22 October,2023 07:52 AM IST | Mumbai | Meher Marfatia
Keshava Acharya (left), supervisor at New Vasantashram near Crawford Market, with manager Jagannath Shetty, ready to receive guests in the reception area
I found the exercise irresistible, spurred by a recent revelation. Only last week did I discover that my husband shares his October 15 birthday with PG Wodehouse. A huge fan of the writer I vote the best humorist on the planet, I decided today's theme should simply be one-liners from conversations that have left us in splits during interviews for this city column.
From midtown Clare Road come a couple of lines worth re-reading. Which knitter could resist the sweeping assurance of the tag line: "Wendy's - no better wool till there are better sheep". Piled skeins of that popular British brand would readily fly off the shelves of filmmaker Rafeeq Ellias' grandfather's Amir Store. Mohammed Joosab Ellias opened the haberdashery around 1945, naming the shop after his son.
On the same bustling East Byculla street, funeral director John Pinto said: "Everyone deserves a good send-off." His embalming company ensures this. Pinto is the world's only undertaker to be appointed MBE, Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire-for repatriating 26/11 terror victims to their
home countries.
Also read: Now, Mumbai's strays have a cemetry to call their own
Frank Binks and Edward Jones preceded John Pinto's services on the street. The flashy Jones hearse wryly pitched: "Have your last ride in a Rolls Royce." Local kids would slyly query, "How's business, Mr Jones?" Just for the naughty satisfaction of hearing his standard moan of a classic reply: "Very bad-no bastards are dying."
In the column titled Lodged between a hotel and a hostel, I wrote about South Kanara hospitality coming to Bombay a century ago. That set of interviews sprang one of the drollest phrases: "Duplicate. Duplicate. I can tell they're duplicate!" In a voice ripe with self-righteous indignation, that was Keshava Acharya, belonging to a vanishing breed of loyalist major-domos. He still works at the New Vasantashram boarding and lodging house, near Crawford Market, where he joined at 22. Wanting to keep the reputation of his employer Sujata Rao's lodge spotless as his white, starched dhoti, Acharya has well over 50 years of experience in fixing a gimlet eye on guests whose relationship status he can ascertain at swift glance - "duplicates" are unmarried couples.
While chatting with several colourful characters for a column on Sleater Road, I learnt about the erstwhile Parsi Mandal. The group encouraged the lane's old ladies to glean delicious gossip amid some superficial chat about civic affairs. An anecdote unforgettably described the adda of Ramu Dada causing late evening traffic jams. As gamblers thronged, hoping to win the satta jackpot, the matka king shouted a nifty ditty in consternation: "Bawa aao, buwa aao, bus naseebwala mat aao (Come one, come all, only the lucky must not come)."
Working on an article tracing Bombay's radio history, I remembered personal encounters with the incorrigible AFS "Bobby" Talyarkhan (better known as AFST). Mine was the privilege of meeting the legendary sports journalist and commentator at the Cricket Club of India over many a Sunday afternoon, for a story for The Illustrated Weekly of India, months before his death in July 1990. His was the gift to regale any listener with amusing repartee, delivered crisp and utterly deadpan. Averse to sharing the mike, he could speak nonstop for six hours, a feat repeated often enough for the editor Frank Moraes to quip: "Bobby's bladder is as strong as his blubber."
An introduction to the eugenics campaigner, Marie Stopes, by AIR boss KB Sethna in the lift of the Taj Hotel proved a tad embarrassing. "What do you broadcast about?" she asked AFST. "Balls," he answered, hurriedly adding, "and bats". Dr Stopes most severely handed him her book on birth control. Shooting back, he observed: "If the dear lady visited the hotel chemist, that hot-gospeller of family planning would see more material aids of an intimate nature than found along the Rue Blanche in the days which were all nights."
In Radio Ceylon's heyday, Daniel Molina, an American in Bombay, set up Radio Advertising Services. Hamid Sayani ran its production wing, with greats like Balgovind Shrivastav and Manmohan Krishna. To improve his Hindustani accent, Hamid's radio host brother, Ameen, attended sessions at the radio technology training studio in St Xavier's College. One day an announcer for the Ovaltine Phulwari programme, which showcased promising singers, failed to show up. Spotting young Ameen hang around, Shrivastav asked him to read three Hindi commercials. "I punched them with the volume of Mark Antony's speech," Sayani recalled. "Chillaana kyon? Yeh radio programme hain, kushti ka akhaada nahi," he was admonished and duly quietened.
Though quaint Udupi and Irani bakery instructions have since long been an intrinsic part of urban lore, some originals continue to leave us grinning. Like the frame above the takeaway rack of Anand Bhavan in Ram Niwas, Haridas Nayak's 1946-introduced eatery at Wadala Circle. Rowed with masalas and pickles, this conclusively states: "Customer is the King and a King Never Bargains."
In the same building, another homespun truism declares: "Money can't buy happiness, but you can buy pao and that's kind of the same thing." Beneath this wall scrawl, Hushang Mazdayasna attends to regulars streaming in. He is among the third generation running New Roshan Bakery, established in 1934, on a soap factory site.
Some not necessarily laugh-out-loud lines have a simple sweetness of their own. Between Bandra's bougainvillea-brushed lanes, through narrow paths trundled the green van of Maurice Concessio's band, Rock Sensation. Across its sides, sprinkled with black-painted musical notes, blazed the tagline: "Music grows where Maurice goes". I loved that thought and tone, each time I came upon this Matador wending its way around our home acres. Chic Chocolate and Ken Mac's trombone player of the 1940s, Concessio formed his 16-member brass troupe in 1964 and went on to widely entertain very appreciative audiences, including guests at the Oberoi Sheraton when the Supper Club opened there in 1973.
The screen industry has always sprung catchphrases of easy charm, alliteration and rhyme. Exhibiting MGM movies for the first time in the city, Metro opened in June 1938 with the screening of the film, Broadway Melody. The cinema, designed by American architect Thomas W Lamb, was completed in tandem with the Bombay firm of Ditchburn, Mistri and Bhedwar. Its grand inauguration was greeted by protests from Parsi distributors, who then more or less monopolised the theatre trade. Soon, however, given its leaning towards all things Western, the community turned staunch Hollywood buffs and stood far ahead in queues to book seats. In matinees priced between 60 paise and R1.60 to more expensive night shows, they thrilled to the MGM lion's roar. Airconditioned Metro's publicity line was: "Every seat a cool retreat".
The Regal, whose plush auditorium curtain rose five years before Metro, was designed by the Czech artist Karl Schara, with sun ray motifs in pale orange and jade green. The tag line said to have been coined for it was interestingly curious: "Our true intent is all for your Delight".
Quirky anecdotes about the romance of single screen theatres abound. Many ushers used to fling Coca Cola bottle caps at the screen when hit songs appeared, to incite audiences into thinking these were coins to throw likewise. Post-show, the staff divided the tinkling metal cascade. Operating digital projectors means no disruptive break of either film flow or flickering screen. Who can blame the old projectionist who sadly confesses he misses being roundly abused by irate filmgoers: "Ab toh gaali bhi nahi padti, hum gaali khaane ke liye taras rahe hai."
The sunniest meme once greeted me at Khodadad Circle, or Dadar TT (Tram Terminus). A florist settling for the day with baskets of blooms, started to thread torans on the footpath fronting Dayaram Damodar Mithaiwala. He found himself surrounded by a queue of irate housewives from both neighbouring colonies, Hindu and Parsi. Frazzled from his daily morning commute on overcrowded peak-hour trains running late, he tried to beat back the fatigue and smiled valiantly to placate waiting customers. They grew mollified by the mild manner and good-natured smile, as he pointed to the sweaty T-shirt sticking to his chest in the scorching October heat. His little daughter had scrawled in paint words guaranteed to melt the angriest stance: "Haar ke aagey jeet hai, Dadar ke aagey seat hai."
Author-publisher Meher Marfatia writes fortnightly on everything that makes her love Mumbai and adore Bombay. You can reach her at meher.marfatia@mid-day.com/www.meher marfatia.com
