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Friends and associates haven't stopped wondering that when most people move out of Central Mumbai for a plush address, what made me do it in reverse. I gave up a sprawling 4500 sq ft flat at Kemp's Corner, for a 1 BHK + terrace in Shapur Baug. I did so because being a chronic asthma patient the old house was slowly strangling me with the constant traffic movement and noxious pollutants. The other reason being a more practical one: I needed a more compact, environment and one, most importantly, which would offer me security. Our Parsi baugs / colonies are known for their stepped up security. In fact, I was stopped dead in my tracks as I made way to my newly acquired flat. My choice of Shapur Baug was primarily governed by my having studied at Queen Mary's School , it was familiar terrain; however the prime attraction for me was that every building has an elevator. The cherry on the icing came when I saw this flat - compact, fifth floor terrace and the sun streaming through. It was a dream come true. Where in the heart of Bombay could anyone have found an unhindered view of the sky and a terrace to relax on? A fruit of my supplications to Behram Yazad and Shah Faredoon Saheb. The charm of living in a colony is best experienced rather than explained. For one, especially for someone who lived in a cosmopolitan building, here is service at your doorstep. From the early morning bell of the pauwalla, a smiling Muslim who greets you with the smell of fresh bread, and the ironing service; each door bell reveals something else, especially women who cart a bag load of homemade foodstuffs from farsans to bhakras. Word about being the new neighbour gets round fast, and neighbors are anxious to stop you in the corridor for a quick chat and want to know all about you. Someone once called me and said that she knew the bride's father of the wedding I was going to. I am still trying to figure how she knew. Yet, there are some who would rather growl at you since all the renovation work in the flat disrupted their peace. Once settled in, you learn to train your ears for sounds which have been forgotten by you. Like the twang twang of the pinjaro, the man who fluffs out the cotton in the mattresses before stuffing it back. The calls of the raddiwalla as he shouts 'batli, paper …' The knife sharpner with his grinding wheel, a sight I cherish each time as I see them as I spent hours at the old place watching him sharpen kitchen knives. But when we got the do-it-yourself sharpner he was eased out. I still haven't seen the tankiwalla who chips away at the masala grinding stone to roughen the surface . Maybe the low cost mixies have relegated the masala stone to a corner. The aromas that waft out of the various kitchens from early morning to late evening/night are a giveaway of what's cooking where - a masala omelet, or tarli machchi, papeta ma ghosht, or even toasts being burnt; the dhansak masala smell mingles above all of them. I have yet to see organized domestic staff activity. The bais who come to Shapur Baug as they would in any of the colonies have time management down to a skill. My bai, Anita of the infectious smile and cheery good morning spends 30 minutes at my house, sweeping, watering the plants and washing the bartans. After that she goes to my first floor neighbour to do the same. Then she makes chappatis - each handkerchief thin - for a few houses. Then it's back to me and the first floor to complete her chores. In between, she tells us who got drunk the previous night and was almost hauled up by the cops. And Anita is not alone. Each bai has her day planned out; or rather we have our days planned out by them. Shapur Baug lacks one thing, though and that is the greenery and spacious driveways and pavilions for walks, as in Cusrow Baug, Rustom Baug and Malcolm Baug. In fact the sole tree which stands in the middle of the baug is quite a landmark. I don't even mind the raised eyebrow when I tell the cab driver: 'Congress House'. For home is where Shapur Baug is. |
