This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
STREET SMART
These tutorials for slum children are literally run on the streets, finds Rishi Majumder
Achyutam Battula (name changed) sits on a pavement chewing a broken bangle piece he picked up from the road. The son of illiterate, slum-dweller Telegu speaking parents (his father's a construction worker who spends most of his money on alcohol) he can barely understand Hindi, let alone English. He's in the second standard of a Municipal School, but prefers to spend his time climbing lampposts. What kind of classroom would it take to educate him? Try the pavement and street off Juhu Versova Link Road, with batches of students arranged class-wise (standards one to nine) on Chatais, a blackboard and paid teacher attached to each. "We started with two students – now we have 800," smiles Nanddas Kotawala, a trustee of charitable organization Asha Kiran, which set up this tutorial for children for Municipal schools as well as other interested slum dwellers five years ago. The classes span seven locations in Andheri West, six days a week, in the mornings and evenings.
"I came here like him in my 3rd standard," says Venkatesh Balakrishnan, in class seven now, pointing to Achyutam. "But now I'm doing well in school. I've seen this doctor in my slum. I want to be like him..." "Sure a student can concentrate on the street side – as long as the teacher can make them!" comes from Pramilla Kalbhar, one of teachers hired on the basis of a higher secondary degree and the "compassion to connect with a class" – they're given a trial run to determine this. Besides free teaching, the children's text books, stationery and sometimes school fees are taken care of by the trust. For students who don't speak Hindi or Marathi, the trust has appointed Telegu teachers and translators. "But most important is accessibility," remarks M S Kohli, an honorary trustee. "So we've located these 'centres' all over, rather than sticking to buildings, so we can be 5 minutes from the children's residence." They've also enlisted bus services to get in kids all the way from Kandivali.
But finally, comes the lure: "Idli-wada, Wada-Paw, Halwa, Puri Sabzi… even chocolates," lists volunteer Ramesh Raut. In addition, there's prizes to be won for regular attendance and scoring good marks in the school exams. Taking this carrot to a psychological level is "asking the children what they'd like to be and connecting the subjects to that end" as per teacher Renu Kesarvani (remember the doctor?). And to complete the endeavour children who pass class nine are enlisted for their 10 th standard, all expenses paid. "Still, out of 20 students who reached class 10 last year, only one cleared the Matriculate," Raut mulls. One at a time, the adage goes…
Sunday, March 29, 2009
MUMBAI'S BAHAI AND ARMENIAN GRAVEYARD
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
"All the graves here are really old," says 13 year old Shahid. Shahid and his mother, after his father's demise, live with his Naani – a local bai – in Madonna Colony, Antop Hill. The colony was set up, just post independence, on an ancient British grave yard. So amidst cramped two storied hutments and open gutters stands a classic stone pillar, with sculptured Roman motifs. A tombstone was found while digging a drain in one house and cast into the street. A piece from it acting as floor stand for a makeshift roadside stall reads: "John Cowa… Who Died September 1…" Abbas Akhtarkhavari testifies to the adjoining year having read "1753".
Akhtarkhavari, employed by the Baha'i Spiritual Assembly maintains the nearly 2 centuries old Armenian cemetery in between this settlement and another newer one. This burial ground lost 3000 square feet of land to the other hutment group. "And was about to lose more, before Shaapoor Rowhani and Dr Aram Yegiazarian changed things," Akhtarkhavari tells. Rowhani, a Baha'i, owned Fountain Sizzlers at Fort. Dr Yegiazarian, an Armenian, ate there post Sunday service at the Armenian church. Both their graves lie in this cemetery. Their friendship sprouted the idea that the Baha'is should manage the graveyard of the dwindling Armenian community, keeping encroachers at bay, in return for shared space with Baha'i burials.
But old grave encroachments aren't new. The destruction of Armenian and Baha'i cemeteries in Azerbaijan , Georgia, Turkey or Iran has caused outcry for quite awhile. In Mumbai, the grand Byzantine building that's gone from being the Royal Albert Sailor's Home to the Maharashtra Police Headquarters today, was built on the site of the city's first British cemetery. Antop Hill was chosen as a site for Chinese, British, Armenian, Baha'i, Hindu and Muslim cemeteries because it was uninhabited. Today, the city's growth sheaths an underlying clash in the area between it's most voiceless: the immigrant poor and 'departed' dead.
"In memory thoult cherished be, While a spark of life remains, Till the dawn I long to see, when we both shall meet again," says an epitaph on an Armenian grave, under a white marble cross with flower and leaf sculptures. "Whither can a lover go but to the land of his beloved," spells a Baha'i reciprocal. Akhtarkhavari explains the different attitudes: "The Bahai's see this life as a 'womb' we leave to go to God." Another difference is that unlike the Christians, the Bahai's build vaults where they lower their coffin in the ground. "For this cemetery I've often created 'double vaults' to bury two family members - one above the other - in the same grave," says Akhtarkhavari as a boy carrying buckets of water for his tap-water deprived colony looks curiously over the cemetery wall. "But this isn't tradition – it's to solve the space problem."
"All the graves here are really old," says 13 year old Shahid. Shahid and his mother, after his father's demise, live with his Naani – a local bai – in Madonna Colony, Antop Hill. The colony was set up, just post independence, on an ancient British grave yard. So amidst cramped two storied hutments and open gutters stands a classic stone pillar, with sculptured Roman motifs. A tombstone was found while digging a drain in one house and cast into the street. A piece from it acting as floor stand for a makeshift roadside stall reads: "John Cowa… Who Died September 1…" Abbas Akhtarkhavari testifies to the adjoining year having read "1753".
Akhtarkhavari, employed by the Baha'i Spiritual Assembly maintains the nearly 2 centuries old Armenian cemetery in between this settlement and another newer one. This burial ground lost 3000 square feet of land to the other hutment group. "And was about to lose more, before Shaapoor Rowhani and Dr Aram Yegiazarian changed things," Akhtarkhavari tells. Rowhani, a Baha'i, owned Fountain Sizzlers at Fort. Dr Yegiazarian, an Armenian, ate there post Sunday service at the Armenian church. Both their graves lie in this cemetery. Their friendship sprouted the idea that the Baha'is should manage the graveyard of the dwindling Armenian community, keeping encroachers at bay, in return for shared space with Baha'i burials.
But old grave encroachments aren't new. The destruction of Armenian and Baha'i cemeteries in Azerbaijan , Georgia, Turkey or Iran has caused outcry for quite awhile. In Mumbai, the grand Byzantine building that's gone from being the Royal Albert Sailor's Home to the Maharashtra Police Headquarters today, was built on the site of the city's first British cemetery. Antop Hill was chosen as a site for Chinese, British, Armenian, Baha'i, Hindu and Muslim cemeteries because it was uninhabited. Today, the city's growth sheaths an underlying clash in the area between it's most voiceless: the immigrant poor and 'departed' dead.
"In memory thoult cherished be, While a spark of life remains, Till the dawn I long to see, when we both shall meet again," says an epitaph on an Armenian grave, under a white marble cross with flower and leaf sculptures. "Whither can a lover go but to the land of his beloved," spells a Baha'i reciprocal. Akhtarkhavari explains the different attitudes: "The Bahai's see this life as a 'womb' we leave to go to God." Another difference is that unlike the Christians, the Bahai's build vaults where they lower their coffin in the ground. "For this cemetery I've often created 'double vaults' to bury two family members - one above the other - in the same grave," says Akhtarkhavari as a boy carrying buckets of water for his tap-water deprived colony looks curiously over the cemetery wall. "But this isn't tradition – it's to solve the space problem."
THE BOMBAY BHISTI
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
"It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you
don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
THE ABOVE PART SHOULD BE IN ITALICS
Rudyard Kipling's spirited depiction of "regimental bhisti" Gunga Din
comes with a sad parody of the derogatory gaze in which colonials held
an Indian labourer. One wonders though if the Raj's disappearance has
made any difference to the ancient water carrying tribe: known as
Pakhalis in Marathi and Mashakwaalas or Bishtis in Urdu and Hindi.
50 year old bishti Sarif Ahmad at Char Null Dongri flashes a cheap
painkiller the doctor's asked him to take: "This eases the pain, but
doesn't heal anything." His knees and hipbone have all but crumbled,
he says, from carrying 30 litres of water across streets and up
buildings for over 30 years. Three of the bishtis with him ask us for
a job. They are dying to cast aside a burden which most celebrators of
tradition overlook the weight of.
Ahmad is a "khandaani bhishti", whose forefathers in Haryana served
the badshahs from time immemorial. "When changes came, like the purdah
being relaxed and women going to wells themselves, we had to migrate
for work," he remembers. 36 year old Sagir Ali from UP, however, is
only the second generation into this profession: "My father came here
and became a bhishti and so have I." Sagir Alaudddin Bhisti is another
"khandaani bhishti" from Rajasthan. While Anwar Mia and Mubarak Ali,
in their early 20s, have left low paying restaurant jobs to be
Bhishtis for the first time.
Bhishti groups operate area wise, with agreements not to encroach on
another's square kilometers. Bhendi Bazaar, Null Bazaar, Madanpura,
Pila Haus, Foras Road, Kamathipura and Pydhonie vary in their bhishti
populations as per demand. Hence the total number of Bhishtis – quoted
at anything from 70 to 150 is unascertained. The bhishtis charge four
to six rupees to deliver water to ground floor locations and eight to
ten rupees for higher floors. The monthly earning of each varies from
Rs 700 to 1,200. While roughly Rs 100 a month goes as "hafta to the
police", Rs 1200 has to be paid for a new 30 litre leather (goat or
buffalo skin) bag or 'mashak' every six months – which is how long it
lasts. "But the advantage over a job is that you get instant cash, and
that you're not a 'servant'," most claim.
One reason many want out, still, is because business has been dropping
steadily since residents installed motor pumps. "We only deliver if
someone oversleeps – and forgets to fill water, needs extra water for
house guests or if their motor stops working," Alauddin Bhisti sums
up. Also, their leather bags make them inauspicious for Hindu
localities. But the overwhelming bane remains the toll this manual
labour takes on their body: "We are like thelawaalas. No one chooses
such professions."
The Bhishti Mohalla near JJ Hospital was named such because of
residence areas being compartmentalized as per profession in old
Bombay. "But no one living in these houses is a bhishti anymore,
though they have 'bhisti' as their surname," Meherdin Bhisti who
operates with Abdul Rehman and Naviser Bhisti from Bhishti Mohalla
(all of whom sleep on the pavement) says. Rehman, 57 and too old to
work as a Bhisti anymore, makes the 'mashaks' he once bore: "I sell
only 15 to 20 bags a year." But recent buys by exporters, marketing
such pouches in Karballa in Iraq, might improve matters. "He is lucky
to be alive," remarks 50 year old Ahmad of this. "I sometimes feel
when I sleep after a day's work… I won't get up." Which brings us back
to Kipling:
"So I'll meet 'im later on, At the place where 'e is gone – Where it's
always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals,
Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from
Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd
that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"
"It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you
don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
THE ABOVE PART SHOULD BE IN ITALICS
Rudyard Kipling's spirited depiction of "regimental bhisti" Gunga Din
comes with a sad parody of the derogatory gaze in which colonials held
an Indian labourer. One wonders though if the Raj's disappearance has
made any difference to the ancient water carrying tribe: known as
Pakhalis in Marathi and Mashakwaalas or Bishtis in Urdu and Hindi.
50 year old bishti Sarif Ahmad at Char Null Dongri flashes a cheap
painkiller the doctor's asked him to take: "This eases the pain, but
doesn't heal anything." His knees and hipbone have all but crumbled,
he says, from carrying 30 litres of water across streets and up
buildings for over 30 years. Three of the bishtis with him ask us for
a job. They are dying to cast aside a burden which most celebrators of
tradition overlook the weight of.
Ahmad is a "khandaani bhishti", whose forefathers in Haryana served
the badshahs from time immemorial. "When changes came, like the purdah
being relaxed and women going to wells themselves, we had to migrate
for work," he remembers. 36 year old Sagir Ali from UP, however, is
only the second generation into this profession: "My father came here
and became a bhishti and so have I." Sagir Alaudddin Bhisti is another
"khandaani bhishti" from Rajasthan. While Anwar Mia and Mubarak Ali,
in their early 20s, have left low paying restaurant jobs to be
Bhishtis for the first time.
Bhishti groups operate area wise, with agreements not to encroach on
another's square kilometers. Bhendi Bazaar, Null Bazaar, Madanpura,
Pila Haus, Foras Road, Kamathipura and Pydhonie vary in their bhishti
populations as per demand. Hence the total number of Bhishtis – quoted
at anything from 70 to 150 is unascertained. The bhishtis charge four
to six rupees to deliver water to ground floor locations and eight to
ten rupees for higher floors. The monthly earning of each varies from
Rs 700 to 1,200. While roughly Rs 100 a month goes as "hafta to the
police", Rs 1200 has to be paid for a new 30 litre leather (goat or
buffalo skin) bag or 'mashak' every six months – which is how long it
lasts. "But the advantage over a job is that you get instant cash, and
that you're not a 'servant'," most claim.
One reason many want out, still, is because business has been dropping
steadily since residents installed motor pumps. "We only deliver if
someone oversleeps – and forgets to fill water, needs extra water for
house guests or if their motor stops working," Alauddin Bhisti sums
up. Also, their leather bags make them inauspicious for Hindu
localities. But the overwhelming bane remains the toll this manual
labour takes on their body: "We are like thelawaalas. No one chooses
such professions."
The Bhishti Mohalla near JJ Hospital was named such because of
residence areas being compartmentalized as per profession in old
Bombay. "But no one living in these houses is a bhishti anymore,
though they have 'bhisti' as their surname," Meherdin Bhisti who
operates with Abdul Rehman and Naviser Bhisti from Bhishti Mohalla
(all of whom sleep on the pavement) says. Rehman, 57 and too old to
work as a Bhisti anymore, makes the 'mashaks' he once bore: "I sell
only 15 to 20 bags a year." But recent buys by exporters, marketing
such pouches in Karballa in Iraq, might improve matters. "He is lucky
to be alive," remarks 50 year old Ahmad of this. "I sometimes feel
when I sleep after a day's work… I won't get up." Which brings us back
to Kipling:
"So I'll meet 'im later on, At the place where 'e is gone – Where it's
always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals,
Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from
Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd
that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"
Saturday, March 28, 2009
NATURE MALL
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
A Date with Nature
Rishi Majumder checks out the country's first nature mall. Located on the
outskirts of the city, off Panvel, it draws Mumbaikars in droves
At a village called Tara, near Panvel, a one acre plot of land has a
sign offering "Landscaping" next to another which reads "Balcony Gardening".
A shop on the plot displays irrigation tools and 'plant food tablets' beside
a two CD pack of 157 Indian Bird Calls, and natural neem soap. The number of
plant species on display and for sale in the nursery number 175. A month
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's First Ever
Garden Mall".
"It's amazing to find so many plant species in one place. I'll recommend
this place at college for a botanical excursion," says Kinjal Gogri, a third
year botany student. Kinjal is one of 30 collected here to get acquainted
with all the plants in a day's time. The botanist who acquaints them also
conducts an audio visual presentation to further this knowledge. A trip to
an NGO creating marketable products from such natural resource follows.
Adding value to the Rs 150 package is breakfast, lunch and tea. Eight months
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's first ever
'nature dating' concept." It's only natural then that the company has been
launched and run by an adman (Bharat Soni) with his Thumb Print Advertising
as sister concern. It's also natural, that the annual turnover this plot
last yielded was Rs 80,00,000.
"Resort mein baith baith ke kantaal aa gaya. Isliye socha kuch naya
dekhenge,"states Diva Ajani, who heads the Kothara Jain Mahila Mandal. Go
Green's 'nature dating' specifically woos social clubs and educational
institutions. And hence 20 ladies from Mumbai, associated by virtue of
hailing from the same village, planned their joint picnic to benefit them
and their children of environmental information. Unlike government managed
nurseries, each plant here bears a large label with the common name,
scientific name, family and type written in English and Marathi. Printed
icons indicate the amount of sun and watering the species requires, and its
flowering season. "The people maintaining and explaining the plants include
a botanist, a plant pathologist, a horticulturist and an agricultural
adviser," senior HORTICULTURIST Ramchandra Patil boasts.
Begun approximately six years ago, the company earliest clientele was
those stopping over on this Mumbai Goa highway spot en route to a holiday.
Plant varieties for sale include flowering, fruit, medicinal, aromatic,
Bonsai, cactus, creepers, aquatic plants and, well, grass. Garden concepts
range from balcony, terrace and kitchen to the more bizarre: hanging,
ayurvedic, aromatic, sacred and astral. Patil shows off "a plant which
provides multivitamins", a rudraksh tree and a vanilla plant. Other rare,
interesting and indigenous curiosities are flaunted: "The Ahmestia nobilis -
with only two samples in Mumbai. And the English browflesia: its flowers
change colour everyday, till they fall." Services go from landscaping and
farm management to garden maintenance. The price and size of each plant
vary, with no relation between the factors. While a mango tree is sold for
Rs 350, for instance, a far smaller cycus would cost Rs 15,000. And services
include both landscaping for Reliance and managing plants potted at a tiny
Vashi flat.
Patil, a farmer's son, graduated in agriculture but failed to pursue it.
"Most people studying agriculture, have entered completely unrelated
professions: like the police force or banking services," he rues. "I'm happy
to be doing something linked to my education." Recently he designed the
gardens surrounding a bungalow, such that they could grow a range of
vegetables and grains, and eat some of their own produce every day, every
year. Go Green also offers agricultural advice, referring the client to a
reliable expert where necessary.
"We too want to grow and cook our own vegetables in our Mumbai flats.
Hopefully we'll be able to," two housewives from the mahila mandal smile,
inspired. Their two kids, meanwhile, parrot what endless signs around the
plot say on global warming, pollution prevention and saving water. Patil
exalts the value of these social messages and awards received by the company
for the same. Yet the justification for his pride lies in the organisation's
preservation of nature, through its marketing. By evincing the possibility
of going green, by going for the green.
A Date with Nature
Rishi Majumder checks out the country's first nature mall. Located on the
outskirts of the city, off Panvel, it draws Mumbaikars in droves
At a village called Tara, near Panvel, a one acre plot of land has a
sign offering "Landscaping" next to another which reads "Balcony Gardening".
A shop on the plot displays irrigation tools and 'plant food tablets' beside
a two CD pack of 157 Indian Bird Calls, and natural neem soap. The number of
plant species on display and for sale in the nursery number 175. A month
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's First Ever
Garden Mall".
"It's amazing to find so many plant species in one place. I'll recommend
this place at college for a botanical excursion," says Kinjal Gogri, a third
year botany student. Kinjal is one of 30 collected here to get acquainted
with all the plants in a day's time. The botanist who acquaints them also
conducts an audio visual presentation to further this knowledge. A trip to
an NGO creating marketable products from such natural resource follows.
Adding value to the Rs 150 package is breakfast, lunch and tea. Eight months
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's first ever
'nature dating' concept." It's only natural then that the company has been
launched and run by an adman (Bharat Soni) with his Thumb Print Advertising
as sister concern. It's also natural, that the annual turnover this plot
last yielded was Rs 80,00,000.
"Resort mein baith baith ke kantaal aa gaya. Isliye socha kuch naya
dekhenge,"states Diva Ajani, who heads the Kothara Jain Mahila Mandal. Go
Green's 'nature dating' specifically woos social clubs and educational
institutions. And hence 20 ladies from Mumbai, associated by virtue of
hailing from the same village, planned their joint picnic to benefit them
and their children of environmental information. Unlike government managed
nurseries, each plant here bears a large label with the common name,
scientific name, family and type written in English and Marathi. Printed
icons indicate the amount of sun and watering the species requires, and its
flowering season. "The people maintaining and explaining the plants include
a botanist, a plant pathologist, a horticulturist and an agricultural
adviser," senior HORTICULTURIST Ramchandra Patil boasts.
Begun approximately six years ago, the company earliest clientele was
those stopping over on this Mumbai Goa highway spot en route to a holiday.
Plant varieties for sale include flowering, fruit, medicinal, aromatic,
Bonsai, cactus, creepers, aquatic plants and, well, grass. Garden concepts
range from balcony, terrace and kitchen to the more bizarre: hanging,
ayurvedic, aromatic, sacred and astral. Patil shows off "a plant which
provides multivitamins", a rudraksh tree and a vanilla plant. Other rare,
interesting and indigenous curiosities are flaunted: "The Ahmestia nobilis -
with only two samples in Mumbai. And the English browflesia: its flowers
change colour everyday, till they fall." Services go from landscaping and
farm management to garden maintenance. The price and size of each plant
vary, with no relation between the factors. While a mango tree is sold for
Rs 350, for instance, a far smaller cycus would cost Rs 15,000. And services
include both landscaping for Reliance and managing plants potted at a tiny
Vashi flat.
Patil, a farmer's son, graduated in agriculture but failed to pursue it.
"Most people studying agriculture, have entered completely unrelated
professions: like the police force or banking services," he rues. "I'm happy
to be doing something linked to my education." Recently he designed the
gardens surrounding a bungalow, such that they could grow a range of
vegetables and grains, and eat some of their own produce every day, every
year. Go Green also offers agricultural advice, referring the client to a
reliable expert where necessary.
"We too want to grow and cook our own vegetables in our Mumbai flats.
Hopefully we'll be able to," two housewives from the mahila mandal smile,
inspired. Their two kids, meanwhile, parrot what endless signs around the
plot say on global warming, pollution prevention and saving water. Patil
exalts the value of these social messages and awards received by the company
for the same. Yet the justification for his pride lies in the organisation's
preservation of nature, through its marketing. By evincing the possibility
of going green, by going for the green.
IT'S THE BHAGATS, YOU BET!
It’s the Bhagats, you bet!
Rishi Majumder and Bhupen Patel profile a family that hit the jackpot when they invented the matka
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
I'm a jyotish, not a gambler,” said Kalyanji Gangadhar Bhagat on the April 2, 1962, at the ‘opening call’ of the first ever matka in the compound of his building Vinod Mahal, in Worli. Unlike latter matkas, picture cards—such as king, queen and knave—were included in the pack from which cards would be picked to determine the day's winning numbers.
“The queen and king represented numbers 11 and 12 respectively, the 12 figures signifying the 12 rashis of Indian astrology,” remembers Vinod Bhagat, Kalyanji's son and Suresh Bhagat's elder brother. “The knave, if picked would be tossed aside.” Today the Bhagat family's cards, or jyotish-vidya, foretell a full circle. There's a king, a queen and a knave. But it's not the knave that's been tossed aside.
KALYANJI BHAGAT
Born a farmer in the village of Ratadia, Ganesh Wala in Kutch, Gujarat, Kalyanji's family name was Gala. “'Bhagat', a modification of ‘bhakt’, was a title given to our family by the King of Kutch for our religiousness,” says Vinod. “The King didn't give much else to the Kutchis, which resulted in mass migration to avoid drought and famine,” recalls Pravin Shah, a Kutchi financial consultant who's researched the matka system as a hobby, and met Kalyanji often in this regard. “Kalyanji, one such migrant, came to Bombay in 1941.”
From there on, after jobs like masala feriwala and kirana store manager, his journey from a room in a BBD Chawl to owning two buildings, ensued from his becoming a bookie receiving bets on the opening and closing figures of the New York and Bombay Cotton Markets.
From the mid fifties however, the cotton figures became too predictable to be bet on, prompting Kalyanji to study the American numbers game, and introduce matka. “The name matka is because the idea occurred to my father while seeing people bet on numbered chits drawn from a pot,” Vinod clarifies. “No actual matka was ever used.”
This non-existent matka travelled from Worli's Vinod Mahal, to an area near Zaveri Bazaar (where it was managed by to be rival Ratan Khatri) to various parts of India and eventually the world (bets were booked from the Middle East and the US).
Even with Khatri breaking away in 1964 to form 'Ratan Matka', a daily 'turnover' of rupees one crore (cited in 1974) left plenty for everyone.
Kalyanji's ability was one reason for his meteoric rise. He instituted a syndicate to overlook card picking, to ensure gambler's trust. Unlike Khatri, he shunned publicity to keep his operations away from public glare, yet had hotlines to the city’s who's who.
The brand 'Kalyan Worli Matka' was spread by word of mouth and through goodwill generated by countless philanthropic activities he undertook.
But another reason for his success was the game's format. “You can bet even with one rupee, so even beggars bet,” Shah lists. “You can bet on just one digit, and have better odds than at a lottery (odds vary from 1:9 to 1:15,000). And the process is so simple.” And still, the format of matka resembled that of a lottery, a fact that, coupled with a tremendous amount of bribe, prompted authorities to treat it lightly.
Suresh Bhagat
JAYANTILAL, VINOD AND SURESH BHAGAT
“The spread of matka In India has been phenomenal,” says Joint Commissioner Crime, Rakesh Maria, who's in charge of the Suresh Bhagat murder investigation. “It is has the capability of subverting an entire system. It is with this case that we have understood its magnitude. It is the underworld's economic pipeline.”
Though Maria refuses to state figures, another police officer quotes on condition of anonymity that rupees one crore is now the daily 'profit' generated by the business. “I left the family matka business 30 years ago,” claims Vinod.
“And so did Jayantilal (the eldest of the brothers).” While Jayantilal Bhagat diversified into the wholesale sugar market, Vinod started a film equipment business, supplying the latest in the field. “A popular area of diversification for all three brothers, as indeed many who transferred illegitimate funds to legitimate businesses was shops, given to a relative or friend to manage,” says Shah.
Suresh, known like his father for his acts of charity, often placed a person in need of a job in such a shop, for which he would pay the pagri (advance), on condition that he continue to receive a share of profits even after the pagri was repaid.
Vinod keeps emphasizing every once in a while that Suresh, despite being in the matka business had a “kind heart”. “He was a simple man. His only hobby, which is also mine, was listening to Hindi film songs,” continues Vinod, pointing to a closet full of Hindi film CDs. “Even if someone betrayed him, he would never harm the person… just tell him to get lost.”
Yet why did he not let the matka business go, even after it became dangerously imbued with underworld influence? “Whoever runs this business has too much power,” Vinod protests. “He didn't want it to go into the wrong hands.” Police sources believe otherwise: “No one would let go of a goose that lays golden eggs. Yet the business was slipping from Suresh's hands because he was unable to control the huge network of bookies it operated through.”
JAYA AND HITESH BHAGAT
Jaya Chheda had an arranged marriage with Suresh Bhagat in 1979. Vinod refrains from talking about her, simply saying, “I have my family to fear for. I don't want to say anything that may put them in danger.”
“Her father, who had a grocery store in Kalbadevi, was known as an extremely pious man,” cites a family friend of the Bhagats, as the reason for the Bhagats' choice of Jaya as bride. “The Kutchi community in Bombay held him in high regard.”
This friend and certain members of the family, while choosing to remain anonymous, cast a variety of aspersions on Jaya's “bad character showing early”, ranging from her being unduly ambitious and siphoning off the family's funds, to her alleged affair with Gawli aide Suhas Roge.
Jaya Bhagat
“She was eager to show off and live the good life, while Suresh had a modest lifestyle,” is the reason stated for the rift between the two. Suresh and Jaya's son Hitesh Bhagat (in his late 20s), meanwhile, is simply described as a wayward child, who takes his mother's side.
A source within the police department who witnessed Jaya's interrogation during an earlier arrest claims differently: “She cited endless instances of psychological cruelty by family members, culminating even in death threats.”
But even if psychologically oppressed and morally debauched, how did a traditional Kutchi housewife take over 70 per cent of a matka empire worth hundreds of crores? (An empire that she supposedly commands even while in police custody today, via her brothers Deepak and Kiran Chheda.) “The process was gradual,” the same officer continues.
“First she learnt the business from her husband. Then as her husband lost control over the bookies, they started referring to her. Even Roge was a person she met as a Bhagat family friend.” Her alliance with Roge, he says, could have facilitated her getting her husband trapped in the series of narcotics cases which kept him in and out of jail for three years.
Jaya Bhagat
When asked whether the murder of Vasant Shah in 1998, which the Gawli gang is accused of executing to safeguard Pappu Saavla's matka empire, bears a parallel to this case, police officers refuse comment.
Joint Commissioner Maria does too, but says, “The person who draws the card and calls the numbers (called 'chief' in matka parlance) holds immense power.
Enough to entail a mass murder like the one we have witnessed.” Put differently, Suresh Kalyan Bhagat’s ‘closing call’ came early, at around 2 pm, June 13, 2008. It would appear the matka was fixed.
Rishi Majumder and Bhupen Patel profile a family that hit the jackpot when they invented the matka
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
I'm a jyotish, not a gambler,” said Kalyanji Gangadhar Bhagat on the April 2, 1962, at the ‘opening call’ of the first ever matka in the compound of his building Vinod Mahal, in Worli. Unlike latter matkas, picture cards—such as king, queen and knave—were included in the pack from which cards would be picked to determine the day's winning numbers.
“The queen and king represented numbers 11 and 12 respectively, the 12 figures signifying the 12 rashis of Indian astrology,” remembers Vinod Bhagat, Kalyanji's son and Suresh Bhagat's elder brother. “The knave, if picked would be tossed aside.” Today the Bhagat family's cards, or jyotish-vidya, foretell a full circle. There's a king, a queen and a knave. But it's not the knave that's been tossed aside.
KALYANJI BHAGAT
Born a farmer in the village of Ratadia, Ganesh Wala in Kutch, Gujarat, Kalyanji's family name was Gala. “'Bhagat', a modification of ‘bhakt’, was a title given to our family by the King of Kutch for our religiousness,” says Vinod. “The King didn't give much else to the Kutchis, which resulted in mass migration to avoid drought and famine,” recalls Pravin Shah, a Kutchi financial consultant who's researched the matka system as a hobby, and met Kalyanji often in this regard. “Kalyanji, one such migrant, came to Bombay in 1941.”
From there on, after jobs like masala feriwala and kirana store manager, his journey from a room in a BBD Chawl to owning two buildings, ensued from his becoming a bookie receiving bets on the opening and closing figures of the New York and Bombay Cotton Markets.
From the mid fifties however, the cotton figures became too predictable to be bet on, prompting Kalyanji to study the American numbers game, and introduce matka. “The name matka is because the idea occurred to my father while seeing people bet on numbered chits drawn from a pot,” Vinod clarifies. “No actual matka was ever used.”
This non-existent matka travelled from Worli's Vinod Mahal, to an area near Zaveri Bazaar (where it was managed by to be rival Ratan Khatri) to various parts of India and eventually the world (bets were booked from the Middle East and the US).
Even with Khatri breaking away in 1964 to form 'Ratan Matka', a daily 'turnover' of rupees one crore (cited in 1974) left plenty for everyone.
Kalyanji's ability was one reason for his meteoric rise. He instituted a syndicate to overlook card picking, to ensure gambler's trust. Unlike Khatri, he shunned publicity to keep his operations away from public glare, yet had hotlines to the city’s who's who.
The brand 'Kalyan Worli Matka' was spread by word of mouth and through goodwill generated by countless philanthropic activities he undertook.
But another reason for his success was the game's format. “You can bet even with one rupee, so even beggars bet,” Shah lists. “You can bet on just one digit, and have better odds than at a lottery (odds vary from 1:9 to 1:15,000). And the process is so simple.” And still, the format of matka resembled that of a lottery, a fact that, coupled with a tremendous amount of bribe, prompted authorities to treat it lightly.
Suresh Bhagat
JAYANTILAL, VINOD AND SURESH BHAGAT
“The spread of matka In India has been phenomenal,” says Joint Commissioner Crime, Rakesh Maria, who's in charge of the Suresh Bhagat murder investigation. “It is has the capability of subverting an entire system. It is with this case that we have understood its magnitude. It is the underworld's economic pipeline.”
Though Maria refuses to state figures, another police officer quotes on condition of anonymity that rupees one crore is now the daily 'profit' generated by the business. “I left the family matka business 30 years ago,” claims Vinod.
“And so did Jayantilal (the eldest of the brothers).” While Jayantilal Bhagat diversified into the wholesale sugar market, Vinod started a film equipment business, supplying the latest in the field. “A popular area of diversification for all three brothers, as indeed many who transferred illegitimate funds to legitimate businesses was shops, given to a relative or friend to manage,” says Shah.
Suresh, known like his father for his acts of charity, often placed a person in need of a job in such a shop, for which he would pay the pagri (advance), on condition that he continue to receive a share of profits even after the pagri was repaid.
Vinod keeps emphasizing every once in a while that Suresh, despite being in the matka business had a “kind heart”. “He was a simple man. His only hobby, which is also mine, was listening to Hindi film songs,” continues Vinod, pointing to a closet full of Hindi film CDs. “Even if someone betrayed him, he would never harm the person… just tell him to get lost.”
Yet why did he not let the matka business go, even after it became dangerously imbued with underworld influence? “Whoever runs this business has too much power,” Vinod protests. “He didn't want it to go into the wrong hands.” Police sources believe otherwise: “No one would let go of a goose that lays golden eggs. Yet the business was slipping from Suresh's hands because he was unable to control the huge network of bookies it operated through.”
JAYA AND HITESH BHAGAT
Jaya Chheda had an arranged marriage with Suresh Bhagat in 1979. Vinod refrains from talking about her, simply saying, “I have my family to fear for. I don't want to say anything that may put them in danger.”
“Her father, who had a grocery store in Kalbadevi, was known as an extremely pious man,” cites a family friend of the Bhagats, as the reason for the Bhagats' choice of Jaya as bride. “The Kutchi community in Bombay held him in high regard.”
This friend and certain members of the family, while choosing to remain anonymous, cast a variety of aspersions on Jaya's “bad character showing early”, ranging from her being unduly ambitious and siphoning off the family's funds, to her alleged affair with Gawli aide Suhas Roge.
Jaya Bhagat
“She was eager to show off and live the good life, while Suresh had a modest lifestyle,” is the reason stated for the rift between the two. Suresh and Jaya's son Hitesh Bhagat (in his late 20s), meanwhile, is simply described as a wayward child, who takes his mother's side.
A source within the police department who witnessed Jaya's interrogation during an earlier arrest claims differently: “She cited endless instances of psychological cruelty by family members, culminating even in death threats.”
But even if psychologically oppressed and morally debauched, how did a traditional Kutchi housewife take over 70 per cent of a matka empire worth hundreds of crores? (An empire that she supposedly commands even while in police custody today, via her brothers Deepak and Kiran Chheda.) “The process was gradual,” the same officer continues.
“First she learnt the business from her husband. Then as her husband lost control over the bookies, they started referring to her. Even Roge was a person she met as a Bhagat family friend.” Her alliance with Roge, he says, could have facilitated her getting her husband trapped in the series of narcotics cases which kept him in and out of jail for three years.
Jaya Bhagat
When asked whether the murder of Vasant Shah in 1998, which the Gawli gang is accused of executing to safeguard Pappu Saavla's matka empire, bears a parallel to this case, police officers refuse comment.
Joint Commissioner Maria does too, but says, “The person who draws the card and calls the numbers (called 'chief' in matka parlance) holds immense power.
Enough to entail a mass murder like the one we have witnessed.” Put differently, Suresh Kalyan Bhagat’s ‘closing call’ came early, at around 2 pm, June 13, 2008. It would appear the matka was fixed.
the keyboard is stronger than the pen
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
The medium is the message"
- Marshall McLuhan
So waxed the metaphysician of media, and wrote in his Gutenberg Galaxy how the spreading of the written word meant communication among humans, earlier involving every sense, was reduced by the alphabet to "abstract visual code". This idiom has been utilized since long before McLuhan by statesmen, artists and scientists. None, however, bring forth it's essence as calligraphers do. And while the number of this ancient tribe dwindles in general, the Urdu and Arabic calligrapher's community in Mumbai, has faded from around 250, 10 years ago, to around 8 today.
Mehmood Ahmed Shaikh and Iqtedar Husain, whose offices lie close to one another on Tandel Street Dongri, are two of these eight. They came into the profession in very different ways, and work differently today. Shaikh, was prompted to become a calligrapher because his father was one. He began with a course in Anjuman Islam College, to work for a host of Urdu newspapers, learn further from renowned Ustads, teach in Maharashtra College and work for ten years in Saudi Arabia. His feathers include three Quran Sharifs and an array of poetry. A knee problem has disabled him from transcribing on the floor in the traditional way, and after a year's practice, he's gotten used to a chair and table.
Husain sits on the floor. He claims, "It takes three years for a calligrapher to just learn 'how to sit'." The only family he had in the field was a distant cousin, who taught him after he expressed his interest. Then came a variety of Urdu newspapers and magazines, before branching out on his own.
The tools of these artists comprise calligraphic nibs or a piece of bamboo, both cut to shape. Inks range from Camel to water colour paint to the German Rotring. Arabic styles consist of Sulus, Naskh (further divided into the Indian, Egyptian and Arabic Naskh), Kufi, Riq'a and Diwani. Urdu is penned only in Nastaliq. In Arabic, while Naskh is the most popular and used for scribing religious texts, Sulus is every calligrapher's favourite. "With Sulus, one has the liberty of giving 'shape to the beauty'," Shaikh says, displaying a leaf of his work. A religious phrase is written so it shapes into a religious structure. The beginning of the phrase is a minaret, the name of the prophet is emphasized in the dome, and the rest of the phrase forms it's base. Even, for plain writing, Sulus allows the calligrapher far more scope for improvisation.
The future of this art is symbolized in an old lithographic machine lying junked in Husain's room. When the Urdu papers did not possess computerized font, such machines was used daily to convert the calligrapher's work into print. Today these calligraphers, the survivors, continue to get work which cannot be done on the computer. But for such work only an experienced hand is required, and so while they manage, youngsters in the field, bereft of the livelihood once provided by the newspapers have shifted professions. Yet both calligraphers point out, that no breakthrough in any art can occur on the computer, which means that their generation's passing will impose a stagnancy on Indian calligraphic innovation, Urdu and Arabic. But patronage, akin to that provided by governments in the Middle East, and Hindu and Jain foundations here for Sanskrit calligraphy remains absent. Even the meagre Rs 5000 cash prizes once handed by the Urdu Academy has been revoked. Already, in the distinct style which marks Shaikh finishing another tower in Sulus, one sees another Babel, unfinished.
The medium is the message"
- Marshall McLuhan
So waxed the metaphysician of media, and wrote in his Gutenberg Galaxy how the spreading of the written word meant communication among humans, earlier involving every sense, was reduced by the alphabet to "abstract visual code". This idiom has been utilized since long before McLuhan by statesmen, artists and scientists. None, however, bring forth it's essence as calligraphers do. And while the number of this ancient tribe dwindles in general, the Urdu and Arabic calligrapher's community in Mumbai, has faded from around 250, 10 years ago, to around 8 today.
Mehmood Ahmed Shaikh and Iqtedar Husain, whose offices lie close to one another on Tandel Street Dongri, are two of these eight. They came into the profession in very different ways, and work differently today. Shaikh, was prompted to become a calligrapher because his father was one. He began with a course in Anjuman Islam College, to work for a host of Urdu newspapers, learn further from renowned Ustads, teach in Maharashtra College and work for ten years in Saudi Arabia. His feathers include three Quran Sharifs and an array of poetry. A knee problem has disabled him from transcribing on the floor in the traditional way, and after a year's practice, he's gotten used to a chair and table.
Husain sits on the floor. He claims, "It takes three years for a calligrapher to just learn 'how to sit'." The only family he had in the field was a distant cousin, who taught him after he expressed his interest. Then came a variety of Urdu newspapers and magazines, before branching out on his own.
The tools of these artists comprise calligraphic nibs or a piece of bamboo, both cut to shape. Inks range from Camel to water colour paint to the German Rotring. Arabic styles consist of Sulus, Naskh (further divided into the Indian, Egyptian and Arabic Naskh), Kufi, Riq'a and Diwani. Urdu is penned only in Nastaliq. In Arabic, while Naskh is the most popular and used for scribing religious texts, Sulus is every calligrapher's favourite. "With Sulus, one has the liberty of giving 'shape to the beauty'," Shaikh says, displaying a leaf of his work. A religious phrase is written so it shapes into a religious structure. The beginning of the phrase is a minaret, the name of the prophet is emphasized in the dome, and the rest of the phrase forms it's base. Even, for plain writing, Sulus allows the calligrapher far more scope for improvisation.
The future of this art is symbolized in an old lithographic machine lying junked in Husain's room. When the Urdu papers did not possess computerized font, such machines was used daily to convert the calligrapher's work into print. Today these calligraphers, the survivors, continue to get work which cannot be done on the computer. But for such work only an experienced hand is required, and so while they manage, youngsters in the field, bereft of the livelihood once provided by the newspapers have shifted professions. Yet both calligraphers point out, that no breakthrough in any art can occur on the computer, which means that their generation's passing will impose a stagnancy on Indian calligraphic innovation, Urdu and Arabic. But patronage, akin to that provided by governments in the Middle East, and Hindu and Jain foundations here for Sanskrit calligraphy remains absent. Even the meagre Rs 5000 cash prizes once handed by the Urdu Academy has been revoked. Already, in the distinct style which marks Shaikh finishing another tower in Sulus, one sees another Babel, unfinished.
COOPERATING WITH CIRCUMSTANCES
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
COOPERATIVE INC.
This unassuming women's cooperative supplies 70 odd food items in it's ten canteens, garnering a turnover of well over one and a half crores, finds RIshi Majumder
"My husband was off work because of an illness. In addition my daughter had an accident. I earned money for her treatment, and more…," remembers Vaishali Chinchankar, as she carries a Tokdi of Chewda into the kitchen. "I came here when my husband passed away. Now I'm funding my son's B. Comb," beams Manisha Manohar Shinde, cutting onions and chillies at expert pace, minus a single tear. "Why do I want to be here? Well, this is the closest I've gotten to home," comes from old white-haired Sushila Vasant Chauhan, frying a Puran Poli. And that's it, really. Money's what makes the 120 odd women working at one of the ten Kutumbsakhi Co-operative branches gather. But what makes them stay for over 20 years (which each of the women quoted above have!) is the fact that this is their turf. "Each 'worker' has from one to ten shares in the co-operative," emphasises Cooperative Chairman Vandana Navalkar. These denizens of the urban lower middle class were too uneducated for an office job and too respectable to be cooks or maids. "Here they form an organisation of equals," Navalkar wraps up. Appropriate. For Kutumbsakhi means 'Family Friend'.
The Co-operative was started after a survey taken by a Sociology professor among 500 families, prompting her to recognise the need for self-employment. "But it's grown from 4 workers with a Rs 3,000 turnover supplying Roti Bhaji to 120 workers with a turnover of rupees one crore and eighty five lakhs supplying over 70 items," smiles Navalkar as she checks the Besan Ka Laddoos piled up in her Charni Road Headquarters Office at S K Patil Garden. It's branches extending from Nariman Point to Dadar, the Cooperative prides itself on being canteens, rather than mere Dabbawaalis: "For snacks as well as other meals most of our clients come to us to eat. The only publicity we have is Mouth Publicity." Umm, that's word of mouth publicity for the uninitiated. And what of the clients of this Best Women's Industrial Organisation Award winner? "Working couples, the older generation who want authentic foodstuffs no-longer made, school and college students on the look-out for good cheap food, regular office staff…" Navalkar begins to list, adding that clientele depends on the area… but spans every middle-class prototype.
The reason for this cooperative's swift yet steady growth has been the topic for an award winning college project as well as a thesis written by a Frenchwoman. "We give good Khaana and smiling service Na…" dismisses Chinchankar when questioned. "We're women so we know secret recipes to every festival," jokes Navalkar. Then getting serious she says, "It's because of the cooperative share system… with the direct dividends they get from the profits, there's never been a strike. Also look at the various dishes they've come up with!" Then abruptly, she rolls out her list of anti government grudges simultaneously with her menu-card. "The government doesn't give us space, or we could have made so much more," she grumbles doling out Sakhi Chiwda. A Rawa Laddoo comes next with a "They shut down school canteens because one in Kerala caught fire. Does that mean school kids have stopped feeling hungry?" Before offering the Wadas, she points to the paper plate and plastic spoon it's served with: "And now they want to charge a VAT for this! I never thought of a plastic spoon as 'Service'. But if the Government charges us for it, we'll have to pass it on." And the good'll continue to come with the bad, we hope...
COOPERATIVE INC.
This unassuming women's cooperative supplies 70 odd food items in it's ten canteens, garnering a turnover of well over one and a half crores, finds RIshi Majumder
"My husband was off work because of an illness. In addition my daughter had an accident. I earned money for her treatment, and more…," remembers Vaishali Chinchankar, as she carries a Tokdi of Chewda into the kitchen. "I came here when my husband passed away. Now I'm funding my son's B. Comb," beams Manisha Manohar Shinde, cutting onions and chillies at expert pace, minus a single tear. "Why do I want to be here? Well, this is the closest I've gotten to home," comes from old white-haired Sushila Vasant Chauhan, frying a Puran Poli. And that's it, really. Money's what makes the 120 odd women working at one of the ten Kutumbsakhi Co-operative branches gather. But what makes them stay for over 20 years (which each of the women quoted above have!) is the fact that this is their turf. "Each 'worker' has from one to ten shares in the co-operative," emphasises Cooperative Chairman Vandana Navalkar. These denizens of the urban lower middle class were too uneducated for an office job and too respectable to be cooks or maids. "Here they form an organisation of equals," Navalkar wraps up. Appropriate. For Kutumbsakhi means 'Family Friend'.
The Co-operative was started after a survey taken by a Sociology professor among 500 families, prompting her to recognise the need for self-employment. "But it's grown from 4 workers with a Rs 3,000 turnover supplying Roti Bhaji to 120 workers with a turnover of rupees one crore and eighty five lakhs supplying over 70 items," smiles Navalkar as she checks the Besan Ka Laddoos piled up in her Charni Road Headquarters Office at S K Patil Garden. It's branches extending from Nariman Point to Dadar, the Cooperative prides itself on being canteens, rather than mere Dabbawaalis: "For snacks as well as other meals most of our clients come to us to eat. The only publicity we have is Mouth Publicity." Umm, that's word of mouth publicity for the uninitiated. And what of the clients of this Best Women's Industrial Organisation Award winner? "Working couples, the older generation who want authentic foodstuffs no-longer made, school and college students on the look-out for good cheap food, regular office staff…" Navalkar begins to list, adding that clientele depends on the area… but spans every middle-class prototype.
The reason for this cooperative's swift yet steady growth has been the topic for an award winning college project as well as a thesis written by a Frenchwoman. "We give good Khaana and smiling service Na…" dismisses Chinchankar when questioned. "We're women so we know secret recipes to every festival," jokes Navalkar. Then getting serious she says, "It's because of the cooperative share system… with the direct dividends they get from the profits, there's never been a strike. Also look at the various dishes they've come up with!" Then abruptly, she rolls out her list of anti government grudges simultaneously with her menu-card. "The government doesn't give us space, or we could have made so much more," she grumbles doling out Sakhi Chiwda. A Rawa Laddoo comes next with a "They shut down school canteens because one in Kerala caught fire. Does that mean school kids have stopped feeling hungry?" Before offering the Wadas, she points to the paper plate and plastic spoon it's served with: "And now they want to charge a VAT for this! I never thought of a plastic spoon as 'Service'. But if the Government charges us for it, we'll have to pass it on." And the good'll continue to come with the bad, we hope...
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