DHOBHI TALAO---BOMBAY-INDIA

DHOBHI TALAO---BOMBAY-INDIA In a certain generation not too long ago, if you said Dhobitalao, you meant Little Goa. In Toronto, Canada where I live, there is little Italy, little Greece, little Portugal, little India and even, just outside of Toronto, an entire suburb (officially called Brampton) known as Khalistan, where all the Sardars live. Brampton used to be a farming area populated by whites, until the Sardars moved in. Now it is a place which abounds in Punjabi samosas, sarson-ka-saag and 'lawyers' who 'help' you with settling personal injury car accident claims. But you will not find any little Goa. Now, to get back to Dhobitalao. That area of Bombay was home to a large dhobi migrant community from UP that worked from a pond that was originally built by the Parsis to supply their Agiaries. Over time, as the water got stagnated, they turned it over to the dhobis who needed exactly such a spot to base their trade in the city. Eventually, the pond was cemented over and the Parsis built residential buildings which they gave over as rentals to newcomers in Bombay. It was exactly in such a condition that the first Goans started moving in. Soon the area was overflowing with Goan migrants who chose to live together, God knows why, given the crab mentality for which the community is famed. Not only did they live in harmony, but also in relative peace, although a typical large family of seven or eight lived in one room no bigger than 300 to 500 sq feet. In that space they hatched, matched and were dispatched. Dhobitalao, as I knew it, was Goan enough to be known to the rest of Bombay and even outside and the Middle East, as the Goan hub outside Goa. Among well known features of the area were oasis of large rooms of about 1,500 sq feet or more in very old dilapidated buildings that became the homes of Goan Village Clubs about which much has been written. What I will add is, that the living conditions there were absolutely pathetic. But then, living in Portuguese Goa of the time was equally so, despite the large village spaces. If this description has put in your mind a decrepit neighborhood you would not be entirely wrong, but I have not yet made a reference to the vibrancy of the place. Dhobitalao was the Bronx of the 1930s. People hung out their washed clothing to dry and sat on their building terraces. The terraces were the community arenas where every social celebration took place. A birthday, a dance and even movie shows. Everyone was invited, both from the building and everywhere else. Prohibition was in force and Aunty's famous rotgut was served. On one occasion, while learning German from a Saligao resident of Indra Bhuvan , I was called to watch a movie on the terrace. The boys running the projector sat precariously with their equipment on a small patch on the roof, the white painted wall was the screen and the bar was lined along one side. There were all kinds of home cooked snacks on a table and everybody sat hunched on the floor in the dark of an 8 pmevening. I don't remember the name of the movie, but it was smuggled in by the Goan usher of the nearby Metro cinema. There was dancing after the movie but by then I had left as I had a long hike back home to Byculla. Dhobitalao's Main Street extended from the Sonapur Church (Dolours) to Crawford market, a distance of about 1 km. Along the way were butcher shops selling fresh pork, and the famous C D'Souza's and Vienna restaurants which were frequented by lonely sailors between trips. They served excellent Goan-Bombay fusion food at ridiculously low prices. In 1965, you could get a plate of sorpotel, a loaf of bread and Crumb Chops (pork chops fried with batter and bread crumbs) followed by a plate of rice with fish curry and a fried mackerel on the side. It was excellent value. On Dhobitalao streets, other restaurants abounded. Along Main Street were also a couple of wax candle shops. Thinking about it now, I wonder what kept them in business. Perhaps it was the yearly fairs at which body parts made of wax were sold. Main Street was the show-piece of Dhobitalao. Other side streets were not so clean nor as spacious. There were the Wellington Terraces, a group of four buildings within a rough stony compound that was a village all by itself. Everybody in Dhobitalao had a relative or villager in Wellington. Outside Wellington were all sorts of trades-people - tailors, darners, cobblers and others. All were excellent craftsmen and I remember my dad taking me to a cobbler there to custom make my leather shoes even though we lived in Byculla. Perhaps part of the reason might have been the opportunity to visit one of his friends where a glass of hooch was assured. Within Dhobitalao on the southern and eastern ends, were the Irani restaurants about which the Canadian-Goan writer Marcos Catao has recently written. Two of them were Sassanian and Bastani. They made the best bread puddings and the most flaky and light meat patties that melted on your tongue. The pani-kum chai was a great chaser to these snacks. A little beyond Bastanis was the standing place of the 'Dhobitalao Bandsters'. These were not band members but individual musicians who waited to be hired for any wedding or other occasion. They were not a cohesive unit and may never have played with the others, but once they were selected, without practice, they performed as if they were an accomplished orchestra. That is a great thing about Goans. They make awesome musicians. Partly in the genes and partly due to their village choir-master training, playing is across the spectrum. In all the great Bombay swing bands of the sixties and seventies, like Micky Correia, Johnny Baptist, Maurice Concessio, Goody Seervai, Nelly, Ken Mac and Hal Green, the majority of the musicians were Goans. Nowhere could this be seen better than in Dhobitalao. A walk down the street of any neighborhood, especially after sunset, would produce harmonious wafting sounds of lilting Portuguese marches and sambas, tangos, classical mandos, and even Louisana blues and Hollywood music scores. It was truly a music fest per gratis. At the heart of Dhobitalao was the Sonapur (or officially, Dolours) Church. Women with sleeveless dresses were sent away from the Communion railing without the host and the ones without veils or scarves on their heads were publicly berated. Khomeini must have learned his state-craft from the Sonapur priests. But these same priests did not bother the menfolk. These they considered being without redemption. As soon as the priest stepped to the pulpit to start the preaching, the men made off to C. D'Souza's next door for coffee and cigarettes. What they didn't hear, they didn't care about. The vicar even attempted to put a loudspeaker inside C D'Souza's so as to disturb all conversation there during sermon time, but that only resulted in coffee-talk rising many decibels higher. Eventually, their volumes outdid the loudspeaker, permeated the church, and disturbed the sermonizing priest himself. The vicar conceded defeat and removed the loudspeaker. Religious feast processions winding through the streets of Dhobitalao were very unruly. There would be a massive crowd of people setting out from the church but as each Aunty's speakeasy was passed along the way, the numbers of men would get less and less until at the door of the church on returning, the only males in the procession were either below fifteen or those banned from their favorite Aunty's bars due to non-payment or the very frail who wanted nothing but peace with their God whom they were due to meet soon. The boys and girls of Dhobitalao were indoctrinated in the value of education by their parents, whether they went to the nearby Jesuit school of St Xavier's or to Little Flower, St Sebastian, St Thresa's, or Dolours. They might have had no place to study except under the dim lights of the passageways or during late nights with their parents' snores for company, but they learned their lessons well. Here in Toronto, there are many of those once-Dhobitalao-youngsters. They are 'solid buggers' now and their children go for the best higher education there is in Canada. When my children were young kids growing up in Canada, we told them to eat their vegetables and not leave them. My wife used to tell them, "Think of the starving children in India and finish the dinner." And now they tell their children, "Finish your homework. Think of the children in India who would make you starve if you don't!" - Author unknown