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Cuffe Parade
Cuffe Parade road with its row of old colonial style Rococo bungalows, little towers and turrets jutting out from the stone buildings, mostly one-storied, fringed with little gardens and flowering trees, was delightfully distinctive. For that matter every house in Colaba had a little compound lined with crotons or flower beds. Compound railings were thickly covered with creepers like antigonon, jasmine, Rangoon or Queen of the Night. I remember it well. While passing the houses in the evening on our way to the promenade with friends, we could get whiffs of the fragrant air. All residents took pride in caring for their little gardens.
Crowds gathered on Sundays at Cuffe Parade opposite the old bungalows. It was a broad raised built-up path extending from one end of Foreshore Road right up to opposite the Panday Sanatorium. Nine or 10 big stone steps which ran along the entire length of the raised path took us to the top of the promenade, where a row of benches was laid at intervals facing the sea just a few yards away; actually, it also served as a wall to keep the sea out.
The Cuffe Parade promenade was clean, lined on one side with Royal decorative palm trees. On most evenings a few cars were parked alongside the steps, but on Sundays the entire length of the steps became a motorcade. People came here for their evening constitutional. Truly, it was a parade as friends passed by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At 4.30 p.m. ayahs in white saris or nannies in white uniforms came wheeling perambulators or with toddlers holding on to their hands. Come 6 o’clock and the prams would roll down the special sloping ramps, wending their way home. No cycles were allowed. Then at 6.30 p.m. on week days came the grown-ups — Colaba residents. One knew each and every one, if not personally, then by sight. Certain benches became almost earmarked, like the old men’s club where folding chairs were brought out from the cars to join the large group seated on the bench, or the three women who came with their knitting, or the Jewish family who stayed next door to us. Gossip was exchanged, elderly gentlemen greeting everyone by raising their felt hats and ladies responding with a dignified nod. Very elite, and very pucca Raj (British sovereignty) style. There were many English families of government officials residing in Colaba, enjoying special privileges like spacious bungalows and a retinue of servants.
On Sundays, crowds paraded up and down the length of the promenade, the ladies viewing fashions, teenagers walking with arms around each other’s waists. My school friends and I would meet at a fixed point and stroll, arm-in-arm, from one end to the other. No vacant bench could be found. Many sat on the thick aluminum pipe railings between benches.
The whole place had a festive atmosphere. So different from the overcrowded, noisy, dirty roads we have now. All vestiges of greenery and space are now gone and the place has turned into a fishing village.
On some Sundays and other holidays we would go for full day or evening picnics, as many other families did then. These used to be referred to as long drives. Jam-packed in our car, six of us plus the driver, we would head for places like Ghodbunder, Mahaul, Powai, Trombay, Parsik, Andheri, Vihar and many other destinations where now we see only concrete jungles. Gone are the green fields, rugged hills and cliffs with wild growth under thickly canopied trees. Ghodbunder especially was like a mini hill station. We would park under a shady tree with open ground, spread our mats and tablecloth, open the tiffin basket and take out all the goodies. Vihar Lake too was a picturesque place till it became a public playground. Gone is the charm and elegance of those days.

 

Aromas
On occasions when our cook makes some sweet delicacy for tea or dinner, a delectable aroma fills the house. Memory harks back to our young days when on returning from school, as soon as the front door was opened, a strong whiff of freshly made goodies welcomed us home.
From the appetizing aromas I could tell what we would have for tea. Whether it was coconut lavras, their freshly steamed rice flour covering filled with coconut khaman (sweetened grated coconut) giving off a very earthy scent, or dal-ni-pori flavored with rose water and elaichi (cardamom), or sirog, an Iranian specialty of our Parsi cook Khorshed, which had a piquant yeasty aroma, mixed with haldi (turmeric), jeera and toddy. Tartlets were most tempting with the smell of slightly burnt raspberry jam which John, our resourceful Goan cook could whip up in an hour. And a host of others. Tiny puffed up bhakras or kumas (semolina cake), both my mother’s specialties, fermented with toddy, Masoo’s sandhras (crepes), snowy white, round with little holes all over, spongy in the center and slightly frilled at the edges. Each one had its distinctive aroma, making the home so inviting, to be savored with fun, filled with chatter and laughter. We could hardly wait to sit around the dining table and tuck into our share of the piping hot eats.
On everyone’s birthday, mingled with the scent of jasmine and rose torans, there would be a cake from Cornelia or Taj filling our dining room with the scent of vanilla or chocolate — that particular special scent of these Italian confectioneries.
Sometimes on daddy’s birthday there would be trays of sweet-meats filled with sticky Mulchand Amichand halwa or sootarfenis from Parsi Dairy Farm. These too had a scent of their own as everything was freshly made to order with the purest ingredients, to be distributed amongst close friends and relatives.
In the twilight hour, when the sun set and the lights came on, there was another fragrance which filled every room — the lightly scented smoke of incense and sandalwood. Our man, Sakaram, would be taking the silver urn around the house, sprinkling incense over the embers which then hung as a small diffused cloud of grey smoke. This was a daily ritual in most Parsi homes.
During the mango season the baskets of mangoes gave off a strong tempting smell as they ripened in straw. Oh and a host of other aromas transport me back to the past.
Sights, smells, sounds of nature or otherwise can have a telling effect on the senses; even homely everyday sounds heighten the sense of enjoyment and are long remembered. I find the calls of certain hawkers (though there were very few then) who visited Colaba very haunting.
In the afternoon around 3 p.m. came the musical call of "Guava cheese” with a certain inflection going up and down the scale with the cry of "Guava cheese, chutney, pickle, jam, memsahib.” In the quiet of the afternoon this call was stylish, penetrating and unique.
Then around 5 p.m., while we were getting dressed to go out, a sudden loud volley of words would reach our ears. The Bohri samosawala with his basket raised in one hand would announce: "Bohri samosaman — mutton, chicken, vegetable samosas, all very, very good. Bohri samosa, memsahib.” He would say his piece without a break, stopping at every building.
Next was the inevitable Chinaman on his bicycle, with a cloth bundle tied on his carrier. He came dressed in his round felt hat, greyish or khaki Chinese suit, black socks and white sandals. Families would spend hours bargaining with him as he opened his bundle and displayed his wares on a groundsheet near the entrance. Beautiful embroidered table cloths, napkins, nighties and every sort of linen. It was an era of leisurely life — everything savored and appreciated. Craft and art was valued for beauty and workmanship.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wood yard
Yesterday, as I sat in the car waiting for my husband Sarosh near the rusty gate of Sassoon Dock, a dim light in a shed nearby faintly lit the area. A whiff of damp wood from somewhere brought on a flashback of scenes from the remote past — the Bombay of 50 years ago.
One day, while discussing the next day’s menu with the cook, he mentioned that there was hardly any wood left for the stove. In those days many houses in Bombay used wood or coke in the large "Clubwalla” cooking ranges. A man would come home to deliver a bhara (load) of evenly chopped wood pieces which were stored in a small coal-room in the corner of the huge kitchen. Reddish pink or pale yellow, some with rugged brown bark, they emitted a faint woody scent.
The wood yard was in an isolated area with small old houses that had tiny Indian style overhanging wooden balconies. Through every small window the faint light of diyas (oil lamps) flickered.
Large peepal trees sheltered the piles of wood stacked high, making a thick wall all along the wire fence. I loved the smell of wood and the steady chop-chop sound of the woodcutter’s axe as it hit the logs with a "swish” which resounded in the calm of the evening. A faint crescent moon could be seen though the peepal leaves, shedding a feeble light on the wood yard.