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In 1940, I was witness to the worst cyclone Davier had experienced in living memory. Being only four years old then, I don’t recall what month it was, but a few images are sharply etched in my mind. The rest of my memories of this day are from stories we heard, for years afterwards. Most of the trees in the wadi (orchard) that Dad had grown up with and nurtured were leveled. Mum did not realize what was to come when she first saw the palm trees in front of our house swaying from side to side before dropping like ninepins. Day was like night and the winds grew so strong that windows would not remain closed until they were battened down. The tin roof on the dhobi’s house blew away and landed on a bungalow about a mile away.
That was the day when Roshan was to return to Davier with Gulki for a short vacation. Soli Mama, he of the white beard, twinkling eyes and pink cheeks, who reminded us of Santa Claus, dropped them off at Bombay Central Station. There was no weather forecast warning so even though they passed a fallen tree they had no idea of what was to come. Roshan said that it soon got dark and very windy as the train rolled ahead at a snail’s pace, stopping for the tracks to be cleared of fallen trees. When she shivered from the cold, Gulki removed the petticoat from under her sari to cover Roshan with, and requested food from a fellow passenger for the six-year-old child. A journey that usually took four hours took a whole day, and Roshan wondered why a night was part of the trip. Mercifully, the engine driver Rustomji Tavadia (who became quite well known) completed the journey without any mishaps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 From that day on, Mum never let anyone go on a journey without food and water. The meals included cutlets, omelets, rotlis, roast chicken and French fries. From stations along the way we bought boiled peanuts, masala chana dal and fruits, all just for the four-hour journey between Davier and Bombay!
The destruction wreaked by the cyclone was too much for Dad, so much so that he could not bear to set foot in the wadi for a few days; but Mum urged him to have the place cleared and to plant more trees, which he did. For the rest of his life he had the pleasure of seeing countless people enjoying the fruits of his land.
The rear gate of our property opened onto the main road near the village bazar which had a few shops and a Hanuman Mandir. In the evenings, some women sat by the side of the road selling vegetables or fish. Men would go to the toddy shop or liquor bar to drink away their earnings, while women would buy something for their family’s dinner. Our flour mill just inside this rear gate was the only one in the village at the time, but made no profit because Dad trusted the two men who worked it ("Oh they won’t cheat us”). Sometimes the income did not even cover the expense of running it. The mill’s diesel engine did other work too, such as husking and polishing paddy, pumping water from the well and charging batteries.
Mum and Dad wanted the house, or at least the main rooms inside it, to be lit by electricity and had the wiring and bulbs installed. With no electricity coming into the village, we had to generate our own. For that, two large batteries had to be lugged between the mill and the house. But the illumination from those was no better than that from the old hurricane lamps. So the project was scrapped and we went back to the petromax and hurricane lamps such as were seen in old movies and read about in Enid Blyton books.
The block of three toilets a few yards behind the main house was rebuilt in the ’50s with the addition of a connecting covered passage, The old structure was in bad shape and unsafe at night with stray dogs and jackals prowling around in search of prey. One day, when Dad had gone to Bombay, Mum summoned the masons to begin work immediately on a new toilet block. It was an amaavas (no moon) night and the men were reluctant to begin a new project on that day. Mum didn’t believe in such superstitions. She especially liked to travel by train on such days because there was less of a rush. The basic work was done before Dad returned. It was not that he disapproved, but he had kept putting it off. The corridor was added subsequently, for safety.
The bricks used to build the toilets may have been our own because there was a kiln in the wadi towards the fields, from where the clay came. Rice husk was added to the clay. The process is fairly vivid in my mind. I think day laborers were hired to make the bricks. I did not know that there was another kiln for making lime until Roomi told me that it was a circular pit filled with layers of limestone and huge tree trunks, leaving a chimney in the middle where a fire was lit. The slow process made lime as good or even better and stronger than cement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The front portion of our house was built in the time of the Peshwas (1674-1818), with walls so strong that even masonry nails would not go in. I guess that is why there were beautifully turned wooden pegs at regular intervals in the wall, from which we could hang things. Unfortunately, some of them had to be cut off because they protruded too far, behind cupboards. In the days before cement, the mortar was made with lime, sand, pebbles, broken limestone, egg whites, jaggery, toddy and who knows what else! To finish, there was a two-inch layer of lime. This helped make the structure waterproof as well. I cannot remember any wet patches on the walls.
The walls of the main room upstairs had stenciled black and white borders just below the ceiling. The black was made with the carbon derived from burning coconut shells. The upstairs balcony, open to the skies, which was large enough for half a dozen of us to sleep in, was the strongest structure, with broken bricks used in the mortar mixture. When we abandoned the house, the workers contracted to demolish it were unable to break that portion, so they left it hanging. The wooden beams were made of saadra, a wood as sturdy as teak, until moisture gets to it. I have kept a part of that house... two small windows with ogee design in wood which were between the main upstairs room and the adjoining one, through which the ladies in olden times could watch the activities and performances in the main room (where only men could sit) without being seen.
The rear portion of the house was added by my great-grandfather Burjorji, a self-taught civil engineer, who, we are told, had some part to play in the building of Victoria Terminus and Crawford Market. My Fuiji proudly proclaimed that he built the two structures, but that would be stretching it too far! Another story about him, which is now family legend, has it that he built a railway bridge for the British Raj but, when they did not pay him, he blew it up. We have no written verification for this, but what we do know was told to us by Dad and Fuiji.
Shirin Fuiji was a character. Being the eldest, she looked after her younger siblings, especially Dad who was the youngest and aged only six when their mother died. Fuiji married Jehangirji Marfatia of Surat who, being the only heir in his extended family, inherited considerable property and wealth. Aside from that, we know nothing about him except that he played the dilruba, a bowed string instrument which Fuiji claimed could be heard from 10 buildings away. There was one story we enjoyed and which we made Fuiji narrate countless times. For her wedding trousseau Fuiji was given 100 sets of clothing by her in-laws, some of which she decided to send to her less fortunate sister in Davier. When her mother-in-law reproached her for this, Fuiji dramatically described how she pushed the old lady into a corner and threatened to hold her there if she said another word: "Bolso ké! bolso ké!” all narrated with dramatic actions.
When she was widowed, Fuiji, who had no children of her own, moved in next door to her bedridden sister and took care of her until the end, and eventually adopted her sister’s daughter Mehroo. She always sat ramrod straight, even in her old age, the result of having no soft, rounded sofas in those days. She had very low tolerance for the noise we made while playing and Mum would plead with us to be quiet so that we did not have to deal with Fuiji’s scoldings.
At Diwali, little children from the village came at night in groups, holding candles or diyas and held out bags to receive handfuls of rice from each house they went to, singing "Ghana dhor ghana vachhardaa, Diwali na mérya, jé nahin aapé ténéy tyaa sérdi na périyaa.” Loosely translated, it means we wish you prosperity with cattle and their young and, to the misers, dry sugarcane. When the rice set aside for them ran out, we gave them coins which also made them very happy. Fuaji next door would have none of the festivities and shut himself into his house, not wanting to give the kids anything, which made them sing even louder as they went by his window. He had become quiet and reclusive after losing his son who died just after completing the final exams of medical college.
The large open space in front of our house was almost like a public square, and it was here that the villagers gathered to watch government sponsored documentaries made especially for rural populations. The whole village would assemble to watch the film on a three by four foot screen and to gape at the marvels of the modern world. During one scene in which a jeep was coming towards them, the entire audience curled up, expecting to be run over. The villagers had never seen a gun or known what it was until a cinema, owned by a Parsi gentleman, opened in Umbergaon. It was here, in 1950, that my future husband Jal and I first held hands in the darkness and silently declared our love; a love that remains as strong and true as ever.
                                  

To be continued