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I grew up in Churchgate, opposite the Oval Maidan. We lived on the ground floor of Greenfield, a building which still stands in all its art deco glory. In the evenings children from all the buildings would play on the footpath, much to the annoyance of pedestrians hurrying to Churchgate station to catch the "fast” local trains. Many children played in the Maidan opposite. My cousin and I spent many afternoons on our ground floor agaasi (balcony), counting Chevrolet Impala cars, competing to see who could spot the most Impalas. Bombay was awash with huge American classic cars which moved serenely like boats sailing on a calm sea, thanks to their long chassis and excellent suspension. My uncle owned a Chrysler and he would lose his cool if anyone banged the door shut. It had to be closed gently with a soft, luxurious click. 

We had an eclectic mix of neighbors, overwhelmingly Parsi, but not limited to them. As an eight-year-old, I remember losing my fledgling heart to a pretty little Jewish girl living in the next building, little knowing that it was soon to be broken when her family migrated to the newly formed state of Israel.

Eros cinema being conveniently close to home, I saw all the action movies of those days, lapping up Vikings, Biblical and historic heroes and the odd Eddie Murphy western. The grown-ups preferred the romantic stuff. I once accompanied Dad to New Empire to pick up the ladies who had gone to watch some romantic mush. The movie was ending and Dad peeped through the door to see how much was left. It was the final kissing scene and when he saw me all goggle-eyed he quickly covered my eyes and shut the door.  

  bullockcart ride to Gorai beach (above)

When the family elders sailed to Hong Kong by P&O Lines, my Dad brought back battery operated toys for me — a PanAm airliner, a Sputnik flying saucer, a wired remote control red Cadillac and a lady steno banging away at her typewriter. They were a novelty then and my Dad played with them more than I did. We drove in his Studebaker to the Gateway of India with our battery operated airliner and ran it up and down inside the Gateway’s arch. Such outings sometimes ended with an unexpected treat of fish and chips at the nearby Time and Talents Club run Victory Stall. There were no crowds thronging the Gateway back then. Nor were there many ferry boats to Uran. 

Many were the good times spent at the Parsi Gymkhana on Marine Drive in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Dad would play billiards or cards. He would hire a bicycle for me so I could cycle around the grounds to my heart’s content.

Pre-school was at Casa Montessori, on the ground floor of a building at Marine Drive, facing the sea. I have vague memories of a well-equipped playschool with bright, airy classrooms and friendly, kind, patient teachers. From there I went on to Hill Grange High School run by Kitty Kelly on Peddar Road. Not for nothing did it have the reputation of being a rowdy school! We had a classic jalopy for a school bus, with a mind of its own. It broke down regularly at Marine Drive on the return journey and we were compelled to spend a lot of time restlessly cooped up inside while the driver cajoled the temperamental old bat to start.

On the bus I teamed up with a Parsi classmate, Cyrus, a plump, fair cherub with a mischievous glint in his eyes who lived on Princess Street. I must have been the naughtier of the two because the bus driver insisted I sit next to the gear box so that he could keep a hawk’s eye on me. At my destination he would recite a long litany of complaints to my aunt who would be waiting patiently for my arrival. As soon as we entered the house I would be at my acrobatic best to avoid the sapaats (slippers) flying menacingly in my direction. At the end of the academic year I was forgiven all childish pranks because I always managed to rank within the top 10 in the class. Our elders must have had very little faith in our scholastic abilities. Every year in junior school I recall being taken to Aslaji Agiary to pagé paro, divo jalao, sukhad charavo (genuflect, light an oil lamp and offer sandalwood) and  pray  for success in the exams.

I keep referring to my family members as "elders,” but they were probably in their late 30s or early 40s. Had they been alive today they would not have taken too kindly to being tagged as "elders.”  

Trams were phased out around 1964-65 but I have fond memories of an uncle from Dadar visiting us on Sunday mornings who would take me for a joyride from Fort to Colaba and back, rounding off with my favorite K. Rustom chocolate ice cream sandwich.

Food at home was a veritable treat of Parsi cuisine thanks to my paternal grandma Serbanu’s recipes and her stern, watchful eyes on our crotchety old Goan maista (cook) and house boy, Dominique who toiled over piped-gas burners. From my Dad I acquired the habit of combining leftover dinner items with eggs for breakfast the following morning, fried eggs and masoor ma gos being a hot favorite. Grandma’s akuri always had top billing. 

  German Shepherd Baron; above: with parents

One looked forward to invitations to weddings and navjotes at Allbless Baug or Saher Agiary or the Colaba Agiary for lagan nu bhonu with Goody Seervai’s or Nelly’s bands entertaining us. Towards the end of the 1970s I had the good fortune of befriending Goody’s nephew Mehernosh Seervai, also an accomplished accordion player. We remain in touch. He is settled in Sydney, Australia and shares his beautiful keyboard covers regularly.

We enjoyed Adi Marzban’s nataks on Jamshedi Navroz and Navroz. In August it would invariably rain just as we were about to leave for the theater. In the mid-1970s I got to play bit parts in a couple of Marzban’s Gujarati nataks. We would meet at his place on Altamont Road for rehearsals in the late evenings. The atmosphere there was always fun and relaxed. The lead actors were Hosi Vasunia and the Mody couple, Sheherezade and Rohinton.   

The English theater scene was vibrant with Marzban focusing on rib tickling risque comedy and Alyque Padamsee on classic musicals. I specially recall two of Marzban’s comedies, Ah! Norman and No Sex Please, We Are British. 

At Christmas, a large, well decorated tree would enjoy pride of place in the drawing room or "hall” as Parsis were wont to call it. We kids would be marshalled into putting up a skit for the grown-ups based on a script prepared by the elders, outrageously koilu (farcical). On Christmas Eve, dinner would be at Gaylord, rounded off with chocolate ice cream sandwich at K. Rustom. The Baked Alaska at Gaylord couldn’t hold a candle to the ice cream.

We looked forward to the annual pre-Christmas visit to the cavernous Akbarally’s at Fort with Father Christmas regally ensconced inside, periodically chanting "Ho! Ho! Ho!” The entire shop would be a wonderland of toys and games. 

Churchgate would be decorated and lit up like a fairyland. The best show window would be the BOAC office decorated with faux snow, Father Christmas and his sleigh, a Christmas tree and snowman. At the neighborhood store Asiatic we would make a beeline for the toys section and come out grinning or grumpy depending on how successfully we had cajoled Mom to open her handbag. Around New Year the adults would hire an open truck, stock it with food and spirits and tour the city through the night to see all the illuminated buildings and monuments.

In 1961 my fui and fua (paternal aunt and husband), Khorshed and Minoo Sidhwa shifted from Backbay Reclamation to Altamont Road. On some weekends the family, with all the youngsters, drove to their large penthouse flat. The nearby Swabal Stores was an institution, a veritable genie that could conjure up anything that the lady of the house needed. Down Hughes Road, opposite Khareghat Colony, the Sir Ratan Tata Industrial Home or RTI was another hot favorite with its dar ni poris, patrel and yummy chocolate fish. In the 1970s Touché (the forerunner to Kobe) opened at Breach Candy. They had great sizzlers but my favorite was always their prawn cocktail. 

It took exactly one year, from 1964 to ’65, to construct India’s first flyover at Kemps Corner. Every time we visited Altamont Road we would watch it coming up. We couldn’t wait for it to be completed so that we could drive over it. And what a novelty it was! 

Apart from fine dining with live music, Gaylord also had a very nice tea time jazz hour. My parents would often take me along, so from a very young age I was exposed to some of the best foreign, Goan and Parsi jazz musicians. My lifelong love for jazz can be credited to my Dad and Gaylord. At home we had a piano and a Grundig radiogram. So, I was constantly exposed to retro pop, rock and roll and jazz. 

Colaba was synonymous with Sea Lounge and Rendezvous at the Taj Mahal Hotel and the restaurant at Fariyas Hotel opposite Strand cinema. Rendezvous was on the ground floor of the old Taj. The soulless new tower was yet to be built.  Ringing in the New Year with all aunts, uncles and cousins at Rendezvous was de rigueur. The standard of service and the opulence left a lasting mark on me for all the good things of life.

At Sea Lounge we could never get a window table overlooking the sea. These were always occupied. But one was quickly soothed by the soft tinkling of piano notes wafting in from one corner of the room. 

Another place I loved for its hip, casual vibe was the soda fountain on the ground floor of Regal Cinema. Regal screened Hollywood’s best. Excelsior had an old-world ambience, its original façade being like that of a mini opera house with a garden in front with a bar and garden umbrellas. Opposite was the Irani run Excelsior Café which made the best chicken rolls, generously layered with in-house mayo, shredded chicken and a lettuce leaf. The Tatas had not yet created Sterling theater. The other cinemas close by were New Empire and Capitol. 

I have happy memories of my two years of postgraduate studies at Bombay University’s Kalina Campus. The return trip from Kalina in the afternoon was fun. A bus ride in the BEST’s University special took us to Santacruz station. We would alight at Charni Road station and cross the road to Daryush Irani’s restaurant for a beer at two bucks a bottle. The brand, Bombay Beer, was ridiculously cheap. We students were convinced it was specially bottled to suit our lean wallets, even though it was a once a week indiscretion. On weekends we enjoyed picnics at Gorai beach, traveling by train, autorickshaw, ferry and bullock cart to reach the unspoilt golden sands, coconut groves and clear sea.

Colaba had some charming cafes like Leopold and Cafe Mondegar. Across the road was Horseshoe. Paradise restaurant at the other end was a delight for Parsi fare.

After university I interned for six months in the foreign exchange department of the financial services company, Lewis and Jones, at Horniman Circle under Karl and Kookie Kheshvala, both very professional with a heart. Another classmate, Jehangir Engineer, had joined Tatas at Bombay House as a research economist. We often met for lunch at Irani outlets like Parisienne for sali boti and Perks for dhansak. During this time I was introduced by the Kheshvalas to the most unforgettable Irene Maoji. She ran a small lending library on Napean Sea Road which became a regular hangout for many young professionals. The quintessential tomboy, she rode a heavy British motorbike, probably a five horsepower BSA or Triumph. She always wore jeans, men’s shirts hanging out, sleeves rolled up high and sneakers. One evening we saw her with a cast on her right wrist. We learnt that while she stopped on her bike at the traffic lights on Peddar Road a man in a car passed a lewd remark. She got off her bike, pulled the offender out of his car and socked him hard in the face, in the process fracturing her wrist. She recounted the entire incident, including the lewd remark, in her inimitable, colorful Gujarati, generously peppered with expletives… and was instantly elevated to legendary status.

In 1976 I moved to Bennet Coleman and Company, in sales and marketing. My immediate superior was Ronnie Mistry. The Times Group had stalwarts like Behram Contractor (Busybee) writing for the Evening News of India, Vimla Patil heading Femina and the inimitable Khushwant Singh with the Illustrated Weekly of India. This was the time when the Grand Old Lady of Bori Bunder was under government management. On weekends, after work, while going up Altamont Road I would stop at the Friendly Ice Cream kiosk for a rum and raisin cone. 

By the time the 1970s came to an end, the skyline and demographics of Bombay were changing inexorably. The Bombay we had known was disappearing and the rate of change was increasing with every passing year. Good or bad I cannot say, but it does provide me with immense joy to recollect and savor the old days. I miss that Bombay acutely.