Bombay: The Dowager Empress
Prima urbs in Indis; gateway to India; door of the East with it’s face to the West…these words of my old school song seem appropriate for the Bombay that once was: stately, elegant, benevolent, fun loving and, above all, classy.
Bombay was an oasis of elegant promenades, where old-world charm mixed effortlessly with modern conveniences — remember, it was this city that saw the first suburban train, the first tram…the list is endless. Our political masters who talk so glibly about transforming Mumbai to another Shanghai would do well to recall that Bombay was already the premier metropolis in the Eastern Hemisphere at a time when Shanghai was little more than a messy fishing port.
As far back as the reign of the Moghul emperor Aurangzeb, Bombay was the principal trading post of the East India Company and later became the diadem in the jewel in the crown of the British Empire. Yes, if the sons-of-the-soil who now rule us had any interest in the history of their city, they would reflect on this — and admit to themselves that they, to a large extent, are responsible for the present decline.
Alas, the dowager empress has lost most of her sheen and luster — thanks to politicians who have exploited her and profligately squandered her resources and talent over the past five decades; and given nothing back. Even the name change to Mumbai, nullifying at a stroke centuries of glorious history was effected for purely populist reasons. Then there are the marauding hordes who descend upon the metropolis in the thousands every year and suck out her life juices; sacrificing her gentility at the altar of crass commercialism. And yet, like an old soldier, the grande dame of this nation refuses to die; nor is she quite ready to fade away.
For an old timer like me, the very name Bombay conjures up memories of clanking trams and seven-seater taxis; of horse-drawn victorias with faded upholstery and the “C” route BEST bus where one sat on the upper deck and traversed the entire length of Marine Drive, luxuriating in the fresh, unpolluted sea breeze; of picnics to Versova, when it was a pristine beach and the seven bungalows actually existed; of excursions to Mount Mary church, trudging up the steep hill and smiling at the appropriateness of the bungalow named “At Last”; of the quaint bungalows along Cuffe Parade and the elevated promenade that one strolled on, all the way South to the mangrove swamps (now destroyed by monstrous high-rises) to sample the delights of the renowned bhelpuri wallah; of elderly gentlemen with ornate walking sticks and sola topees which they doffed respectfully every time their path crossed those of a lady; of school lunches at the Bombay Gym, where even unruly boys like us were awed by the colonial surroundings and could be brought to an abrupt silence with one glance from the genial but stern maitre d’. Those were the days when the Sunday evening show at the Metro cinema was a social event; the men in suits, the ladies meticulously coiffed and attired. Whatever be the merits of the film being screened, the high point of the evening was gathering around the ornate soda fountain during the intermission, under the benevolent gaze of large portraits of Greer Garson and Clark Gable; the ladies sipping coffee and the newfangled Coca-cola, tittering over the latest scandal and surreptitiously memorizing the outfits of the well-heeled, (Page 3 hadn’t been invented yet) so that they could get copies made from the darzi (tailor); the gentlemen pulling out sleek metallic cigarette cases from the inside pocket of their jackets and enjoying a puff while giving and receiving tips on the ‘sure thing’ at the Mahalaxmi racecourse the following weekend. Regal and Eros cinemas had its adherents too, of course, but nothing quite compared to the grandeur of Metro.
Memories of an uncle arriving from London on the P&O liner “Chusan”; the excitement of receiving him on the ship, eyes wide open at the magnificence on display; guiltily flicking the tiny golden arrows that speared the olives in cocktails; sneaking to the auditorium to watch a snippet of the first James Bond movie, Dr.No, yet to arrive in city cinemas. This particular uncle always stayed at the Taj; and this opened up fresh vistas. Sauntering up and down the grand staircase (running would be unthinkable);affronting the grizzled attendant behind the counter of the tiny bookstore by asking if he had Archie comics; sniggering at the elaborate couture on display in the show window of Madame Pompadour (the name alone reduced me to hysterics). A special treat was lunch at the first floor Ballroom, with the spotlessly white Irish linen table cloths and the bewildering array of laid out knives and forks. Years later, I took my wife-to-be there on our first date and was pleased to discover it had lost none of its charm. The Taj, of course, was for the moneyed and privileged. For lesser mortals, there was Green’s hotel next door and it’s ground level restaurant, Gulmohr, which believe it or not had live gulmohr trees in its courtyard.
More memories of weekends spent at an aunt’s palatial mansion on Pedder Road; 8000 square feet of marbled halls and colonnaded verandahs to run riot in; high tea on the first floor terrace with finger sandwiches and pink lemonade; beating georgette-sari and heavenly scented ladies at “mah-jong” (I was too young then to know it was not a ‘manly’ game, but old enough to delight in being smothered in their perfumed embraces.)
What else: pastries from Gourdon at Churchgate; an occasional treat of ‘peach melba’ at the Parisian Dairy (where Pizzeria now stands) and tapping feet to “Buttons and Bows” on the jukebox; feeling adventurous by boarding a double-decker tram at Sassoon Dock and venturing all the way to Dadar TT. Dadar was pretty much the outer limit of civilization in those days; the suburbs, as we know them now, were just exotic picnic spots.
So what went wrong? How did the Empress of the East turn into “Slumbay’? Up to less than 50 years ago, Bombay had a population of less than half a million. The quaint, chalet-style Churchgate station was a tenth of its present size and yet did not invoke a feeling of claustrophobia within its premises. Bombayites took pride in their city, in their heritage, in the elegant colonial architecture fronting its main thoroughfares (undefiled by ugly hoardings); in belonging to a city that was the envy of its less cosmopolitan neighbors. Bombay’s principal activity has, of course, always been commerce, but it was more genteel then; not the cut-throat rat race it has now become. Central Bank was almost entirely populated by laid-back Parsees; big business houses like Tata, Birla and Mafatlal carried on their commerce discreetly, with a modest self confidence in place of the in-your-face aggressiveness displayed today.
But, above all, the citizens of Bombay gave back to the city that had allowed them to prosper. Great philanthropists like the Jeejeebhoys and the Petits and the Jehangirs not only provided funding for hospitals and schools and institutes of higher learning (without demanding advertising rights) , but took personal interest in their upkeep and functioning.
Bombay has always attracted migrants, of course, but back then they respected the city that gave them an opportunity to improve their lot. They did not come in torrents, as they do now, taking over public land with impunity, pitching their zopadpattis (shanties) indiscriminately, defacing the very ground that gave them shelter. The phenomenon of ‘vote-banks’ hadn’t reared its ugly head yet and citizens were still held accountable.
Can Bombay regain its former glory? Perhaps, although the past can never be recovered. The buzz word these days is ‘infrastructure’; and flyovers and sea-links and the like are undoubtedly essential. But it is going to take a lot more. It is going to require enlightened leadership. It is going to require our rich and powerful to escape for a while from their air conditioned cars, offices and homes and actually step foot in the city that has made them prosperous. They need to see how the other 90 percent lives; maybe then they will be shaken out of their lethargy and indifference and make their voice heard where it counts.
The dowager empress has been dozing for far too long. It is time to shake her awake, violently if need be, and make her demand her rightful preeminence. It took the Great Fire to transform medieval London into a livable city. One does not wish a similar calamity on Bombay, but something drastic needs to be done and soon. Time is running out.
