Business is better than usual at the food stalls outside Azad Maidan, as modern-day krantikaris drown their sorrows in chilled Kala Khatta, discussing Anna Hazare's fast between mouthfuls of Ragda Pattice. While feeding nationalistic movements over the years, owners of Azad Maidan's modest eateries chronicle the evolution of our revolutions
Business is better than usual at the food stalls outside Azad Maidan, as modern-day krantikaris drown their sorrows in chilled Kala Khatta, discussing Anna Hazare's fast between mouthfuls of Ragda Pattice. While feeding nationalistic movements over the years, owners of Azad Maidan's modest eateries chronicle the evolution of our revolutions
On the morning of December 28, 1931, the road from Ballard Pier to Mani Bhavan in Gamdevi was flooded with emotional followers celebrating Mahatma Gandhi's return from London. During Gandhi's absence from the country, Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, a committed pacifist, had been arrested for organising the Indian National Congress' civil disobedience campaigns and Jawaharlal Nehru had been arrested for breaching an internment order.
It wasn't the first time the two young freedom fighters, and several thousand others across the country whose names never featured in print, had been jailed. It wouldn't be the last. The phrase Jail Bharo Aandolan may not send a shiver down your spine when you watch chirpy collegians tossing it about like free candy on television, but back then, arrest was not for the faint-hearted. According to records, jailed freedom fighters were fed worm-infested bread and boiled grass. Drinking water was just as putrid, and cells had neither toilets nor lights. Protesting against these deplorable conditions, freedom fighter Jatindra Nath Das fasted unto death at Lahore jail in 1929.
At 5 pm, on that day of his arrival in Mumbai, Gandhi addressed a mass meeting at Azad Maidan to condemn what he described as "the British government's attempt to unman a whole race."
Kala Khatta and Sekonjbin Sharbat at Kalakhatta Cold Drinks House
On these grounds -- originally called Camp Maidan and later re-christened Azad Maidan to commemorate its association with India's freedom struggle -- lion-hearted attendees of the meeting stopped by Akram Khan's grandfather's Kalakhatta Cold Drinks House by the maidan's gate to moisten their parched throats. 
There was no ice available in those days (1940s). My grandfather would
dig a deep pit in the mud, store water in a pot inside it and cover the
pot with grass. It used to work efficiently. Akram Khan, owner,
Kalakhatta Cold Drinks House, CST pics/Sayed Sameer Abedi
"It was a wooden shack back then," says 35 year-old Khan when we meet him on a Monday morning that was reverberating with support for Jan Lokpal Bill activist Anna Hazare. "The No 9 tram used to stop here before," says Khan, standing behind the counter of his modest stall opposite CST station.
It's a description he has heard from his father, Javat. The stall was set up long before freedom was even a distant dream (though an official license hung on a rear wall reads, "since 1948"). "There was no ice available in those days," Khan tells us, and outlining the primitive method by which his ancestors cooled beverages, he says, "They'd dig a deep pit in the mud, store water in a pot inside it and cover the pot with grass. It used to work efficiently."
Anwar Ali, an employee at the stall for 30 years, says he has witnessed countless morchas and rallies in the backyard but none as charged-up as the anti-corruption agitation that's sweeping India. Ali recalls how business had peaked when trade union leader Datta Samant rallied here back in the '80s, demanding higher wages for 2,50,000 textile mill workers. "We'd sell thousands of glasses of sharbat every day," says Ali. Despite the throngs, the crowd never got unruly, he recollects.
Drawing a contrast, Khan adds, "A few years ago, when political groups (he's hesitant to name them) staged rallies and morchas here, their saffron-clad henchmen stopped by, chugged our drinks and then refused to pay. They wrecked our stall before leaving." "But this is the educated man's agitation," Khan quickly adds, even as groups march by shouting anti-Congress slogans.
Khan's customers today are mainly office-goers from the vicinity and a few young men sporting Gandhi topis that claim they are Anna Hazare's soldiers. Not much else has changed at the stall, though. Kala Khatta (Rs 8), Lemon Sharbat (Rs 7) and Sekonjbin Sharbat (Rs 10) -- an ancient Iranian home-remedy for an upset stomach -- are still the fastest movers. They still use an antique lime-juice extractor -- a bulky, wooden machine, with metal wheels spun by hand for two hours daily to extract the juice of 5,000 limes. Khan shows us a video clip on his cellphone with the heavy machine in operation. "Natural body-building, isn't it ," he laughs.
Ragda Pattice at Sharma Snacks
Fifty seven year-old Gopal Sharma peeps out of the stall next door to see what's going on at his old friend Javat's place. His eatery, whose best-sellers include Ragda Pattice (Rs 14) and Misal Pav (Rs 20), was set up by his grandfather, and Sharma remembers scurrying in the aisles of the trams parked outside when he was a child. 
I'm a proud wife of a soldier. I feel obligated to open shutters even on
days when the rest of the city is afraid to step out. We were open for
business the day after the 2008 terror strikes when CST Station and Cama
Hospital were targeted. ufffd Manisha Dandekar, owner, Canon, CST
Sharma's father passed away some years ago, and he doesn't have many stories to recount about pre-independence, but he does recall seeing a Police Strike at Azad Maidan some years ago, "when the military had been called in to maintain peace and order." "Back in the old days, morchas used to start here but crowds would march to Mantralaya," Sharms shares. "Then a court order put a stop to that. So, rallies are now conducted within the confines of the ground."
Sharma says he is surprised at the current agitation's power. "Twenty years ago, people didn't care about what the government did. They were resigned to what was going on," he says, sharing that often, customers didn't know which party was in power. "Now they know which constituency a said MP belongs to, and what his or her party's ethos is. Suddenly, they seem to care."
Special Pav Bhaji at Canon
Manisha Dhandekar doesn't believe in taking a day off. She reports to work at 7 am every day. This has been the routine for the 61 year-old mother of three ever since the Indian government allotted her a space opposite CST station, as per a 1975 scheme to rehabilitate servicemen. Her husband was a casualty in the five-week-long Indo-Pak War of 1965. Introducing herself as the proud wife of a soldier, Dandekar says she feels obligated to open shutters even on days when the rest of the city is afraid to step out. 
The Ragda Pattice is a bestseller at Sharma Snacks
"We were open for business the day after the 2008 terror strikes when CST Station and Cama Hospital were targeted," she says proudly, slicing open a pav like the spread wings of a butterfly before she turns it face down onto a steaming tava that holds a lake of melted butter at its centre. Canon's Pav Bhaji is in big demand (Rs 35), and even as Dandekar settles bills on au00a0u00a0 busy afternoon with the energy of someone half her age, two cooks are hard at work preparing the specialty on a couple of tavas. Other apron-sporting attendants rush to deal with orders for Lassi (Rs 12) and Chhaas (Rs 7).
Haversack slung over a shoulder, a goatee-sporting collegian seeks an urgent audience. "Yes, yes, I know..." Dandekar says amiably, recognising that he is a participant of the Hazare agitation. "You need cold water." He shakes his head. "Hot water?" she asks. It's not that either. A plastic tap on the water-dispenser by their pandal at the Maidan has fallen apart and he hopes to borrow a replacement. "I don't have one," Dandekar says regretfully, "but you should be able to find it at the kirana shop on the other end."
The student dashes off and Dandekar says she has never had to deal with ruffians affiliated with political groups thanks to owners of adjoining shops. "Because I'm a lady, they watch out for me whenever there are signs of trouble," she smiles.
Shortly after she opened this eatery, Indira Gandhi's government declared a state of emergency on the grounds that political unrest and mass discontentment with their policies posed a threat to national security. The proclamation allowed the Prime Minister to rule by decree, thereby empowering her to waive civil rights as she saw fit. "In protest, morchas were frequent at Azad Maidan. People would walk up to Kala Ghoda," Dandekar recalls.
Sikh Leader Harcharan Singh Longowal had refused to meet with government representatives back then, saying, "The question before us is not whether Indira Gandhi should continue to be PM or not. The point is whether democracy in this country is to survive or not."
A diluted version of the same sentiment echoes faintly through this space today. Small groups of young men and women huddle around snack counters, not oblivious to the dark clouds looming overhead but not too worried either. "Some talk heatedly about rising inflation and widespread corruption," Dandekar says, "Others grumble about how long they'll have to suffer here. He (Anna Hazare) started his anshan (fast) last week. They say they are fasting too but they come here, grab a bite and go back to 'fasting'."
Kalakhatta Cold Drinks House
(open through the week, from 9 am to 11 pm).
Call: 22070400
Sharma Snacks (10 am to 10 pm, Monday to Saturday).
Call: 22078997
Canon (7 am to midnight, Monday to Sunday).
Call: 22044205
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