Little Dadu. A story from Nowroz Bag, Mumbai's Oldest Parsi Colony

Parsi 'Colonies', which dot the older parts of the city, are intrinsic to Mumbai. 

Unlike the 'stupid fellow' (my mom in law's words), from North India on Kaun Banega Crorepati who didn't know that dhansak is a Parsi dish, most Mumbaikars would have had some exposure to the Parsi community. Some would have known Parsis, or worked in Parsi run companies, met their dates under statues of venerable Parsi gentlemen or lusted after the famous Parsi Laganu Bhonu (wedding feast) . But the Parsi Colonies, hidden behind steep walls, remain a mystery to many.

These colonies were set up by wealthy members of the community to provide charitable housing to fellow Parsis. Today I was at Nowroz Bag. This is Mumbai's oldest Parsi Colonies. Set up by the Wadia Family who own Bombay Dyeing today.

The set up of the Nowroz Bag would be similar to most other colonies. High walls enclosing the apartment blocks. A play ground for football and other community organised sports. Blocks of buildings. Three to four story tall. Each floor honey sliced into individual flats. Each apartment opening onto common verandas. Each floor linked by stone staircases, 'uneven', as Jamshed Adrianvala told us today as he deciphered the plaque at the base of the building we were at. The plaque listed the name of the benefactors of the society. 

The architecture is simple. Neat clean lines. A certain similarity to the look of each building. And yet a place which reeks of character. You looked around and you knew that there were a million stories all around you. 

Stories of people who lived their entire lives over here. Breathing their last breath in the very room they were born. Ninety years back. Of fights over who bought the best fish from the fisher woman. Of elderly parents sitting at the veranda waiting for the postcards from New Zealand and Texas. Of husbands and wives who knew each other as toddlers. The young girl who crossed the little path to move to her new family in the building next door. Of young boys in sadras (traditional Parsi vests) and striped pyjamas learning how to learning how to dismantle a Yezdi bike from their uncles. Of children who married out of the community and never could come back to live there. Of celebrations where every family in the community came together to participate with equal vigour.

(As you can see I have discovered the colour adjust feature of MS Photo Editor)

Today's post is about one such story.

Today's post is not about the very tender mutton chops that I had for lunch. Nor is it about the home fried potato chips. Or about the fierce looking and yet delightfully subtle, light and well flavoured chicken curry. It is not about the alcohol soaked heady birthday cakes ordered from model Naheed Cyrusi's mother. Or the baker's confusion about whether the cake should say "Happy Birthday Rita" or "Happy Birthday Geeta" .

Today's post is the story of a man with a big heart. A man who fed seven hungry college girls day in and day out. A man at whose house I had the privilege of eating a couple of times. A man who once would spray Hugo Boss on himself before he went in to fry fish. A man who sits on his stool today and still directs his trusted cooks to conjure some of the most amazing dishes. A man who believes in excess when it comes to hosting. A man who when hospitalised for heart problems calls for mutton curry and rice from home.

Today's post is about the story of Dadu (Dadi Pastakia). It was his daughter Rita's birthday  on the 29th. The same day as my mother's.

Dadu could not come up to the upstairs house where the lunch happened. But he oversaw the cooking, was satisfied that he had over-ordered and then let the party begin. Hoping that Rita's fiancé, Farhad, would share some of his duties as a host. There is no photo of Dadi Pastakia in this post except one of one year old Dadu. He doesn't look very different today, close to eighty years later.

This is a story that I won't attempt to tell. I will leave that to Kainaz, one of the three of the gang of seven who made it back to 'The Den' today. So here goes. Keep your handkerchiefs ready boys as you read Kainaz talk about the one and only Dadu. A man she calls 'The Original Knife'. An association I am proud of after reading this story.