MUMBAI'S MILESTONES
Rishi Majumder follows the trail of Mumbai's old milestones
VITAL/SPECIAL INPUTS FROM: Santosh Mishra
Many years ago, a Director of the Prince of Wales Museum and I had a discussion on whether the milestones should be removed… and put into the grounds of the museum. His contention was that, by this, we could ensure their preservation. I endorsed his sentiment but felt that a milestone, which had little aesthetic value, only had real value as a historic marker on a road that had come up over an old route. As events have turned out I wish I had accepted his advice. Sadly, I succeeded in convincing him and so he did not press his idea for relocating them with the authorities.
- Saleem A. Ahmadullah, unanimously applauded by conservationists for locating, researching, documenting and spreading awareness on Mumbai's old milestones.
These basalt stones, originally three or four feet tall, mark miles from St Thomas's Church (today St Thomas's Cathedral) which, in the eighteenth century, comprised city-centre. Most congested city streets these stones lie in today, were then country paths, connecting Bombay to settlements it later incorporated. Their last record, available at the Mumbai Heritage And Conservation Committee Office, has apparently been completed around ten years ago (the names of certain landmarks quoted, ceased to exist then). It cites inscription, location, landmark, date and remarks on the condition of each stone. We traced these locations. Only 6 of 13 stones mentioned, all Grade 1 heritage structures, remain. Some have allegedly been removed, submerged or demolished by none other than road labourers hired by the BMC itself.
Inscription: "I Mile From St Thomas's Church" Location: Kalbadevi Road, in front of Navlakhi Date: 1816-37
We asked 50 people in Kalbadevi about Navlakhi before someone finding the word familiar. He guided us to a publisher who informed us that Navlakhi, a once renowned publishing set-up had shut down 15 years ago, but directed us to its current location. In its place stands 'Double Dot, The Share Café' a stockbroker service, which has 'Navlakhi & Co" inscribed minimally in the corner of its signboard, because the BMC licence it uses is still registered under that name. Once painted the same blue as Navlakhi was, the stone is today grey, and sunk into the pavement such that only "1" and half of the "Mile" of it's inscription is visible. "I have seen this stone go half into the ground," says Kishan, who's sold paan next to the stone for over 25 years. Shops and buildings on this footpath have gone in as well, so much so that the steps once leading to them have gone way under, and you now have to step into the old stores, rather than up to them. Kishan knows of the stone's history from what he could piece together of professors lecturing student groups during field trips, particularly from St Xavier's nearby: "I can't understand English, but after hearing the lecture over a hundred times, it made sense."
Inscription: "3 Miles From St Thomas's Cathedral" Location: August Kranti Marg, in front of Central Bank, Gowalia Tank Branch Date: After 1837
This milestone being in better shape than others in South Mumbai is explained by its look. The number of miles not being in Roman numerals, a distinct design and St Thomas' being called 'cathedral' instead of 'church' propound its comparative newness. Located almost at the foot of the Central Bank ATM, the guard stationed here directs us to a vegetable vending lady on the same footpath. "This stone, like the others, will go with the footpath and road rising," she forecasts shrugging. She, like Kishan, is categorized as a Juna Aadmi (a person living there for long) of the area. Every 'stone search' has revealed such Juna Aadmis, some illiterate, who impart a ready account of the area's heritage, and what it has withstood.
Inscription: "III Miles From St Thomas's Church" Location: Javji Dadaji Marg, opposite Bhatia Hospital Date: 1816-37
This milestone is caught at history's final crossroad. With only the "III" of its inscription showing, it should attain extinction if unheeded for a few more years. Embedded next to one of the older Kaamat restaurants, the manager of the same comments: "Maine socha, 'kuch to hai', par itna puraana hoga, ye nahin socha." We stand around with him, peering inquisitively at the remnant. A mini crowd from a Ganpati procession stands around, peering inquisitively at us.
Inscription: "IV Miles From St Thomas's Church" Location: At the junction of N M Joshi Marg (Deslile Road), Sane Guruji Marg (Arthur Road) and the Chinchpokli Bridge Date: 1816-37
Another Juna Aadmi, leads us to the milestone proudly. Rooted today near Blue Bird Bakery, it has managed to stay above ground right till the "St Thomas's", but lies hidden from pavement walkers by a concrete bench. The season's festive spirit celebrates it unintentionally, framing it in a gateway of advertisement hoarding. Above it hangs a photograph of the Aamdar (possibly the same one who erected the bench) proclaiming his "Hardik Swagat" to Ganesh bhakts. The hoarding advertisement reads, "Jet Vitrified Tile. Feel the difference."
Inscription: "VI Miles From St Thomas's Church" Location: Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar Marg, opposite Chitra Cinema. Date: 1816-37
Slanting at a 15 degree angle, this could well be re-dubbed the leaning tower of our heritage, except that our indifference might soon leave it nothing to lean on. This is sad, since it shows the whole of its inscription, which is more likely to be toppled, than sunk. In its backdrop is an Air Tel showroom, whose occupants are as unaware of its existence as thousands of daily passers by, some using the stone as support for a brisk shoe lace tie.
Inscription: "VIII Miles From St Thomas's Church" Location: Scheme No. 6 Road No. 30, infront of Karnataka Bank, Sion (E) Branch Date: 1816-37
This marks the farthest extent of the old city milestones. The Karnataka Bank branch has shifted location now, so one has to walk 50 metres ahead to where the old branch was, at Brij Bhushan Building. The stone is possibly the least affected of all, because it lives in a quiet lane, which the city is yet to catch up with. Behind it is the Tree House Play Group Nursery.
We were unable to locate 7 of the 13 milestones listed. The milestone showing two miles at Ibrahim Rahimtullah road "fell in with rubble" during road re-construction by the BMC, as alleged by Abdul Shaikh, an old shopkeeper and eyewitness to the event. B R Bendkhale, who introduces himself as a "senior Shiv Sainik" claims the milestone showing four miles, infront of Voltas House at Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar Marg, was actually uprooted by BMC workers years ago because "it caused inconvenience to their work". He also emphasises that not Voltas (which was sent a legal notice by the Heritage Committee for the act) but the BMC is to blame for its removal. The milestone showing six miles at S K Bole Road, in front of a giant cross opposite Antonio D'Silva School sank into the ground with the road level being raised (again by the BMC), according to Ram Pandit, a flower seller nearby. If this is true, then disintegrating pieces might still be found underground. One milestone, showing three miles at Mascarenhas Road opposite Union Bank, was supposedly uprooted by a businessman (who has now shifted), because it spoilt the look of his shop. This leaves three milestones (four miles at N M Joshi Marg, opposite ESIS Bhavan, five miles at S S Rao Marg and eight miles near Lady Jamshetji Road's Junction with Kataria Marg at Mahim). Despite hours of searching and asking Juna Aadmis, these couldn't be found. The locals claim there is no way they would have survived. If you find them, kindly intimate us. You might have to look in the most unlikely of places, and you will not have any signboard or plaque to help you, but the look on a local shopkeeper's face when you interrupt his business to ask about a nearly two centuries old stone might make the wandering worthwhile.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
WASTE WIZARD
10 year old Rahul strikes a mean stance with a cricket bat, sporting Mahendra Singh Dhoni's photograph. Chaya, 12, poses in a hat with a headline from this paper stuck around it's rim: "BMC Will Buy Your Kachra". Mridul, 11, prances around a 6 feet rocket, blowing his own trumpet on a bugle, and evading sharing the same with his friends. More children collect slowly. They hold up model airplanes, kick around footballs, twirl lanterns, feel up pillows and gasp at Ganpatis. Why? Because all these items are made from throwaway plastic bottles, newspapers, cans, tins and cardboard boxes. The Maharashtra Nature Park at Mahim, put out few exhibits from their to-be-opened 'junk display and workshop' on some stands. As scores of school children on an educational visit broke file to mill around and giggle, wondering at each item, V R Iyer, the maker of the masterpieces, giggled with them. "There are more gunny bags full of such inside!" he exclaimed. "Imagine what a hit it'll be with kids."
Iyer's career as 'waste wizard' (as credited by the Limca Book Of Records) has included the decorative (trophies, flowers, airplanes, rockets, boats, lanterns, lamps, caps, hats…) and the utilitarian (snooker and carom boards, pen/pencil holders, flower pots, mugs, jugs, footballs…). Conducting workshops on this craft all over India and the US, his 'gifts', concocted from raw material like plastic bottles and sunflower oil containers, have been presented to the likes of Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan, Ashutosh Gowariker and Aamir Khan. His artistry was given more permanent stature only recently, however, when Avinash Kubal, Deputy Director of this park, visited his house to request him to part with his produce. "Mr Iyer specializes in plastic, cardboard and paper recycling," Kubal explains. "We want to combine this others, like a man who works with glass, and a Dharavi unit which specializes in bottles." Such a scheme will attract visitors via the products themselves, then offering a sort of crash course on how to create them.
"Who understands the environmental significance of a bee, while squashing it?" a teacher tirades to the school children on the educational trip, torn away from the Dhoni bat, and made to sit cross-legged, and listen. "And the snakes which you know only to fear? These snakes eat rats, which are today responsible for gobbling up to 26% of our food grains!" "The potential," answers Iyer as to what had first made him try to convert a cast off pet bottle into a trophy. The same potential has spurred Deputy Director Kubal, to use this art as a means for reducing pressure on dumping grounds, and instilling environmental interest into the taciturn mind of a child. Such also glistens also from two trophies on the stand, made of cardboard and plastic: one is a replica of the 1983 world cup, the other of the World Twenty20 trophy. Yet almost drowning these victorious voices as if by a Tsunami, is the proclaimed potential of nature. "Do you know what this global warming will do?" the teacher tirades on. Then he dismisses class, which crowds around the exhibits again. Some confusedly finger a plastic Ganpati sculpture, on which is written in black marker ink: "Global Warming is man made and is worse than war or terrorism."
Iyer's career as 'waste wizard' (as credited by the Limca Book Of Records) has included the decorative (trophies, flowers, airplanes, rockets, boats, lanterns, lamps, caps, hats…) and the utilitarian (snooker and carom boards, pen/pencil holders, flower pots, mugs, jugs, footballs…). Conducting workshops on this craft all over India and the US, his 'gifts', concocted from raw material like plastic bottles and sunflower oil containers, have been presented to the likes of Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan, Ashutosh Gowariker and Aamir Khan. His artistry was given more permanent stature only recently, however, when Avinash Kubal, Deputy Director of this park, visited his house to request him to part with his produce. "Mr Iyer specializes in plastic, cardboard and paper recycling," Kubal explains. "We want to combine this others, like a man who works with glass, and a Dharavi unit which specializes in bottles." Such a scheme will attract visitors via the products themselves, then offering a sort of crash course on how to create them.
"Who understands the environmental significance of a bee, while squashing it?" a teacher tirades to the school children on the educational trip, torn away from the Dhoni bat, and made to sit cross-legged, and listen. "And the snakes which you know only to fear? These snakes eat rats, which are today responsible for gobbling up to 26% of our food grains!" "The potential," answers Iyer as to what had first made him try to convert a cast off pet bottle into a trophy. The same potential has spurred Deputy Director Kubal, to use this art as a means for reducing pressure on dumping grounds, and instilling environmental interest into the taciturn mind of a child. Such also glistens also from two trophies on the stand, made of cardboard and plastic: one is a replica of the 1983 world cup, the other of the World Twenty20 trophy. Yet almost drowning these victorious voices as if by a Tsunami, is the proclaimed potential of nature. "Do you know what this global warming will do?" the teacher tirades on. Then he dismisses class, which crowds around the exhibits again. Some confusedly finger a plastic Ganpati sculpture, on which is written in black marker ink: "Global Warming is man made and is worse than war or terrorism."
WELL DONE... OLD GIRL...
Ek Din Mit Jayega Maati Ke Mol,
Jag Mein Reh Jayenge Pyaare Tere Bol.
Dooje Ke Honthon Ko Dekar Apne Geet,
Ek Nishaani Chor Phir Duniya Se Dol.
84 year old Ayesha Chelekkodan leans forward to catch Nitin Mukesh's live performance of this 70's classic originally rendered by his father. Pulling back the head scarf her over-attentiveness had caused to slide, she squints, studying her fellow audience. With activist, alternating socialite, alternating politician, alternating industrialist, the guest seating at the Harmony Silver Awards undulates as would the result of a Google Earth scan for India's socially relevant. Unlike other awardees, present for their contributions to mankind, Chelekkodan, an impoverished village woman with six great grand children, has been zoomed in on and broadcast for a purely personal pursuit. Having enrolled in the Kerala Government's literacy drive when she was 66, Chelekkodan has this year passed her class ten school leaving examinations, combing the qualification with a computers diploma.
Before the awards, Chelekkodan performed herself, before an endless throng of TV and print journalists, punctuating Malyali comebacks with shrill peals of laughter. "She knows Hindi and English, but not enough to speak fluently," explained her grandson and translator on this trip, Abdu Rahiman. Chelekkodan is no stranger to the media circus. Picked up as poster girl for state literacy by the Kerala Government soon after her enrolment, she was chosen in 1990 to announce to the world Kerala's 100% literacy status in Mananchira Maidan, Kozhikode. An impressed Kerala Chief Minister E K Nayanar, had befriended Chelekkodan during this campaign, and continued to write to her till his death in 2004. Having been featured by every major Indian media group since, she continues to regard cameras amusedly, her charm spilling out in between a grin and a giggle. Questions followed here, on the significance of a recent Gandhi Jayanti. After quoting inspiring instances from the Mahatma's life, expounding on the Calicut Salt Satyagraha and discussing the pros and cons of the misunderstood Khilafat movement, Chelekkodan ascribed her own achievement with religious modesty: "Allah brought me to this level." This takes us back to her days of early learning, when on being asked to say a few words during an important function, she smilingly summoned up two: "Allah Hoo."
"During the British regime, we Malabaris didn't have much schooling facility," Chelekkodan remembers, continuing her conversation with us during the show. "So the only language I learned to read and write was Arabic, at a Madrassa." Independence didn't alter this situation much. With most of her family and friends being illiterate as well, and money for a tutor being a joke, Chelekkodan's dream of one day being able to read bus sign boards, newspaper headlines and doctor's prescriptions remained, for long, just that. "I felt such nervousness while finally writing my KG level exams," she smiles. "It meant so much to me."
What does passing her class 10, at this age, mean to her then? "I feel nothing is impossible," she points out. "Besides what it taught me, it's opened other windows of learning." Chelekkodan's example along with the government's truly affirmative action, has also rubbed off on her family: "My generation and my children's were not qualified, but my grand children are, and my great grand children will be." A key criticism leveled against the Kerala government once was that it was thrusting down its citizen's throats degrees which didn't translate into jobs, or worldly success. Chelekkodan's grandson Rahiman, who's a medical representative, agrees to this once being the case, but insists things are better today: "The importance of communicative skills and confidence, over abstract knowledge is being stressed upon." Chelekkodan supplicates this, by saying that while Urdu and mathematics were her easiest subjects, and Hindi and science her toughest, her fascination always lay with English: "Because we have to admit that it is the language of future opportunity and progress. There is no denying that."
The awards over now, Chelekkodan trudges to the dinner room, her arthritis, asthma and cataract coalescing to slacken her pace. The same diseases cast shadow on her aspirations for further formal education. Rahiman assists her with one hand, holding her award with the other, as they stride, a little in their own world, next to Parmeshwar Godrej and Anil Ambani. "She says she would have been a teacher if she had been educated sooner," Rehman translates in reply to our final question. "She says she would have taught people not just from books, but also from life, to build their character." Chelekkodan grins, giggles, and trudges on.
Jag Mein Reh Jayenge Pyaare Tere Bol.
Dooje Ke Honthon Ko Dekar Apne Geet,
Ek Nishaani Chor Phir Duniya Se Dol.
84 year old Ayesha Chelekkodan leans forward to catch Nitin Mukesh's live performance of this 70's classic originally rendered by his father. Pulling back the head scarf her over-attentiveness had caused to slide, she squints, studying her fellow audience. With activist, alternating socialite, alternating politician, alternating industrialist, the guest seating at the Harmony Silver Awards undulates as would the result of a Google Earth scan for India's socially relevant. Unlike other awardees, present for their contributions to mankind, Chelekkodan, an impoverished village woman with six great grand children, has been zoomed in on and broadcast for a purely personal pursuit. Having enrolled in the Kerala Government's literacy drive when she was 66, Chelekkodan has this year passed her class ten school leaving examinations, combing the qualification with a computers diploma.
Before the awards, Chelekkodan performed herself, before an endless throng of TV and print journalists, punctuating Malyali comebacks with shrill peals of laughter. "She knows Hindi and English, but not enough to speak fluently," explained her grandson and translator on this trip, Abdu Rahiman. Chelekkodan is no stranger to the media circus. Picked up as poster girl for state literacy by the Kerala Government soon after her enrolment, she was chosen in 1990 to announce to the world Kerala's 100% literacy status in Mananchira Maidan, Kozhikode. An impressed Kerala Chief Minister E K Nayanar, had befriended Chelekkodan during this campaign, and continued to write to her till his death in 2004. Having been featured by every major Indian media group since, she continues to regard cameras amusedly, her charm spilling out in between a grin and a giggle. Questions followed here, on the significance of a recent Gandhi Jayanti. After quoting inspiring instances from the Mahatma's life, expounding on the Calicut Salt Satyagraha and discussing the pros and cons of the misunderstood Khilafat movement, Chelekkodan ascribed her own achievement with religious modesty: "Allah brought me to this level." This takes us back to her days of early learning, when on being asked to say a few words during an important function, she smilingly summoned up two: "Allah Hoo."
"During the British regime, we Malabaris didn't have much schooling facility," Chelekkodan remembers, continuing her conversation with us during the show. "So the only language I learned to read and write was Arabic, at a Madrassa." Independence didn't alter this situation much. With most of her family and friends being illiterate as well, and money for a tutor being a joke, Chelekkodan's dream of one day being able to read bus sign boards, newspaper headlines and doctor's prescriptions remained, for long, just that. "I felt such nervousness while finally writing my KG level exams," she smiles. "It meant so much to me."
What does passing her class 10, at this age, mean to her then? "I feel nothing is impossible," she points out. "Besides what it taught me, it's opened other windows of learning." Chelekkodan's example along with the government's truly affirmative action, has also rubbed off on her family: "My generation and my children's were not qualified, but my grand children are, and my great grand children will be." A key criticism leveled against the Kerala government once was that it was thrusting down its citizen's throats degrees which didn't translate into jobs, or worldly success. Chelekkodan's grandson Rahiman, who's a medical representative, agrees to this once being the case, but insists things are better today: "The importance of communicative skills and confidence, over abstract knowledge is being stressed upon." Chelekkodan supplicates this, by saying that while Urdu and mathematics were her easiest subjects, and Hindi and science her toughest, her fascination always lay with English: "Because we have to admit that it is the language of future opportunity and progress. There is no denying that."
The awards over now, Chelekkodan trudges to the dinner room, her arthritis, asthma and cataract coalescing to slacken her pace. The same diseases cast shadow on her aspirations for further formal education. Rahiman assists her with one hand, holding her award with the other, as they stride, a little in their own world, next to Parmeshwar Godrej and Anil Ambani. "She says she would have been a teacher if she had been educated sooner," Rehman translates in reply to our final question. "She says she would have taught people not just from books, but also from life, to build their character." Chelekkodan grins, giggles, and trudges on.
A GHAZAL ORCHESTRA...ONE, TWO, THREE… IRSHAD!
A family of folk, ghazal and classical singers who have found an unlikely audience in orchestra bar customers...
Yunhi Pehlu Mein Baithe Raho,
Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Naa Karo,
Haye Mar Jaayenge,
Hum To Lut Jaayenge,
Aisi Baatein… THUD!
A table tumbles over as a rotund customer gets up tipsily to leave the orchestra bar (once a dance bar). He doesn't like the fact that the buxom bar girls crooning item numbers have given stage to a short bespectacled man and his conservatively dressed wife, who're more concerned with the undertone of Farida Khanum's classical Khayal than with that of pelvic gyration. But two other customers prod the singers on, with Wah-Wahs uttered to equally loud thigh thumps. Anil and Naina Pawar continue. Their son Sanjay playing the keyboard behind them, carefully compliments the undertone.
Pawar learnt Marathi folk or Bhav Geet from his uncle when in school. Then, he worked with groups like Geet Sadhna and Melody Rhythm, which performed folk and popular Hindi film hits, to finally perform solo at age 27. His wife Naina was inducted into Indian classical music at age five, by her mother's Ustad. She rendered her first ghazal when she had but completed her 1 st standard. Her training under many Ustads includes a two month period with Ustad Allah Rakha Khan. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, who had a performance in a hall next to hers once, came in to ask who was singing, and commend her.
They met while performing at a Pali Hill restaurant. "I'd decided earlier on I'd marry a singer, so he could understand my career and support it," Naina comments on their union. Pawar, in turn, found in Naina his first permanent Guru, and voraciously absorbed Indian classical and Ghazal nuances.
But attempts to land a record or movie music contract, remained thwarted throughout. "I waited for long hours outside Gulshan Kumar's office, after which I was only allowed to leave my cassette there," Pawar narrates. "Such experiences made us decide not to approach anyone anymore but continue singing on available platforms. If someone had to launch us, they would see us there and decide." So they served Ghazal nights at Holiday Inn, The Club and Hotel Ashoka. Appreciation followed from names like Jagjit Singh and Pankaj Udhas and Pawar also got an opportunity to perform abroad. Slowly however the demand for Ghazals in the leisure industry withered. With big hotels and bigger budgets conquering the recreation scene, those that held such shows started featuring only established names from across country and globe, running over small time musicians. And so it happened, that the couple sought solace for their refined voices in a Bhayender orchestra bar.
Two heavily made up bar girls replace the couple on the floor, rendering in terrible tones Yeh Mera Dil Pyaar Ka Deewana from Don . They sway slightly, smiling at particularly fond patrons, occasionally walking up to them to express counter fondness. The next Himesh Reshammiya number is a duet between Pawar and one of these girls, which is a challenge because he has to keep bringing her back into tune. This doesn't prevent one particularly drunken customer from appointing himself Pawar's alter ego, standing up to lipse his words while unleashing a complex gamut of Rajesh Khanna mannerisms. With the song ending and Pawar going solo with Duniya Banaane Waale, Kya Tune Duniya Banaayee from Teesri Manzil, the man continues mouthing the words, now slumping back in his chair to reflect weepily on it's lyrics.
"We have unexpectedly found a large audience in orchestra bars for Ghazals and classical music," Naina remarks. "The ratio of these to those who prefer pop is actually about 50-50." So, at the three bars the family has been contracted in yet, the owners have alternated the two genres proportionately. We've reached their residence now, a small simply furnished flat. The family converts this into its "retreat from mainstream music" on weekends by rehearsing classical recitals. The clock, one of the few living room adornments, reads, " 3 am". "This is the time we usually get back from work," they tell us. Pawar, who's taken up an office job to make ends meet, leaves for work at seven in the morning. He catches up on sleep on train and bus. "A doctor told me once, that as long as you can sing, you'll live," Pawar grins. "So that's my only health guideline." He says that compared to the average middle class office goer – limited to office politics, salary and shopping – he finds himself advantaged. "I originally took to music on seeing the respect legends like Pankaj Udhas accorded my parents," adds Sanjay, who taught himself the keyboard and drum pad to join the orchestra. "But now, I'm trying to understand it as an end in itself."
Yunhi Pehlu Mein Baithe Raho,
Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Naa Karo,
Haye Mar Jaayenge,
Hum To Lut Jaayenge,
Aisi Baatein… THUD!
A table tumbles over as a rotund customer gets up tipsily to leave the orchestra bar (once a dance bar). He doesn't like the fact that the buxom bar girls crooning item numbers have given stage to a short bespectacled man and his conservatively dressed wife, who're more concerned with the undertone of Farida Khanum's classical Khayal than with that of pelvic gyration. But two other customers prod the singers on, with Wah-Wahs uttered to equally loud thigh thumps. Anil and Naina Pawar continue. Their son Sanjay playing the keyboard behind them, carefully compliments the undertone.
Pawar learnt Marathi folk or Bhav Geet from his uncle when in school. Then, he worked with groups like Geet Sadhna and Melody Rhythm, which performed folk and popular Hindi film hits, to finally perform solo at age 27. His wife Naina was inducted into Indian classical music at age five, by her mother's Ustad. She rendered her first ghazal when she had but completed her 1 st standard. Her training under many Ustads includes a two month period with Ustad Allah Rakha Khan. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, who had a performance in a hall next to hers once, came in to ask who was singing, and commend her.
They met while performing at a Pali Hill restaurant. "I'd decided earlier on I'd marry a singer, so he could understand my career and support it," Naina comments on their union. Pawar, in turn, found in Naina his first permanent Guru, and voraciously absorbed Indian classical and Ghazal nuances.
But attempts to land a record or movie music contract, remained thwarted throughout. "I waited for long hours outside Gulshan Kumar's office, after which I was only allowed to leave my cassette there," Pawar narrates. "Such experiences made us decide not to approach anyone anymore but continue singing on available platforms. If someone had to launch us, they would see us there and decide." So they served Ghazal nights at Holiday Inn, The Club and Hotel Ashoka. Appreciation followed from names like Jagjit Singh and Pankaj Udhas and Pawar also got an opportunity to perform abroad. Slowly however the demand for Ghazals in the leisure industry withered. With big hotels and bigger budgets conquering the recreation scene, those that held such shows started featuring only established names from across country and globe, running over small time musicians. And so it happened, that the couple sought solace for their refined voices in a Bhayender orchestra bar.
Two heavily made up bar girls replace the couple on the floor, rendering in terrible tones Yeh Mera Dil Pyaar Ka Deewana from Don . They sway slightly, smiling at particularly fond patrons, occasionally walking up to them to express counter fondness. The next Himesh Reshammiya number is a duet between Pawar and one of these girls, which is a challenge because he has to keep bringing her back into tune. This doesn't prevent one particularly drunken customer from appointing himself Pawar's alter ego, standing up to lipse his words while unleashing a complex gamut of Rajesh Khanna mannerisms. With the song ending and Pawar going solo with Duniya Banaane Waale, Kya Tune Duniya Banaayee from Teesri Manzil, the man continues mouthing the words, now slumping back in his chair to reflect weepily on it's lyrics.
"We have unexpectedly found a large audience in orchestra bars for Ghazals and classical music," Naina remarks. "The ratio of these to those who prefer pop is actually about 50-50." So, at the three bars the family has been contracted in yet, the owners have alternated the two genres proportionately. We've reached their residence now, a small simply furnished flat. The family converts this into its "retreat from mainstream music" on weekends by rehearsing classical recitals. The clock, one of the few living room adornments, reads, " 3 am". "This is the time we usually get back from work," they tell us. Pawar, who's taken up an office job to make ends meet, leaves for work at seven in the morning. He catches up on sleep on train and bus. "A doctor told me once, that as long as you can sing, you'll live," Pawar grins. "So that's my only health guideline." He says that compared to the average middle class office goer – limited to office politics, salary and shopping – he finds himself advantaged. "I originally took to music on seeing the respect legends like Pankaj Udhas accorded my parents," adds Sanjay, who taught himself the keyboard and drum pad to join the orchestra. "But now, I'm trying to understand it as an end in itself."
INDIAN IDOLS...
The Maruti Mandir near Mulund Station bustles like any temple situated near a busy station and in an even busier market. Like any temple situated such, it is swamped with crowds during the Hindu month of 'Saawan', and during festivals like Shivratri, Govinda, Ganpati, Navratri and Diwali. Originating from a supposedly Swayam Prakat Hanuman Moorti (a statue whose features were as per legend outlined on stone, not by man, but by natural elements) in this one time sleepy hamlet, the temple has spread to approximately 700 square feet of enclosed space and sprung a carved pyramidal dome, just as the hamlet shed its cocoon and emerged a North Eastern suburb, boasting multiplexes, malls and skyscrapers. Again, like any other temple. A less obvious fact, however, is that in this sacred sanctorum lie two old statues and a Shivling which trace their origin to Pakistan. Also unobvious, is the real connection between these subjects of worship and their official address: Ganatra Chowk, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Marg.
The statues of Laxmi and Narayan, together as always and splendidly dressed in ornaments and colourful garments, have been sculpted from marble in the style of the traditional Jaipur school. The Shivling has been encased in silver, both for conservation and adornment. Engraved marble plaques lie in between the statues and the shivling citing their original location, names of those whose possession they were in before, and those who've contributed to their maintenance as to that of this temple ever since. Belonging to a famous temple at Karachi, they were removed during the partition, when communal violence caused both Hindu and Muslim faiths to guard their religious artifacts zealously for fear of damage. Sent from that port to this one by sea, they lay for months unattended in a storage go-down at the Bombay Docks. Then, freedom fighter Ganatra who was informed about the statues asked Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel to help in overriding red tape with the dock authorities to release them, telling Patel he had found a suitable spot at which to have them re-instituted.
"And so this temple, on Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Road, at Ganatra Chowk, is held by many to have blessed the area of Mulund as a whole, not just individual residents," drones Ratan Maharaj, a priest herein. "So, besides granting personal wishes, it has also led to the area's rapid development." The temple is supposedly maintained only on what devotees slip into its donation boxes. And it still manages to donate upto Rs 50,000 yearly, for the medicinal needs of the impoverished. Part of the reason for this popularity, according to Ratan Maharaj, is that the Laxmi-Narayan statues and Shivling have undergone a "Double pratishtha" (been instituted twice), hence the rituals and prayers accompanying the second institution granting them twice their original religious potency. But none relate to the potency of these symbols made of marble and stone, like old migrants in the area from the then West and East Pakistans, who themselves settled in the area half a century ago, removing themselves from a country that they were told was no longer theirs. Like the statues and Shivling, they were left in the dock for long before being given a chance to redeem themselves. And like them, they re-built their fortunes and significance, sometimes attaining even greater prosperity than before. Yet, as one aged gentleman from Lahore , a regular visitor here who wishes to remain unnamed, chats with us, trying to make sense of his journey, consternation sweeps his brow. "To some questions, only God has the answers," he smiles, before folding his hands towards the temple and leaving. All he can pray for, is that he won't have to ask them again.
The statues of Laxmi and Narayan, together as always and splendidly dressed in ornaments and colourful garments, have been sculpted from marble in the style of the traditional Jaipur school. The Shivling has been encased in silver, both for conservation and adornment. Engraved marble plaques lie in between the statues and the shivling citing their original location, names of those whose possession they were in before, and those who've contributed to their maintenance as to that of this temple ever since. Belonging to a famous temple at Karachi, they were removed during the partition, when communal violence caused both Hindu and Muslim faiths to guard their religious artifacts zealously for fear of damage. Sent from that port to this one by sea, they lay for months unattended in a storage go-down at the Bombay Docks. Then, freedom fighter Ganatra who was informed about the statues asked Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel to help in overriding red tape with the dock authorities to release them, telling Patel he had found a suitable spot at which to have them re-instituted.
"And so this temple, on Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Road, at Ganatra Chowk, is held by many to have blessed the area of Mulund as a whole, not just individual residents," drones Ratan Maharaj, a priest herein. "So, besides granting personal wishes, it has also led to the area's rapid development." The temple is supposedly maintained only on what devotees slip into its donation boxes. And it still manages to donate upto Rs 50,000 yearly, for the medicinal needs of the impoverished. Part of the reason for this popularity, according to Ratan Maharaj, is that the Laxmi-Narayan statues and Shivling have undergone a "Double pratishtha" (been instituted twice), hence the rituals and prayers accompanying the second institution granting them twice their original religious potency. But none relate to the potency of these symbols made of marble and stone, like old migrants in the area from the then West and East Pakistans, who themselves settled in the area half a century ago, removing themselves from a country that they were told was no longer theirs. Like the statues and Shivling, they were left in the dock for long before being given a chance to redeem themselves. And like them, they re-built their fortunes and significance, sometimes attaining even greater prosperity than before. Yet, as one aged gentleman from Lahore , a regular visitor here who wishes to remain unnamed, chats with us, trying to make sense of his journey, consternation sweeps his brow. "To some questions, only God has the answers," he smiles, before folding his hands towards the temple and leaving. All he can pray for, is that he won't have to ask them again.
THE OLD, AND THE BEAUTIFUL... 2ND CAREERS
Old man: Boy, you're a good clarinet player. Could you teach me to play?
Clarinetist: If you make that commitment. It takes time to get good.
Old man: How long?
Clarinetist: In seven years you'd be good.
Old man: Seven years! I'll be 66 years old in seven years!
Clarinetist: How old will you be if you don't study the clarinet?
- Popular anecdote.
"My first job opportunity in Canada in years was for the position of research scientist for a subject I knew nothing about. I was to figure out how to improve the life of a paper mill conveyor belt, which were in those days very expensive and easily depreciated. I thought it might be the acid in the paper pulp and the high heat that did so, and by pure trial and error devised a chemical to prevent these effects. What made me succeed? The fear of unemployment!"
- Soli Bamji
Soli Bamji, now 88, has a portfolio spanning work in a Tata textile dyeing and printing department in Bombay; selling textiles, Xerox machines, industrial chemicals and even artificial flowers in Canada before winning a researcher scientist's position for a paper manufacturer; trouble shooter for the Birla paper mills in Bihar and South India; Indian garments trader in France, followed by a stint advising French Industrialists on exchanging technology with Asia; and finally working for a company manufacturing metal sprayers in Sydney. 67 year old Madhav Namjoshi on the contrary, stuck with one institution all his life – the Central Bank Of India. Here, however, he switched roles as Branch Manager, Vigilance Officer, Enquiry Officer and even Faculty at the bank's staff training centre. Sabar Jilla, also 67, started off as a clerk with ACC, to rise to senior officer. She later joined a consultancy service as personal secretary to its head. Atul Marwa has a less civilian past – rising to Leuteniant Colonel in the Indian Army, he was in its logistics arm, as also an ammunitions expert.
The senior citizen mentioned here-above are about to discuss the relevance of ICICI Prudential Life Insurance Company and Dignity Foundation's planned website on second careers (as part of their joint initiative ActivAge) which will encourage interested Senior Citizens to post resumes online, so interested companies might recruit them. ICICI Prudential will supposedly take a special interest in these resumes, recruiting as soon as it finds adequate vacancies. Dignity is an organisation long synonymous with senior citizen welfare. ICICI Prudential Executive Director Bhargav Dasgupta claims the company was egged on to the idea by "a consumer research survey on what retired citizens want to do."
"I have nothing against senior citizens passing time by playing carom or cards at a designated club," explains Bamji. "But unless you do something which utilizes your faculties sufficiently, you don't really feel alive." He then distinguishes between those who are "forced to work" and those who "like to work" and claims that for the latter 'retirement' would render life meaningless even at 90. Bamji is interested in work which involves teaching and public speaking. This could range from general subjects – "I like to make life more interesting than it seems"; subjects he has an experience in – "Of which there are many" and even something he would have to learn anew. He recounts his jobs as researcher in Canada and India, when he successfully trouble shot a variety of industrial problems, actually using his lack of former knowledge to his end: "It gave me a wholistic approach and a new perspective. I asked seemingly obvious questions, to get unobvious answers."
'Giving back to society', is another reason these senior citizens state unanimously, for going back to work. Namjoshi goes as far as to say, "I want to work, for corporate and public institutions alike. But for free." His favourite angle to his bank job being dealing with an array of clients, "interacting with the public" is what he wants to continue doing. Like Jilla, he works with Dignity Foundation, and in turn with a host of public authorities from among the police and BMC. Jilla too, insists on this period being a sort of Saatvik phase in which she would work to serve others rather than herself.
"When I joined the army, the idea of a corporate job was looked down upon because of the state controlled and monopolized business environment," recounts Marwa. Today Marwa works for ICICI Prudential, using his logistical insight to aid the company in opening over 2000 rural locations, as his human management experience in the HR cell. Many careers – like filmmaking, advertising, choreography – which would have captured a youngsters imagination 20 years ago, but were unfeasible, are open today. Author Catherine Bird in her bestseller Second Careers: New Ways To Work After 50 lists case studies of those above 55 as extreme as a lawyer who became a salmon fisher, a navy officer who became a Methodist minister and an executive who became a travel escort. True, our land of the caste system once demanded that sons follow the footsteps of their father's 'calling' ten generations down the line, but the world's newfound flatness is today prodding even senior citizens to try to live a dream dreamt long ago.
The final and seemingly most obvious reason for embarking on a second career is money. Funnily, this is a factor every senior citizen interviewed claimed to care least about, if at all. But while most senior citizens may be prompted to such altruism by having saved enough or their individual retirement, they cannot deny the role remuneration plays in gauging a human being's worth in today's ever increasingly material world. Few, for instance would imagine JRD Tata agonizing over his self worth at 88.
Befittingly, many senior citizens ended their debate on second careers with dissent. "I love work. But I don't like the idea of being bound to an organization," argues Namjoshi. "That's why I don't want to take any remuneration for the work I do. Remuneration equals obligation." Jilla furthers Namoshi's perspective, emphasizing she doesn't want her "commitment to work to be an enforced commitment". Point taken, and ball thrust back in our court. Every scheme, including that of 'active ageing' likens the cause of senior citizens to a larger human rights propaganda, treating them as people to take care of, rather than a valuable national resource. Yet in the eyes of every silver haired denizen talking animatedly about their past work experience lies, more than grudges towards the present, ideas for the future. To translate these effectively, necessitates more than a website. It necessitates a change in attitude, and an adjustment in organizational framework. "Find me someone to help me with my computer," Bamji mentions in an aside after the debate. "I have so many projects planned on it. I just need someone to give me a few hours to sort out some doubts."
Clarinetist: If you make that commitment. It takes time to get good.
Old man: How long?
Clarinetist: In seven years you'd be good.
Old man: Seven years! I'll be 66 years old in seven years!
Clarinetist: How old will you be if you don't study the clarinet?
- Popular anecdote.
"My first job opportunity in Canada in years was for the position of research scientist for a subject I knew nothing about. I was to figure out how to improve the life of a paper mill conveyor belt, which were in those days very expensive and easily depreciated. I thought it might be the acid in the paper pulp and the high heat that did so, and by pure trial and error devised a chemical to prevent these effects. What made me succeed? The fear of unemployment!"
- Soli Bamji
Soli Bamji, now 88, has a portfolio spanning work in a Tata textile dyeing and printing department in Bombay; selling textiles, Xerox machines, industrial chemicals and even artificial flowers in Canada before winning a researcher scientist's position for a paper manufacturer; trouble shooter for the Birla paper mills in Bihar and South India; Indian garments trader in France, followed by a stint advising French Industrialists on exchanging technology with Asia; and finally working for a company manufacturing metal sprayers in Sydney. 67 year old Madhav Namjoshi on the contrary, stuck with one institution all his life – the Central Bank Of India. Here, however, he switched roles as Branch Manager, Vigilance Officer, Enquiry Officer and even Faculty at the bank's staff training centre. Sabar Jilla, also 67, started off as a clerk with ACC, to rise to senior officer. She later joined a consultancy service as personal secretary to its head. Atul Marwa has a less civilian past – rising to Leuteniant Colonel in the Indian Army, he was in its logistics arm, as also an ammunitions expert.
The senior citizen mentioned here-above are about to discuss the relevance of ICICI Prudential Life Insurance Company and Dignity Foundation's planned website on second careers (as part of their joint initiative ActivAge) which will encourage interested Senior Citizens to post resumes online, so interested companies might recruit them. ICICI Prudential will supposedly take a special interest in these resumes, recruiting as soon as it finds adequate vacancies. Dignity is an organisation long synonymous with senior citizen welfare. ICICI Prudential Executive Director Bhargav Dasgupta claims the company was egged on to the idea by "a consumer research survey on what retired citizens want to do."
"I have nothing against senior citizens passing time by playing carom or cards at a designated club," explains Bamji. "But unless you do something which utilizes your faculties sufficiently, you don't really feel alive." He then distinguishes between those who are "forced to work" and those who "like to work" and claims that for the latter 'retirement' would render life meaningless even at 90. Bamji is interested in work which involves teaching and public speaking. This could range from general subjects – "I like to make life more interesting than it seems"; subjects he has an experience in – "Of which there are many" and even something he would have to learn anew. He recounts his jobs as researcher in Canada and India, when he successfully trouble shot a variety of industrial problems, actually using his lack of former knowledge to his end: "It gave me a wholistic approach and a new perspective. I asked seemingly obvious questions, to get unobvious answers."
'Giving back to society', is another reason these senior citizens state unanimously, for going back to work. Namjoshi goes as far as to say, "I want to work, for corporate and public institutions alike. But for free." His favourite angle to his bank job being dealing with an array of clients, "interacting with the public" is what he wants to continue doing. Like Jilla, he works with Dignity Foundation, and in turn with a host of public authorities from among the police and BMC. Jilla too, insists on this period being a sort of Saatvik phase in which she would work to serve others rather than herself.
"When I joined the army, the idea of a corporate job was looked down upon because of the state controlled and monopolized business environment," recounts Marwa. Today Marwa works for ICICI Prudential, using his logistical insight to aid the company in opening over 2000 rural locations, as his human management experience in the HR cell. Many careers – like filmmaking, advertising, choreography – which would have captured a youngsters imagination 20 years ago, but were unfeasible, are open today. Author Catherine Bird in her bestseller Second Careers: New Ways To Work After 50 lists case studies of those above 55 as extreme as a lawyer who became a salmon fisher, a navy officer who became a Methodist minister and an executive who became a travel escort. True, our land of the caste system once demanded that sons follow the footsteps of their father's 'calling' ten generations down the line, but the world's newfound flatness is today prodding even senior citizens to try to live a dream dreamt long ago.
The final and seemingly most obvious reason for embarking on a second career is money. Funnily, this is a factor every senior citizen interviewed claimed to care least about, if at all. But while most senior citizens may be prompted to such altruism by having saved enough or their individual retirement, they cannot deny the role remuneration plays in gauging a human being's worth in today's ever increasingly material world. Few, for instance would imagine JRD Tata agonizing over his self worth at 88.
Befittingly, many senior citizens ended their debate on second careers with dissent. "I love work. But I don't like the idea of being bound to an organization," argues Namjoshi. "That's why I don't want to take any remuneration for the work I do. Remuneration equals obligation." Jilla furthers Namoshi's perspective, emphasizing she doesn't want her "commitment to work to be an enforced commitment". Point taken, and ball thrust back in our court. Every scheme, including that of 'active ageing' likens the cause of senior citizens to a larger human rights propaganda, treating them as people to take care of, rather than a valuable national resource. Yet in the eyes of every silver haired denizen talking animatedly about their past work experience lies, more than grudges towards the present, ideas for the future. To translate these effectively, necessitates more than a website. It necessitates a change in attitude, and an adjustment in organizational framework. "Find me someone to help me with my computer," Bamji mentions in an aside after the debate. "I have so many projects planned on it. I just need someone to give me a few hours to sort out some doubts."
RAFEEQ ALIAS!
What does a coffee table book containing 30 years of a photographer's work represent? If Rafeeq Ellias' career – as acclaimed advertiser, award winning documentary filmmaker, and famous photographer – provokes amazed befuddlement, then this showcase brings things into as much of sharp focus as his statement thereby: "I would professionally restrict my skills to photography and filmmaking only."
And personally, his interest zooms further into categories chosen for an upcoming exhibition on November 5 (Musuem Gallery, Chhatrapati Shivaji Museum): Travel and Portraiture. "There are overlaps between these 'categories'," Ellias clarifies. "Portraiture can happen while traveling or in a studio. They form a common oeuvre." Yet traveling, by itself, remains an addiction, being the best way to "eliminate prejudices and bridge divides". He also talks about how this addiction was intertwined with his photographing the ballet and opera, over a decade: "My fashion photographs prompted a dance festival company to invite me to shoot a ballet in Uzbekistan. On seeing the results, I was invited again, and again, to Eastern Europe, Russia, Hungary..."
Vying for pride of place beside the ballerinas is the depiction of communities by the maker of The Legend Of Fat Mama (on the Chinese community in Kolkata). "We have singular and multiple identities," Ellias explains. "While the Jews in Brooklyn merge their Hungarian origin with being New Yorkers and the Punjabis in Southall with being Londoners, the Chinese in Calcutta love Luchis as much as Bengalis do." Even more identities arise on his images with age: "I remember working with two distinct generations in England – a Punjabi grandmother who was occupied by old Hindi films on Zee, and her completely modern, nearly British granddaughter."
The pages turn over, as does the conversation, to fashion: "This has limitations, being advertising photography. You have to work with a commercial brief." And yet, in his portrayal of saree draped models besides rural folk wearing complementary colours, or a black model standing in sharp focus before a dissolving landscape, he adds elements to his frame as deftly as he would have captured them while photographing that suit clad Palestinian smoking a hookah, or the portrait of a poet in Gulzar. "That's because I'm lucky to work with clients who allow me to experiment because of a long standing relationship," he answers, humbly.
And personally, his interest zooms further into categories chosen for an upcoming exhibition on November 5 (Musuem Gallery, Chhatrapati Shivaji Museum): Travel and Portraiture. "There are overlaps between these 'categories'," Ellias clarifies. "Portraiture can happen while traveling or in a studio. They form a common oeuvre." Yet traveling, by itself, remains an addiction, being the best way to "eliminate prejudices and bridge divides". He also talks about how this addiction was intertwined with his photographing the ballet and opera, over a decade: "My fashion photographs prompted a dance festival company to invite me to shoot a ballet in Uzbekistan. On seeing the results, I was invited again, and again, to Eastern Europe, Russia, Hungary..."
Vying for pride of place beside the ballerinas is the depiction of communities by the maker of The Legend Of Fat Mama (on the Chinese community in Kolkata). "We have singular and multiple identities," Ellias explains. "While the Jews in Brooklyn merge their Hungarian origin with being New Yorkers and the Punjabis in Southall with being Londoners, the Chinese in Calcutta love Luchis as much as Bengalis do." Even more identities arise on his images with age: "I remember working with two distinct generations in England – a Punjabi grandmother who was occupied by old Hindi films on Zee, and her completely modern, nearly British granddaughter."
The pages turn over, as does the conversation, to fashion: "This has limitations, being advertising photography. You have to work with a commercial brief." And yet, in his portrayal of saree draped models besides rural folk wearing complementary colours, or a black model standing in sharp focus before a dissolving landscape, he adds elements to his frame as deftly as he would have captured them while photographing that suit clad Palestinian smoking a hookah, or the portrait of a poet in Gulzar. "That's because I'm lucky to work with clients who allow me to experiment because of a long standing relationship," he answers, humbly.
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