A village lost in concrete

 It's a small little village nestled in the otherwise concretised town of Mumbai. Dotted with century-old mansions, patches of greens and winding alleys, this gaothan will take you back in time, to an era now erased in our memory. What is surprising is the effort and the indomitable spirit of its residents, who have time and again refused to relinquish their fiefdom and buckle under pressure of the authorities and corrupt builders. Khotachiwadi, as it is known, is one of the very few vestiges of our past glory. With over 200 years of rich tradition, Khotachiwadi, located in the Girgaum area of South Mumbai, holds more of Mumbai than any part of the city actually does. But, who cares! A visit to the gorgeous mansion of fashion designer James Ferreira in this small little gaothan is only a reaffirmation of the old-world charm, now lost, but open to translation in a million different ways. Ferreira is not only passionate about clothing, but also a great lover of arts (if his home is anything to go by). He loves his home and he loves Khotachiwadi, and dare you harm his nest... Ferreira speaks candidly about what Khotachiwadi meant, and what it still means to him. I sit back, relax and take comfort in the beauty of his home, as he takes over, with his soliloquy.

 It’s devastating to witness the slow death of a community; one that was so beautiful and vibrant, but now shrinking and losing out at the hands of corrupt money-making scoundrels. The village of Khotachiwadi, the only home I have ever known, is the victim of this urban delusion. Dotted with 19th century bungalows and narrow bylanes, this sleepy little village is almost struggling to retain its old-world charm and aesthetics. Today, from 65 bungalows, we are down to a shocking 27; my heart pains every time I think of what we are losing. Fortunately, ever since we were given the heritage status in 1996, the residents of this area have become more “house proud” and have started looking after their homes. But this too is a challenge. Despite the heritage status, three bungalows have been sold to builders, with a seven-storey already having made inroads into the area.

To be honest, we have lost out as a cultural community. Most of the original inhabitants (the East Indians and Pathare Prabhus), have migrated to other countries, what remains is a few of us, who are

witnesses to this vanishing culture. I still remember the Christmas festivities at Khotachiwadi back in the days of old. The entire affair was so exciting and beautiful. My father would organise week-long

celebrations, which would begin with putting up the Christmas tree on December 25 and end with a bonfire on December 31. During the week, we would visit each other’s households for dinner parties, and also invite other gaothans in the neighbourhood to join in the celebrations. 

Unfortunately, we don’t see anything of that sort anymore.  Take my home for instance, we were eight of us, but now it’s just me and my 90-year-old mother. Most of the residents are old and ailing. Now, we just have six children in the area, who come out in the evenings to play their chor-police and catching cook games. Unlike the past, the lanes are silent and almost abandoned. Two years ago, the iconic Malwani restaurant — Ananth Ashram — in Khotachi wadi shutdown; in November

last year another bungalow was sold to a builder.  The transition and loot continues undeterred.

But no battle can be considered lost without a struggle. I realised that the best way to preserve our village was by putting it in public memory. With the help of a few generous souls we started Khotachiwadi heritage tour. Every year over 100 to 200 people visit this place. Today, it has been voted as India’s most successful heritage tour. We are trying our best to preserve what we have.

I feel fortunate to have this beautiful house, this sprawling balcony and such large open spaces. I can still leave my windows and doors opened and feel safe. There are sparrows all over my house and the

ambience here is so perfect and so different from the Mumbai we actually live in. I don’t understand this fascination with glass and concrete.  The past was beautiful, but the present is disconcerting.

"You are dark 'BUT' you have good features"

24 years gone, but I still hear it now,

The colour of my skin always 'but'ted somehow

with features good, or may be sharp,

Or may be something on the pretext to harp.

I wonder then if I was really complimented,

Or if you tried to ensure that I wasn't offended,

By pronouncing me dark and then correcting yourself,  

and garnishing it with words from your shelf.

And then you say I should not have this complex,

For not being the fairest in my sex.

But whether I should believe you or not, 

Is better left for another day's food for thought.

For now, know that I don't need this reconciliation,

Or any sort of well-worded juxtaposition,

I have worn this colour on my skin far too long,

but please care about those who believe in your racist song.  




P.S.
On many occasions, I have been thrown the "you are dark, but have great features" remark. I wouldn't deny that in the past I have blushed, only to realise that people were trying to find a reason to see beauty in a colour that they otherwise, believed wasn't really...
Food for thought, how many times have you made such an interesting remark, or have you ever said, "oh! she is fair, but what great features". 
Aren't most of us then closeted racists? Language is the threshold of the mind, it is a reflection of our tendency to be politically correct, yet an indication of our flaws in faking to be one.  

An Unbearable Loss

Five years have passed,

A long one I thought,

All our good days amassed,

And the bad ones forgot.

But now I walk alone in this tide,

Remembering days, all of yore,

There is so much to talk, but now I hide,

Only wishing the harmony like before.

We fought, but soon made peace,

Our egos unconvinced by the anger of our souls,

We loved, and how each other we teased,

Despite being two unlikely poles.

And now as I drift between being happy and sad, 

I am both aghast and fearful of this resolve,

to distance you from me, though its bad,

It's so hard that sometimes I still wait for your call.

They saw us and joked,

We are almost like lovers, they said,

And you too often poked,

I secretly wish for it in my head.

How now, it came to this,

Others know of us more than we do of each other,

They share with us our bliss,

Our bond, now seems lighter than a feather.

I am happy for you,

And I know you feel the same for me,

But clouds have covered this blue hue,

And nothing feels like it used to be.

Our weakness' have become the others' argument,

To shield from any blame, 

We need now only to defend,

To shift from being the wrong one in this game.

It's funny if I'd say it doesn't hurt,

And how I wish for it all to be the same,

I tried to teach you a lesson, and turned hostile and curt,

Sometimes I really find it to be lame.

My selfishness has taken position,

and I am only protecting myself of future pain,

But often I still get a vision,

That you are with me and we are no longer insane.

  

Steps never stop...

I climb a few steps daily,
Some lead to my home,
Some to work,
But most just take me to another step,
So many to climb, so much more to learn.

On my way down,
I see my follies and regrets,

And skip a step or two,

Hoping to avoid repeats,

So many to climb, I might just land on the wrong.

On my way up,  

I absorb happiness and success,

But I walk with caution still,

What if i trip or just stop?

So many to climb, how I wish it never stopped.

So I keep climbing a few steps daily, 

Some lead home, some to work,

Some to friends, others to enemies, 

But most just take me to another step,

So many to climb, its impossible not to learn.

The book lender

I tripped while climbing the narrow flight of stairs and would have fallen backwards, right down to the base, had I not gripped the iron railing in the nick of time. My clumsiness had cost me a bruise on my palm and a sore knee. I felt like a knife had pierced through my joints, but the stairway was isolated and unmindful of my pain, so I lifted myself and straightened up quietly to walk ahead. There were three more floors to climb, and an out of order lift. So, for all the good reasons, I knew why I was walking up eight floors.   

The appointment had been fixed for 11 am. He was a big man to reckon with and I, still a fresher. It was March 2009 (so much for the accuracy of the month and the year; I still fail to remember the date).    There were only two offices on the eighth floor. Recognising my destination, I pushed open the translucent glass door on my right, to enter the small bureau office of the regional Indian newspaper.

Boasting of just one staff member and a peon, it was a reflection of the quaint Indian offices of the 60s and 70s. The office’s old-world charm almost fitted the man who ran the show here daily. A veteran, he had exposed the underworld with his remarkably well-researched stories during his hay days as a crime journalist.

Now, a healthy 65, he still believed in reporting crime with an overwhelming sense of passion. He was seated on a cushion chair, in a sky blue shirt and a pair of casual jeans and was skimming through a heap of newspapers of the day, when I caught his attention.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t see you come in… take a seat,” he said, as I moved towards the wooden chair that he had now dragged opposite his own.

Noticing me limp, he almost instantaneously asked, “If I am not mistaken, our building stairs did that to you”.

I smiled agreeing. “Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to me almost every second day,” he said and broke into a fit of laughter.

The next 30 minutes went quickly. We had a lengthy chat, one ranging from his experiences as a crime journalist for over three decades to all the big stories he had broken during that time. Most importantly, he shared his contacts to help me with my research, and a 500-page thick book on the leading global Mafia men of the 70s and 80s. 

“The stories in this book are quite interesting,” he said, “Part of my favourite collection from my library. It shouldn’t take you more than a month to read”.

“Oh! That’s amazing,” I said and in my moment of enthusiasm, added, “Give me two weeks. I shall return it to you”.

“A month is fine, but if you can return it in two weeks, nothing like it. Sorry for being so fussy, but most of my journalist friends have borrowed my books and then lost it later. Since then, I have become extra careful.”

I nodded in agreement. “I know how it feels. Losing a book is like losing an ornate jewel from your neck piece,” I said.

He broke into a fit of laughter. “Do you know of this saying,” he asked, as he went on, “He who lends his book is an idiot. He who returns it, is a bigger idiot… I think I am a plain idiot, my friends aren’t”.

I smiled.

“Anyway I think this old man is boring you a little too much”.

“No, not at all… but I shall get going now,” I said, and got up to leave, “Will meet you in two weeks”.

“Yes hopefully. That is if you like being a considerate idiot and would oblige by returning my book”.

We both laughed. He dropped me till the stairway, and as I was getting ready to walk down, he shot another of his laughter-inducing jokes, “Don’t limp again. Be safe”.

It was November, 2009. The chill of the wintry month was already in the air. I was walking past the building I had visited some nine months ago, when a feeling of guilt overcame me. Alas, I had chosen against playing idiot. It was not like I did not want to return the book, but after sitting with it for over three months; I just did not have the courage to give it to him. While I had assured him that it would be on his desk within two weeks, procrastination had got the better of me.

“With what face would I go back there,” I thought to myself. I had half-a-mind to visit him and apologise, but the book was not with me, also a signage on the board at the entrance of a building, stated that the lift was out of order. “Not again,” I muttered to myself and walked away instead.  

Months went by and the guilt of not having returned his book slowly started eating me up. As a last attempt at saving face, I decided to go and meet him and handover his book. I wrapped it neatly in paper, and wrote a small note with the saying that he had first mentioned to me, ending it with a “sorry” and “smiley.”  A box of chocolates came in handy.

When I reached the building, I was relieved on seeing a liftman at the passage and rushed inside, lest it stopped working any moment.

“Eighth floor,” I said. “He pressed the lift button. For a change, I had assailed to the floor effortlessly.”

I smiled to myself as I got out, remembering having limped my way up the last time.

On reaching, I opened the door of the newspaper office.

There, sitting on the cushioned seat, was a young woman, who seemed to be in her late 20s.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I wanted to meet Prashant sir”.

“Oh!” she squeaked surprisingly, “Please have a seat”.

“You had some work with him,” she asked, noticing the chocolate box and package I was carrying in my hand.

“Yes, I had to return his book”.

“Oh! The mafia book you mean”.

I looked down embarrassed. “He must have told everyone, about how I was like all the other journalists, who had failed to return his books,” I thought.

“Yes,” I said.

“You won’t believe it, some months back, he had left a note with his peon for a girl who would return with his book, just incase you’d visit the office in his absence. I suppose it was for you.”

“Yaa.. may be,” I mumbled. 

“Give it to me, I will return it to his wife.”

“Wife? Where is he? ”

She hesitated for a second, “Uh!! Sir passed away in November last year. He tripped from the steps of this building, and was rushed to the hospital. Doctors say that he died of shock. He suffered a heart attack ”.

For a moment, my legs froze. It was just a year ago, that I had met him in this same office. His death was life’s greatest ironies. The stairs, a part of his everyday comic tale, had now become part of his death tale.

I left the office quietly, when the girl stopped me. “Hey, I forgot to give you the note,” she said, placing the chit on the palm my hand.

I opened it. It read, “You are such an idiot.”

My eyes couldn’t hold back a tear.

P.S. Partly inspired from a true story