charles Canning to Kolkata sometime around the 1850s. Lady canning grew very fond of this sweet and would often call for it on all special occasions held at the palace. Soon the dessert became popular with the local population who started referring to it as Ledikeni.”

“The dish tasted fantastic but looked quite funny.”

“Sir, do not go by the look. In Bengal, we have many varieties of sweets. I shall make one a day and never repeat any of the sweets. Actually, I wanted to make the famous Rosogolla but then much water has flown down the Hooghly and Mahanadi rivers over its origin and then Nariman ji here is already very busy with so many food cases that I decided not to add to his work. There is no controversy over the origin of the sweet dish I made today. Lady Canning is happy and so are the Lords here today.”

“Thank you Nag Babu. Good to have you here as well. The best part is that the ailment, called diabetes, arising from Bengali sweets is something we do not have to ever worry about here. So, you are most welcome to feed us with your choicest sweet dishes at any time.”

I could not believe my eyes and luck. First it was Ameen Sayani and then the makers of butter chicken, dal makhani, dum pukht biryani, ledikeni and also Fali Nariman, a man who was awarded Padma Bhushan and Padma Vibhushan by the Government of India. I will definitely ask Fali Sir to fight my wrongful confinement to the hell below. My case was not heard properly and I shall ask him to file a plaint for reopening my case. I belong here… this is my rightful place. It will be one hell of a case and Fali will not Fail me.

Picture courtesy: Internet

SS

 

Bom Bahai Dairies-1

“Now that you have time and little responsibilities, you should go and see the world.” This was one of the most common friendly advice by friends and colleagues as I relinquished my regular office duties after thirty-six years. I often replied that I am yet to see this land of ours so my aim would be to see India in all its beauty and splendour. Others nodded in agreement. But then there was Vicky who had other plans for me.

Meet Vicky, my dear friend of long, initially as a part of my office team and then became an integral part of my family. Vicky came to this city from the North Eastern part of the country in the last decade of twentieth century. He studied in a boarding school at Panchgani and then did his college from St. Xavier’s College in the city. Since then he has been around the old part of the town and has traversed all nooks and corners of this city. He was one person waiting for me to hang up my boots and promptly called, “Sir, let’s do it now.” I remembered him planning to visit the heritage Mumbai- its old eating places, colonial structures, cinema halls and anything interesting around the old part of the town. From travelling to different parts of the world, I had narrowed down my expeditions to exploring the country and now here I was with Vicky waiting to experience my city first. We decided to find one day every month to go and explore the old town and eat at some wonderful places, ones we had heard of but never got the chance to sit and enjoy. So with Vicky on the camera, D with her eye for details and me, the vagabond, will do our monthly rounds and share the stories.

On our first walking tour, we were to meet Vicky outside Regal Cinema at Colaba but since we had reached the place quite early, we decided to take a look at the CSVS. When we had visited the museum around twenty years ago, the number of exhibits were less and sad looking and we did not spend much time inside. But now, the place has been completely overhauled and art from all across the globe is being exhibited here be it the Egyptian mummy or the Roman statues or the Harappan bricks. This museum was originally named Prince of Wales Museum of Western India to commemorate the visit of the future King George V in 1904. In 1998, it was renamed as Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, (CSMVS). The building is built in the Indo-Saracenic style of architecture, incorporating elements of other styles of architecture like the Mughal, Maratha and Jain. CSVS has approximately 50,000 exhibits of ancient Indian history as well as objects from foreign lands, categorised primarily into three sections: Art, Archaeology and Natural History. The museum houses Indus Valley civilization artefacts, and other relics from ancient India from the time of the Guptas, Mauryas, Chalukyas and Rashtrakuta. The museum was formally opened in 1922 and recently completed its centenary and while the Prince of Wales still stands basking in the sun and rains outside in the garden, Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj’s portrait adorns the entrance walls…. that’s quite like made in India!

We then walked across the street to Regal Cinema located at Colaba causeway and looked around. Did you know that this cinema theatre was built by Framji Sidhwa and the first film to be aired at the Regal in 1933 was Laurel and Hardy. Regal was designed by Charles Stevens and its interiors, with extensive mirror-work, were designed by the Czech artist Karl Schara. Its interiors were designed to create an impression of airiness, coolness and size in harmony with the modern simplicity of the exteriors. Record books state that Regal was the first air conditioned theatre of India. In a world where huge multiplexes rule, Regal is holding its head high and is still quite a landmark and a preferred place for a good movie time.

Vicky, finally, arrived and we were all very hungry so made our way to New Martin’s Hotel for some delicious Goan food. Here we met Anand Pereira, 44, who has worked at Martin’s Hotel for 25 years and remembers all the regular customers and their usual orders, regardless of how often they frequent the restaurant. Anand knew Vicky for reasons other than his choice of food… it seems Vicky in all his visits to the hotel as a student had never ever given any tip to Anand or to his deputy, Lopez. The hotel which started over seventy years ago is owned by a Goan, Baptiste D’Souza, who lives in Malad and has not been coming for many years due to his advanced years. Anand manages the place on his behalf. For the menu, you will have to look at a board on which everything that is available is written in chalk and you can order straight away. Mind it, if you arrive late in the afternoon, the most preferred items might be completely sold out and you may have to order from the left behinds. We had Goan style vindaloo with pav and super tasty steaks. There were these other fine things like the famous Sorpotel and custard jelly on the wall menu but decided to defer them for another visit. We left the hotel with our tummies full, our hearts happy and for once Vicky left a handsome tip for Anand and his deputy.

We went for a short walk to the sea front to give ourselves some much needed exercise after such a heavy and sumptuous meal. This was one end of Apollo Bunder where the kolis or fisher folk had their tiny wooden fishing boats tied and, in the horizon, we could see the magnificent bay full of smart yachts of Indian oligarchs with their sails unfurled in the gentle winter winds. Vicky suggested we go to see the Afghan Church in Navy Nagar. We were wondering why was a Christian Church so named…. Could it be that the Christians of Afghanistan had built it or the Kabulis had built it for the Christians of Mumbai?. On reaching the place, we came to know that the Afghan Church was built by the British between 1847 to 1858 to commemorate the dead soldiers of Bombay Army from the disastrous First Afghan War of 1842.

In the chancel a marble inscription reads: "This church was built in memory of the officers whose names are written on the walls of the chancel and of the non-commissioned officers and private soldiers, too many to be so recorded who fell, mindful of their duty, by sickness or by sword in the campaigns of Sind and Afghanistan, A.D. 1838-1843."

This Gothic church, made by the renowned architect William Butterfield and designed by Henry Conybeare, took nearly 10 years to erect. The steeple, whose spire served as a landmark for incoming ships, and portico were added over a period of time. The Church was made with local stones but most woodwork is done in Burma teak and rosewood. You can find a lot of stained glasses in the church. These stained glasses were known as the poor man's Bible back then because most people could not read the Bible. Each stained glass has Biblical narratives from the Bible and the life of Christ. Currently, the Afghan Church is undergoing a complete renovation and we are dying to go inside this majestic and historic monument once done. We did go to the other historic church further down the Navy Nagar, the RC Church, but the same was not open for us to admire fully but the poster on the wall of the naval hospital Ashwini did catch our attention…Tacking to Blue Waters!

We felt quite tired already, so we took a cab to take us to our next and final stop… of course a food joint near Metro Cinema… but we stopped midway at an old, dilapidated building with iron claddings all around undergoing another round of major renovation. This was the Imperial Mansion which belonged to the Indian Railways. This place has great memories for D who lived in this sea- facing house as a school girl between 1973-1977 when her father, who was a senior official in the railways, opted to stay in this historic building rather than in the modern flats of Budhwar Park. At that time, it was a majestic stone building located at the junction of Cuffe Parade and Wodehouse Road. Later, this building was converted into a transit accommodation for probationary officers.

Imperial Mansion is a historical building located at the Y-junction, as seen in the old photos of Colaba Railway Station (1873 - 1931). The old railway yard, where Budhwar Park came up later, was located to South East of this building. D remembered every single detail of her house … the huge arched mahogany doors, her play room, the long, covered verandah which had glass windows opening out to the sea, an attic inside the house with a small wooden staircase leading up to it and the massive hall with intricate mosaic work on the floor. The stone exterior is plastered today, the huge wooden staircase is replaced by granite steps and the verandahs have merged with the interiors. The sea-view from the house, which was pristine and unobstructed in those days, is now replaced with that of a huge fishermen’s colony which came up in the last five decades. This was the landing point of the terrorists who caused mayhem in 2008. In searching for the history of the city, we found some history of our own embedded in its walls and roads.

On the left is the old railway yard and the Imperial Mansion is at the Y crossing.
Picture courtesy: Internet

We now headed for the old Parsi eating place Kyani & Co. But before we crossed the street to have another belly full of goodies, something unique caught our attention. It was the The People’s Free Reading Room and Library, earlier known as the Bombay Native General Library established in 1845, and now run in collaboration with the N M Wadia Trust. We walked in to see that this is a place with good seating arrangements where students come to do their studies paying a nominal fee. It is very peaceful inside and so different from the humdrum of the city outside. That some souls could think of this concept, almost two centuries ago, when the native students could find a place with desks and chairs and, possibly, some peace and quiet, all of which were not available in their homes, is so wonderful and thoughtful.

Enough of thoughtfulness for it was once again food time. Not that any one of us was hungry but we wanted to relish some yummy evening snacks and so we ordered the usual Irani Chai, bun maska and the legendary mawa cakes…. The buns are so fresh and soft and the cakes so yum that we ate it slowly, enjoying every bite of it. Vicky told us that we needed to still eat the famous sali boti, akuri and keema pav with the Raspberry soda to top it all but the two oldies for once said…bus aaj ab aur nahin…The interiors are quite basic with worn-out wooden chairs and tables, wooden counters, huge glass jars with cookies and beautiful vintage pictures of old British Bombay hung on the walls. Mumbai still has some of these Parsi food joints and Kyani’s, that was founded in 1904, was our first such stop…After eating here, the trio became even more determined to eat at each and every one of them in their coming walking tours.

Now it was time to start for home but Vicky avoided the straight road to Marine Lines Station and made us walk into the small by-lanes of Dhobi Talao which literally translates to Washermen’s Tank. This used to be the place during the colonial times where the dhobis used to wash the clothes of British soldiers. Now the place has no signs of washermen’s activities. A majority of the residents in this area are Christians, many of whom were local kolis who had been converted to Christianity by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. If you are wondering what the Portuguese were doing in Bombay, then here’s a quick reminder. From the time Vasco da Gama landed on Indian soil at Calicut in 1498, they spread northwards to Goa and then further north up the coast. From 1535, Bombay was part of Portuguese India till, in 1661, it was gifted to the British when Catherine de Breganza was married to Charles II of England. Incidentally, the name Bombay was derived from the what the Portuguese would call the place then…Bom Bahai or safe harbour.

If you wish to see the real art of community washing at a dhobi talao, then you need to go to Mahalakshmi, where the dhobis or washermen are fully operational, and you can also get to see their activities from a platform created for tourists who wish to see the ‘real India…the poor India’. The Mahalakshmi Dhobi Talao was built 125 years ago and it holds the Guinness Book of World records for the entry ‘most people hand washing clothes in a single location.’ On an average one hundred thousand clothes are washed each day with over seven thousand dhobis at work anywhere between 18 to 20 hours a day.

As we were exiting Dhobi Talao of South Mumbai, Vicky showed us an old mansion called Nhava House. He said he used to live here during his college days. The owners were Nawabs of Mumbai and owned huge tracts of land and in the olden days even had elephants in their gardens. Vicky went to meet one of the guards who recognised our man well. Vicky has many a tale to tell, for instance, the place was haunted. The guards said that they had to remain awake the whole night for if they caught a wink, someone unseen would slap them. This was also the place where Vicky’s lady friends from college would find refuge at nights after party time, of course, by paying token money to the wide-awake guards at the entrance.

I tried to search for the names of the Nawab of Mumbai but came up with only one possible name…Mohamed Yusuf. Born in 1876, Yusuf was an early 20^th century businessman, owner of Bombay Steam Navigation Company and philanthropist. Mohamed Yusuf obtained the lease of Nhava island and many other estates in Jogeshwari for 999 years. It is said that the Yusuf family at one time was one of the largest private landowners in Bombay. Yusuf was knighted in 1914 and he also played a part in the Swadeshi Movement, was a patron of Gandharva Mahavidyalaya, established a nautical college (Training Ship Rahaman), opened many schools for children and orphans of seafarers and Yusuf Ismail College. As a marine insurance man all my life, I now realised the land where the biggest port in India is located, Nhava Sheva, was once owned by Sir Yusuf’s family and donated to the nation.

We finally boarded our trains home from the historic Churchgate Station that we planned to visit soon and many other heritage sites this Bom Bahai has so safely preserved in its harbour.

SS