Victoria Terminus – Borderless

By Mohul Bhowmick

Sunset at Colaba, Bombay, which is currently referred to as Mumbai. From Public Domain

To think that Bombay is attainable is the first mistake of the rookie. And though this city attracts and repels in equal measure, it is the former that makes me want to linger all the more. And linger I do, over a cup (or was it two?) of piping hot Irani chai and bun maska at the Persian Cafe in Cuffe Parade. The rain starts just as soon as I step out of the metro station and make for the safer confines of the cafe, reminding me of home in more ways than one. It is only in Bombay that I am reminded that the culture of the Zoroastrians flourishes somewhere outside of Hyderabad as well.

Colaba lures me, but Kala Ghoda’s immense detachment from its suburban-esque walkways seems more pensive. With Mahatma Gandhi Road sweeping past the Fort and Dr Dadabhai Naoroji Road intersecting it at Flora Fountain, Bombay’s charm offensive lies bare. It is only much later, after I step into Kitaab Khana, the Bombay equivalent of Madras’ Higginbotham’s and Calcutta’s Oxford, that I strongly feel the Raj’s tentacles of reunion. On the other side of the road, the college named after Lord Mountstuart Elphinstone, who twice gave up the chance to be appointed governor-general of India, preferring to finish his two-volume work, History of India (1841) instead, is a reminder of the good that existed among our colonial masters.

But the second mistake that the rookie can make is by affirming that all of Bombay lies within the island of Colaba. While it did, in the days of the Raj, it no longer holds the sanctity of tradition as much as it does for the affluent who have no idea of when the last local leaves from Churchgate to Borivali. Versova, much a fishing village as Bandra had once been, is as far away from Colaba as Islamabad is from Vancouver, and Jogeshwari is a mere landing ground for the aristocrats of the north, for whom Thane is where the merely envious congregate and share stories over pav bhaji. A hint of Marathi wafts over the air, sprinkled generally with salt from the sea, and the Bambaiya of Parel and the Hindi of the island city are forgotten.

For what does a gentleman bred in the now-reclaimed Old Woman’s Island, fondly called Little Colaba, know of the fighting on the streets of Dadar? The Gateway of India, looming far beyond the ordinary, takes no part in the skyline of this Bombay, where political representatives of all hues and colours sell dreams just as kaleidoscopic as their ever-changing loyalties. Areas where no cars enter are not strictly unheard of in the Bombay of the north, and as Suketu Mehta so lovingly painted in Maximum City, it is a conurbation not afraid of its past, and one that is constantly stuck in an identity crisis. For there are more millionaires in Bombay than in any other city in the country, and they are only matched by the number of people who go to bed hungry. The Marine Drive becomes an elongated resting place for the unfortunate, the destitute or the merely curious once the lights on the Queen’s Necklace get turned on. I would have seen it had I known where to look.

To reclaim the days of the Raj, there are few places more apt to while away an evening than Colaba. There are certainly no places as germane as the cafes Mondegar and Leopold, which happily serve continental fare to their patrons after all these years without a trace of embarrassment at the culinary debaucheries they joyfully commit. Old men, with fedoras last seen in fashion in 1930 (before World War II took away the joys of wearing headgear, apart from sola topis, in a country where the sun has been awarded citizenship), and with shirts tucked into waistbands up to their lower chest, order bottles of grizzled beer with a side of mashed potatoes. Cholesterol and high blood sugar are forgotten when relieving one’s youth, especially with Spanish women gawking at the absurdity of it all in the flea market on the causeway outside. With the stroke of a pen, these men bring to life the jazz clubs of the early 1950s, recollecting the trumpeter Chris Perry at Alfred’s. And then they remember Lorna Cordeiro, of whom they speak as if she were a loved one.

The scarcity of vada pav in the vicinity of Kala Ghoda scares me until I remember that even autorickshaws are banned from this part of town. Much like a man seeking water from the desert atrophies of the Middle East, I lunge into a seller close to the Victoria Terminus. When he asks for a mere INR 30 for two vada pavs, I am shamed into submission, looking towards my shoes — coloured an extravagant yellow — and murmur notes of dissent that even my ears cannot pick up. A jet-black Mercedes-Benz skids past the puddle of water that has gathered around Flora Fountain, dousing me with dredges of obstinacy. There are two worlds that we live in, and Bombay may have achieved its supremacy over both yesterday.

Bun Maska can be found in Iranian cafes in Mumbai

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

A Tale as Good as an Agatha Christie Mystery?

Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: The Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mystery

Author: Anuradha Kumar

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

At the turn of the nineteenth century, Bombay was a city bustling with economic activity. A city that stood on the verge of modernisation and rivalled cities like Paris, London and New York. A city that had much to offer to those coming in to make a living or to simply visit it for sightseeing. A city that offered home and work opportunities to people from different countries across the world. It was also during the years 1896-97 that Samuel L. Clemens, or Mark Twain as he was better known as, travelled to Bombay with his family and wrote about his experience in his travelogue, Following the Equator.

In The Kidnapping of Mark Twain, Anuradha Kumar weaves the historic facts from Twain’s book with some intriguing and riveting detective fiction and makes it a fascinating read, especially for the mystery readers. Anuradha Kumar has published more than thirty books, has won the Commonwealth awards for short stories a couple of times, written under the pseudonym of Aditi Kay, worked in the Economic and Political Weekly for almost 9 years and writes from USA now.

The book starts with Henry Baker, an American trade consul, waiting impatiently for the arrival of Mark Twain and his family to Bombay. His arrival is shadowed by the news of murder of a young girl named Casi which has also left Henry’s friend Maya Barton disturbed. Within a day of his reaching Bombay, Mark Twain suddenly vanishes from his hotel room. What follows then is a series of trailing and mystery solving that keeps the reader in thrall.

Henry, with the help of Maya and his loyal aide Abdul, takes upon himself to find the writer. With much that is happening in the city, including murder, a labour unrest, a threat of strike, Henry finds the authorities a little too preoccupied or uninterested to follow Mark’s case. Since he cannot further risk any diplomatic disagreement between the United States and Britain, he follows through even though his position offers no legal authority. What he encounters at each step leads him to more confusing scenarios but he manages to pull through despite the shocking and bizarre revelations coming in.

Kumar skilfully crafts characters who carry the most unusual of acts which keep the readers on an edge – a ‘Waghare’ thief, a stilt walking magician, a fanatic preacher and a sad Serbian musician. Along with Maya Barton who excels in impersonating appearances. All this and much more. With the help of Maya and Abdul, Henry succeeds in unravelling the mystery of Mark Twain’s disappearance. The mystery that is solved, however, is just not of Mark’s disappearance but also of Casi’s murder and truth behind fanatic Arthur Pease’s de-addiction centre.

Anuradha Kumar’s research that has gone in writing this novel shines through her depiction of the city of erstwhile Bombay – its sights and sounds as well as all the places which stand out in the making of this city. The novel hustles with everything quintessentially Victorian Bombay. Action happens in places like the Victoria Terminus, the Bombay Police Headquarters, Colaba Causeway, Elephanta Caves and the Bombay Cotton Mills. Mark Twain takes rooms at the famous Watson’s Hotel where he finds it difficult to sleep because of all the noise made by crows. Henry Baker lives at Byculla club and Maya Barton at a Colaba bungalow. Tukaram, Casi’s husband and a suspect, is the labour supervisor at the Bombay Cotton Mills. The day Mark Twain lands, he attends a party hosted by a rich Parsi businessmen where the famous nautch girls present a dance. The reader gets a grasp on the city that once was. On the other hand, the novel also stirs with the city’s underbelly where crime, opium addiction, poverty and class dynamics are at play.

It is fascinating to note that the author would make use of Mark Twain’s disappearance as mentioned in his travelogue and spin it to make a thrilling mystery. The portrayal of events is so vivid that sometimes the reading seems akin to watching an Agatha Christie in a TV series. Then there are historic events mentioned in the backdrop which gives an idea about the world politics at large. The narrative refers to Oscar Wilde’s trial and his subsequent imprisonment in England and the first protest of women’s right to vote. It brings forth the discriminatory policies that British persisted in India like labelling certain ethnic groups as criminals and makes use of the social reforms like women education underway in the Indian society. All of these, combined with the adventure that the book offers, make for a gripping tale that could have been only set in the Bombay of 1896.

Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International