Sunday, September 30, 2018
Bombay
Walking Down Nostalgia Lane on a Sunday Morning in Mazagoan
Namaste from Bombay!
I had the best morning! Really and truly.
I mean, consider this. After 42 years, I returned for Sunday Mass to the church in which my parents were married and in which my two brothers and I were baptized. It was also the church in which I had worshipped until the age of 18 when my family had moved to Bandra--a suburb too far away for us to make the trek for Sunday Mass to the church we had all loved for years.
So, you can just imagine how delighted I was to have the opportunity to return to walk in the footsteps of my hapless childhood and youth today.
Brekkie at Nafisa's:
I awoke at 5.30 am (as usual) in the home of my friend Nafisa where I had spent the night following our theater outing to see The Father at the National Center for the Performing Arts. Nafisa, who once lived in Bandra, moved about six years ago, to Byculla Bridge--to Spence Lane, in fact, which used to be one of my youthful haunts as I had a lot of school friends living in that lane.
After I had washed and dressed and got all excited about making the 8.30 am Mass at the church (I had called the previous evening to ascertain Mass timings), Nafisa made us all a huge breakfast: Masala Omelettes with baguette toast on which I tried Britannia's delicious cheese spread and herbed butter. Combined with coffee and very companionable chatter as we took pictures to immortalize the moments in the company of Nafisa, her husband Hosefa and their daughter Tasneem (that I could send to Chriselle who was Tasneem's classmate), it made for a very good meal indeed.
Hit by Oodles of Nostalgia:
At 8.15 am, I left my backpack with Nafisa and raced off to make the short walk to St. Anne's Church at Mazagoan. To do this, I had to walk over the rail tracks along Nesbit Bridge on Nesbit Road (no doubt, these street names have changed; but I still know them as I did in my growing years in Bombay). My eyes filled with moisture as I walked alongside the thick parapets made of black river rock that have probably not been changed in a century at least. My Dad used to haul me up on the parapet when I was a little girl so that I could watch the local trains passing beneath. I have such vivid memories of my Dad doing this--it is probably one of my earliest memories of him and me together when I was no more than four! Naturally, I was simply swept by nostalgia and with brimming eyes, I carried on towards the gates of the church compound to make my way inside for the 8.30 am Mass.
So a word about the 8.30 am Mass and its Significance for my Family: I was born in Mazagoan and I lived there till I was nine. My Dad Robert was actively involved in the church and was a Lector at the 8.30 am Mass--which was the mass we would attend as a family. When I turned seven, I started attending the Childrens' Mass which was said, simultaneously in the gym of St. Mary's ISC School. The priest who said the Childrens' Mass, Sunday after Sunday, was Fr. Ribes, a Spaniard Jesuit with a thick accent. However, his way with kids, his way with words and his way with verbal animation, combined to make his Childrens' masses ultra-special and, in many ways, the high point of my week. No need to remind you that his sermons were always on the money: they were riveting and included a compelling story.
At the age of nine, my family moved from Mazagoan to Bombay Central. Despite the fact that getting to church involved a bus or taxi ride as it was much too far to walk to, my family continued to attend Mass at the same church. My father was too tightly entwined in the actives of the church (as Lector, Member of the Men's Sodality, Member of St. Vincent de Paul Society, etc.) that we could not make the transition to our new parish, St. Ignatius at Jacob's Circle, easily.
It was sometime before I turned thirteen that I took the coin that I was supposed to put into the collection box and carved my entire name on the wooden pew on which we sat, Sunday after Sunday, on the side aisle of the church, right by the door so that we could enjoy the breezes that blew in. I remember my Mother scowling angrily at me when she saw what I had done. She was not amused. The church was always packed as Catholics congregated in great numbers around the areas of Mazagoan, Byculla and Dockyard in those days. The choir, conducted by another Spaniard Jesuit, Fr. Valles, was superb. They sang in harmony and since the 8.30 Mass was always a sung mass, it was the beginning of my fascination for classical religious music.
When I turned thirteen, I stopped attending the childrens' Mass (which was discontinued anyway) and switched to the Youth Mass--also at 8.30 am. This was a true fun celebration of the Eucharist. For one thing, we were going through the phrase in our lives when hormones were raging and interest in the opposite sex was just being roused. The Youth Mass gave us the opportunity to size up the 'boys' in our church and to consider them as potential boy friends. Crushes developed and blossomed--some reached fruition in full-blown dating, courtship and marriage rituals; others were restricted to shy admiration from a distance. The music was always jazzy--there were guitarists and superb singers in the choir who often gave 'solos' that were stage-worthy as they modernized classical hymns. Needless to say, it was also something of a fashion parade--we were also becoming interested in clothes and dressing well at that stage in our lives and we spent far more time than we should have in front of our mirrors at home.
After the 8.30 am Youth Mass in the gym, I would reconnect with my parents who were in the main church. We would pick up a copy of The Examiner (the Catholic weekly for which I still unfailingly submit an essay for the special Christmas issue each year) and then make our way to the homes of my late aunts Lily, Alice and Ella who lived on nearby St. Mary's Road. By the time we did three visits, we were ready to return to the auditorium of St. Mary's ISC School where, at 11.00 am, there was the screening of a film.
You must remember that these were days before TV or cable and going out to an auditorium to see a movie was a rare treat. My parents were big movie buffs and our entire family would go to see the film--no matter what they screened. My mother used to do her Sunday cooking the previous day so that she was not worried about having to get meals cooked for us that morning. Through those screenings, I was introduced to the Western Movie genre seeing spaghetti Westerns such as Ringo and His Golden Pistol, Return of Ringo and classics such as The Good, The Bad and the Ugly and For a Few Dollars More. There were rom-coms galore and musicals such as Waterloo Bridge and A Farewell to Arms and Singing in the Rain and The Singing Nun. The tickets cost 50 paise per person. During the interval, we would buy a kheema-gutli (which my husband calls a 'bun-kebab'). That weekly treat used to cost another 50 paise! The theater was filled with kids and teenagers who were vocal about their appreciation (claps, whistles) and their disappointment (heckling). During the romantic scenes, there were cat calls. My parents and another Parsee couple, the Avaris, were the only adults in the house. I really do believe that my enduring love for cinema stems from this very early exposure I had to Hollywood and the fact that we would then discuss the movie we had all just seen as a family as we sat down for lunch. Yes, after the movie ended, we took a cab home to Bombay Central and sat down to one of my mother's superb Chicken Lunches--usually one of her delectable curries with pea pullao or some sort of 'yellow rice'.
Filled with all these memories, I made my way inside the church for the 8.30 Mass and was so amazed to find that there were no more than a hundred people--if that--in the entire church. The demographics of the neighborhood have undergone a drastic change: as Muslims swarmed into the area, Catholics exited to the Western suburbs such as Bandra, Andheri, Malad and Borivali. Today, there are only a handful of them left.
Like several heritage buildings in Bombay, the church building has been beautifully refurbished. It glows both outside and in with fresh new paint and a very competent attempt to add gilded highlights. I was a few minutes early and had the opportunity to take a few pictures of the interior. As I raised my head to the soaring ceiling, I was thrilled to discover that it had fan vaulting as the church is another great example of neo-Gothic architecture that was built during the Victorian Age in Bombay. Of course, I took pictures.
Mass began and was said by a Jesuit priest called Fr. Albert Menezes whom I did not know at all. It was quick and very quiet as there was hardly anyone to respond. His sermon was good and geared, I think, towards the children seated in the front.
Of course, I took my place at the very same pew that I had occupied for at least seven years of my life as a child. I tried hard to find some tell-tale vestige of my name that I had engraved on the pew, but there was absolutely nothing to be found. I suppose the pews have been varnished a dozen times since my youthful shenanigans. But still, I did hope that I would find one initial to remind me of my youthful folly and the little girl that I was once upon a time.
After Mass, I stepped out of the church and had the shock of my life when I heard my name called out. Someone said, "Rochelle! Oh my god! How come...?" I looked at the lady but although her face was familiar, I simply could not place her. Turns out she was one Ovita Fernandes who used to be two years senior to me in high school. She told me that I hadn't changed one bit since I left school and that anyone would know my light eyes anywhere! We had a good chinwag and exchanged contact details and promised to catch up at length before she introduced me to someone named Rodney Fialho who then followed me around as I rambled about the church and school premises through the bits and pieces of it that I remembered with much affection.
I was very disappointed to find that the huge photo frames that had lined the corridor of the school leading to the parlor that contained the mug shots of every student that had graduated in each individual batch from the 1950s to the 1970s had been removed. These were a fabulous way for 'old boys' to come and browse through the pictures of their past classmates. They were gone forever--and no one knows where. In the Parlor itself, whose walls were lined with massive wooden boards that also provided the names of the various Jesuit priests who had served as Principals of the school from the late 1800s when it had been founded to the 1970s, had also disappeared How could such stalwart remnants of a past era be disposed of? And where are they? In their place are some shabby posters that are not a patch on the glamor and glitz of the old wooden plaques. I could have wept at the fact that they were no longer in their place--and I was not even in that school, nor was I a male student! Ok, I suppose part of my disappointment had to do with the fact that I would no longer find the mugshots of 'boys' I had known and flirted gently with in my own teenage years.
Rodney was a gold mine of information and he told me a lot about the ways in which the church, its congregation and its practices have changed. He has never moved from the area and had kept track of where so many hundreds of people had gone.
When I was done taking pictures and pausing in so many places to commit everything I was seeing to memory, I crossed the street and went to Taheri Manzil where I was meeting my friend Shahnaz who had driven in from Bandra to pay her weekly Sunday visit to her elderly parents who live there. She gave me a ride back to Bandra after we stopped briefly at Nafisa's so that I could pick up my bag.
Sunday Lunch with Dad and Russel:
Once home, I spent part of the morning doing household chores. At 12. 15 pm, I left my studio and walked over to Dad's place to have lunch with him and Russel. Russel is keeping up his good spirits and making slow progress through physiotherapy. He is not in great pain at all and is just happy to be back home. He passes time watching TV, especially the cricket matches that have been keeping both him and Dad rivetted in the evenings. I told Dad all about my adventures in downtown Bombay and in Mazagoan and about all the changes that I observed.
Lunch was delicious Lamb Biryani that Dad ordered in for us. It was served with Raita and was just superb. Dad and Russel enjoyed some port wine as a digestif, but I chose to avoid it as a result of my allergies. After lunch, I returned home to my studio and told Dad I would see them both again for dinner.
Fabulous Unexpected Elphinstonian Reconnections:
I had just begun to draft my September newsletter to send out to friends on my mailing list when I was interrupted by a ping on my phone. It turned out to be my friend Beena Mandrekar who wished to inquire in which year I had graduated from Elphinstone College. I responded by whatsapp and next thing you know, she was sending me information about a great big Forty Year Reunion that is to take place on January 4, 2019 at the Willingdon Sports Gymkhana in downtown Bombay. She added my number and name to a mailing list of ex-students who have registered for the event and, before I could say Jack Robinson, I was receiving a slew of messages from people about whom I have not even thought for four decades! They were all pleased to hear from me too and remembered me once again as "Rochelle with the light eyes". Wow! That was twice in two days that people told me that I was memorable because of the color of my eyes!
What a fabulous evening I then ended up having. Reminiscing and recollecting past college days was a real treat. As I am not on Facbook, this is something that I have not routinely done--and so, it was such a joy to make contact with batch mates as well as alumni in batches senior and junior to mine. Of course, I am delighted that I will be in Bombay for the Reunion and I shall soon be registering and paying my fee to join in. I then tried to contact a whole bunch of my friends who are scattered around the globe to find out if they would be in Bombay at the time and could join in. Responses are still pouring on.
It is so wonderful to find out how well everyone has done. While it is understandable that people who went abroad would prosper, what I find even more creditable is the success of those who chose to stay on in India and have thrived. At least two of my male batch mates are CEOs of their own companies in Bombay, one of my girlfriends runs an IT company she founded in Zurich, Switzerland and one girlfriend in a active human rights lawyer in Bombay. I simply cannot wait to get together with my past pals.
At 7.15 pm, I left my studio again and went to Dad's. I had dinner with him--a repeat of our luncheon meal and then I said goodbye to the two of them (him and Russel) and returned home to continue my online chat with my newly-discovered pals.
At 11.00 pm, I switched off my light and called a halt to what had been an incredibly enjoyable day!
Until tomorrow,....
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