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Gamadia Colony resident Niloufer Lakdawala recalls the customs and professions of a bygone era. Parsiana presents some of her written reminiscences for readers who may recall those days and for those who never experienced them.  

In the old days cooking vessels were made of brass or copper. As the former reacted to foods, copper was preferred. But copper required plating which was done by a kallaiwala who brought with him a small saghri (coal stove), hand held bellows, tongs and plating material. Though he would set up his equipment in a secluded corner, he would invariably be harangued by some cantankerous neighbor objecting to the fumes entering his/her house.

The kallaiwala would scour the vessels and then pour the molten plating material over them while holding them with tongs and turning them over the coal fire. Customers had the option of having only the inside plated if they did not want to spend too much. When the kallaiwala had completed his job, the utensils shone like silver.

Mattresses in those days were made of cotton stuffed in a casing of sturdy cloth called ticking. New mattresses came puffed up like bloated balloons and looked two sizes small when placed on the bed. Slowly, as the cotton got compressed, the mattress would flatten out to fit the dimensions of the bed. In time and with use the cotton hardened and became lumpy. This is where the roo pinjaaro came in — an itinerant who carried a strange, long contraption with metal strings on his shoulder. 

He would settle on the landing of the building or in a portico (much to the chagrin of the neighbors), open up the mattress and pluck at the cotton lumps, using the wire on his contraption like a bow-string, making a twanging sound every time it was pulled. The twang, pluck, twang, pluck would go on until the cotton was soft and fluffy, leaving lint flying all over the place… but when completed, the mattress would be as good as new. 

I recall the sight of poor men in tattered clothing pushing hardcarts in the early mornings. These were raakh-bhoosawalas. Raakh is ash. Bhoosa is sawdust. Both were sold in sacks. Their purpose? Washing dishes! Sawdust was cheaper, about two rupees per sack, so it was used more freely. Ash cost about five rupees and had to be used sparingly. Only much later did dish washing powders and liquids come on the market. In fact, servants actually had the nerve to inquire whether you used the "cheap” old-fashioned raakh-bhoosa or had graduated to the modern alternative! 

In those days street lights worked on gas. At sunset the lightwalo, wearing khaki half pants, could be seen running zig-zag along the road holding a long bamboo with a notch at the top end which was used to switch on the lamp when he touched a button at its base.

"Chaaku chhuri!” was the call with which the knife-grinder announced his arrival. He carried an ingenious contraption on his back — a wooden framework with a bicycle wheel and pedals attached. A rubber belt secured an upright grinding stone to the contraption. He would pedal with his feet to turn the wheel while his hands deftly held the blade to the rapidly rotating grinding stone, creating a deafening grating sound with sparks flying everywhere. For as little as two to five rupees, depending on the size of the blade, one got razor sharp edges to kitchen knives, scissors, pen knives, etc.

The paaniwalo or water carrier would convey water in a large leather pouch, resembling an elongated hot water bottle, slung over his shoulder. The  water came from private wells or public water fountains and was sold to customers. Not all homes had taps and/or drinking water.

The barafwalo (iceman) sat on the cart while the bullock trundled down the road. The cart carried a huge rectangular block of ice on a layer of sawdust, covered by a wet gunny sack. With a sharp ice pick, he would break off chunks of ice and deliver them to shops and eateries which had their own ice-boxes to cool aerated water bottles. Refrigerators were too expensive and not commonly used. At home too, if one craved cold water or sherbet, one bought a chunk of ice for a rupee or two. 

The telwala would bring cooking oil to the house straight from the ghaani (oil mill). He carried two tall rectangular boxes, one with a cheaper variety of oil and the other with refined oil. Using a funnel he would transfer whichever variety one wanted into a bottle. No brand, no MUFA/PUFA (mono or polyunsaturated fatty acid) or cholesterol free tags — just plain cooking oil. 

The doodhwala also came to the doorstep in the pre-dawn hours with his can of milk. He would pour out as much as one wanted, using a long handled measuring scoop. Shrewd housewives were onto his tricks. Don’t bring very hot milk. Don’t pour it from a height. Both actions would mean getting less milk! Later on the cans came with taps, which was less messy. This was soon replaced by glass bottles and plastic pouches. 

 

The chokhawalis, Kathiawadi women, dealt in rice with a kind of barter system. In those days grains, sugar, kerosene were rationed and available in public distribution centers only. The quality of rice was often sub-standard. The Kathiawadi women would bring clean, polished, superior rice to exchange for the ration shop rice. Usually one measure of good rice exchanged for two of the inferior variety. The women would use brass tumblers to measure the rice. If the tumbler was, say, eight inches tall, the base would be at the five-inch mark. So it would be a five-inch tumbler when filled from one side and a three-inch tumbler if filled from the opposite side! With deft fingerwork and sweet talk they would con one into believing they were using the larger section and walk away with several kilos of your rice, leaving you with just a handful of white rice. 

Come morning, the first shout one heard was from the mithawalo — a man who pushed a handcart with two to three gunny sacks of regular sea salt on it, perhaps straight from the salt pans. Not finely powdered table salt; not iodized; not vacuum packed… just no-nonsense salt! It needed to be cleaned because its production, storage and transport were far from hygienic.

The compounder, the right-hand-man of almost all general practitioners, would be ensconced in a little alcove of the doctor’s clinic, surrounded by rows and rows of bottles and vials with colorful liquids, powders and tablets. Patients handed over the doctor’s prescription to the compounder. Only he could decipher the illegible scrawl. In a calibrated glass measure the compounder would prepare a concoction. A bit of this, a dash of that, a pinch of something else, and voila your medicine was ready! He would pour it into your bottle — yes yours; you brought it back empty for a refill or kept it at home till you next fell ill. Re-use and re-cycle were not even words in those days! 

Another vanished profession is that of the tankiwali. Masalas were ground on flat stone slabs using a cylindrical stone. The surface of both had to be chiseled to improve their efficacy. With use, the grooves on the surface would wear out, making the grinding process ineffective. The tankiwali, using a   chisel and hammer, would make fresh indents wielding heavy, rhythmic blows. These women wore nine-yard saris, but no blouse, covering their upper bodies with the sari pallav.

The amaaswalis and gharanwalis as a tribe are not yet extinct thanks to superstitious people who consider an eclipse (gharan) or a no-moon night (amaas) as inauspicious and harbingers of bad luck. Because of the traditional belief that one had to do charity for the amaas or gharan to abate, a band of beggars would shout "Dé daan, chhuté gharan (give alms to end the eclipse).”  Often this cry could be heard even before the eclipse had begun!

The pavement Picasso was a poor beggar, often crippled, sitting hunched up at a random spot, with his work of roadside art. He would use a piece of coal and some colored chalk to create life-like images of gods on the road or pavement and sit beside it all day long. Passers-by would drop a coin or two on the drawing. The tiny coins of one, two, three, five, 10 paise (yes, they existed!) were neither in reverence to a deity nor in appreciation of the man’s art. They were alms for the indigent man who perhaps made a rupee or two by the end of the day. 

The dhobi too is a dying breed. He took your clothes to the dhobi-ghat (an open public laundry) once a week. The clothes came back washed, ironed, folded and even starched if you wished. He charged a fraction of what a laundry would. You counted the number of items given and maintained a record in a dhobi book. The dhobi’s charge could be a flat rate per piece or staggered rates according to the size of the item. With washing machines in almost all homes, dhobis have become a vanishing breed.

The seekhbotiwala would set up his quaint barbecue come evening, light the embers and stoke the flames with a hand fan. Marble sized pieces of pre-marinated mutton and offal were impaled on long iron skewers and sizzled on the barbecue in front of drooling customers. Sheets of newspapers lined with dry leaves served as plates. He would deftly transfer the chunks of meat onto the "plate,” toss in a handful of thinly sliced onion, a dollop of chutney and a generous squeeze of lime plus a few sprigs of mint as bonus. His assortment of botis (nuggets) included mutton, mince kebabs and offal like kaléji (liver) and the more rubbery khiri (goat udders). He is no longer to be found on streets corners, but if you want to taste/smell heaven, head towards Mohammed Ali Road during the month of Ramzan. 

A month before Parsi New Year, a man would come carrying a steel trunk on his head. What did he bring? Greeting cards. What a range! A simple postcard with pretty pictures (flowers, scenery, bonny babies), the flip side with space for writing a message in addition to the address and affixing the postage stamp. The slightly more expensive cards were for closer relatives. The very fancy ones were earmarked for special people like the boss or motté ghérna (aristocratic or wealthy) people. The postcard cost 10 paisa; the priciest ones were for Rs 1.25. The man would wait patiently for you to choose. Then he would rearrange the mess you had created and cart it away yelling: "Fancy postcard! Papeti na postcard! Nava varas na postcard! Jaat jaat na chitra (all kinds of colorful, fancy postcards for New Year). Karani na postcard (Karani was the Poona-based pioneer of Parsi greeting cards)!”