As an old mithai store steps into its 100th year, we recollect similar stories of sweet success
Mithaiwala at the century-old Noor Sweets with nephews Huzefa and Hatim. Pic/Pradeep Dhivar
It's celebration time on Saifee Jubilee Street. Abdeali Mithaiwala and his nephews are in the happy position of distributing their own wares to mark a momentous century run. The family’s Noor Sweets, in the bustling heart of Bhendi Bazar, has journeyed far and long since a modest start in 1922.
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Four years back, Abdeali Bhai had kindly packed me a box of heavenly soft doodhi halwa to take home after a rainy day of interviews in Bohri Mohalla, then in the throes of major redevelopment. A recent revisit proves interesting to learn more about Noor’s introduction to the city ever encouraging of dreams pursued by slog.
The shop is named after his elder brother Nooruddin (Yunus was the younger), whose sons Huzefa and Hatim helm the operation, with Abdeali opting for retirement. Their father, Hasanali Alibhai Gondalwala, fled for Bombay from his ancestral Kotda Sangani village near Rajkot as a boy of barely 13. “His father, our Dada, died prematurely and extremely poor. The family managed to eat one single meal a day, with meagre earnings from working the old bullock-driven ghani which crushed oilseeds.”
Abdeali Mithaiwala’s parents, Hasanali and Sakina Gondalwala, embarking for the Haj pilgrimage in 1965
Washing and wearing the sole pair of clothes he came clad in, Hasanali would quip, “Sheher mein ghar nahin, magar saara jahaan hamaara.” After a series of odd jobs involving hard labour, his thoughts turned boldly to self-employment. Hitting upon the idea of selling sweets, he bargained for rented shop premises. “Even at 17 he displayed instinct and knack. Gharaak neh jeh bhaaveh teh vecheh—he sold what customers enjoyed most,” says Abdeali.
“The items were nothing fancy. Basic ghee and maida products like boondi and balushahi were loss-making initially. A man he hired would be sent to hawk these in a khumcha on the road outside Royal and Taj cinemas in Grant Road’s playhouse district. Slowly doing better, he could pay daily wages to added numbers of men from UP. Never forgetting his struggler days, he gave the poor discounts, particularly during festivities.”
Rashida Johar, whose mother Batul was one of Hasanali’s daughters, says, “Nanaji opened the shop by 6 in the morning, to serve hot breakfast jalebis and malpua. He habitually left home on the dot of 5, with a tooth powder packet. Be it winter or summer, he had his bath at the shop and brushed his teeth with that kaala daant manjan. Unable to read the time, he relied on my nani to tell him the hour. As business grew, he painstakingly taught himself reading and writing.”
Damodar and Saroj Marathe at the 1963 inauguration of Saroj Sweets. “No sale today” is chalked beneath “Welcome” on a blackboard
The thirst for literacy saw him subscribe to magazines like Chakram, Begum and Ghanchakkar. Chakram featured characters with the same names as him and his wife, Hasan Chacha and Sakina Chachi, amusing him no end. “He repeatedly read aloud that story to the excited children who converged after dinner to hear it,” says Johar. “Nanaji kept the shop closed on Tuesdays, taking all his kids to Chowpatty and the Gateway, to fairs at Mahim and Cross Maidan. The waiting Victoria at the shop would whisk them off for a merry evening out.”
Abdeali began sitting at the counter from 1962 with his brothers. “We worked equally hard. It was a team effort through and through.” Five years before he joined, the weights system changed from ser (pound) to metric kilos. In 1975, three years following Hasanali’s death, Noor Sweets modernised and stocked thirty varieties of colourful barfi, stuffed khaja, dry fruit halwa and sinful mawa samosa.
To what does Abdeali attribute the staying power of Noor in a competitive market? “It must be our constant innovation and the decision to have no branches. With native intelligence and a sharp eye for detail, my father believed that personalised attention the food business demands would get diluted, were we to expand.”
Colaba branch of Karachi Chandu Halwai, whose founder proprietor Chandulal Bahl generously fed Partition immigrants
Across town, Saroj Sweets in Chembur presents a classic organic transformation from simple to sophisticated. In 1945, Damodar Krishnaji Marathe of Dhulia bought buffaloes in rural Vadavli, site of the golf course today, and first distributed milk in Chembur. Ten years later, A1 Saroj Dairy, named for his wife, opened in the gaothan, supplying milk, ghee and butter to residents who welcomed hygienic versions of these necessities at their doorstep.
Procuring the finest available grinders, boilers and ovens, Marathe next inaugurated Saroj Sweets and Restaurant in May 1963. Working on a local history of Chembur, I sat in the company’s office, flanked by spotlessly gleaming kitchens, and tried to avoid being distracted by the divine aroma of burnt milk and kesar. While Sheshnath Marathe spoke of honouring legacy, his wife Manisha added, “My father-in-law reminded us—‘Festive occasions are for everybody. Give people the best and priced reasonably, too.’ When a kaju katli batch was suspected slightly off, he threw it into Vashi creek.”
Stringent quality control was de rigueur for a mithaiwala as early as 1829, when Joshi Budhakaka Mahim Halwawala struck work in an unusual way. Especially satisfied with their favourite cook, Mauji Joshi, appreciative Portuguese rulers provided him stall space on Kapad Bazar Road in Mahim.
Why that intriguing mouthful of a name? Mauji Seth was nicknamed “budha kaka” because he was a familiar sight, shouldering door-to-door deliveries of laddoos, sev boondi and mohanthaal which the women of his house prepared hand-rolled. Hitting on the USP formula for butter paper-veiled halwa—pulped wheat, ghee, sugar and saffron sprinkled with dry fruit—explains how they acquired the “Mahim Halwawala” sign-off.
“The shop supposedly got assigned Bombay’s fourth telephone number, 04, after the three reserved for police, ambulance and fire emergency services,” says sixth-generation Kiran Joshi. We met in their Dadar shop, which has stood from 1932 at Empire Mahal on Khodadad Circle, or Dadar TT. “The tram stop was exactly outside. Many patrons could conveniently step in. Without exaggeration, I tell you what I’ve grown up hearing. That dying men often ordered it, craving a last taste of our halwa.”
Bringing me an ornate fish-shaped wooden mould contouring the mawa ni macchhi customers book by the boxful, Joshi also showed a letter in which Nehru wrote: “We have always been pleased with sweets from Dhanji Girdhar [Mauji’s grandson].”
In the facing block, Empress Mahal, situated on the opposite quarter arc of this imposing quadrant (Imperial Mahal and Harganga Mahal are the third and fourth buildings designed in Indo-Saracenic style by Sohrabji Bhedwar in the 1930s), is an outlet of Punjabi Chandu Halwai Karachiwala. The legendary mithaiwala is yet another with antecedents dating to the 1800s. Under the gentle gaze of founders framed in wall portraits and between nibbles of tantalisingly labelled Tansen Halwa and Kismat Halwa, I discovered this was established in 1896 in Karachi by Chandulal Bahl.
In the stormy aftermath bred by Partition, the generosity of Bahl impressed Sri Prakasa, the first High Commissioner to Pakistan. Bahl declined payment for feeding refugees. The chabu (chewy in Sindhi) Karachi Halwa was rechristened as Bombay Halwa or Karachi Bombay Halwa—brand salute to an urban tadka wonderfully blending goodness and grace in less intemperate times.
“Much of our ‘Mithai nama’ comes from troubled histories,” a school friend’s grandmother told me. Already sated with sai kadhi and aloo tuk for Sunday lunch, we were savouring spoonfuls of kheerni and sev barfi for dessert. She went on to cite bittersweet examples of enterprise born from the divisive trauma of 1947-48. One being Mukhi Tharu of Shikarpur, with a trade that had flourished from humble dakh bazar beginnings in 1920s undivided India. Stoutly refusing doled out funds here, he chose to strive self-reliant instead, mixing gulab jamuns tasty enough to be consumed in a flash at the refugee camp.
In the mid-1960s, Nanu Tharu, as he was known in Sindh, set up a small stall in partnership, at the Mumbadevi Temple compound of Zaveri Bazar. This was with members of the community who were as focused on rising above deprivations suffered post-Independence. Tharu Mukhi Bhandar moved to Khar in 1968, where the patriarch’s descendants continue to dispense mouth-watering, pure desi ghee treats.
The authenticity of ingredients and composition reflects a tensile social fabric. Describing the traditional varo, textured with caramelised sugar and delicately diced nuts, a Tharu great-grandson has said in another interview: “You can select your nut of choice—almond, cashew, unsalted pistachio—with green cardamom and poppy seeds. It resembles chikki but richer in taste.” Just like the string of immigrants still stirring what will hopefully remain a robust pot of the united flavours of Bombay.
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
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