Born and brought up in Mumbai, but I never had once visited Mohammed Ali Road for Iftaari. Scared of the crowd I would face, I would always postpone it to the next year.
But last Jumma, I showed the courage to visit Mohammed Ali road. We had booked a cab and incidentally our cabbie was a Muslim boy and all through our ride we learned more about the festival and asked him specifically ‘kya khayen?” We got there at midnight when the crowd was at its peak. With my 5'11" husband and 6' son, my pillars of protection, off I went on an adventure of food and culture.
To my surprise there were so many like us, as in who were there to experience the food and festivity and culture and not belonging to the faith of Islam. The lane was packed with people but everyone moved around in an orderly fashion, choosing what should be the next meat to try and what should be the next sweet to devour.
Being from a strictly non-vegetarian family, we tried all the Kebabs and Haleem and other items. For sweets, we did have our share of Malpua and absolutely yum Jalebi.
People like us were clearly distinguishable. Hence, we were treated with utmost care and respect and offered space to stand and advice on what to eat and what we should definitely try. Suffering from self-diagnosed Enochlophobia, I never thought I would feel safe in such a crowded place.
Looking at the diverse crowd, it took me back to my childhood.
I remembered patti (grandmother in Tamil) who was one of our next door neighbour. I have never seen her or her family members, make a face because we cooked non-veg in our home. Infact during ‘Vishu’ she would come and wake us up and take each one of us one-by-one, (me and my siblings) to see the ‘Vishu kani’. She would give us each a 5 rupee coin and I would only use this coin as a last resort. Oh and that early morning aroma of filter kaapi and the sound of ‘Suprabhatham’ in M.S. Subbulakshmi’s voice from her home was such a bliss.
During the 1993 blast in Mumbai, my mom who was working at Ballard Pier was stuck at the office. That was apparently a safety protocol. I was 13 then and me and my siblings were at home by ourselves without any knowledge about her safety. Even the phone (land) lines were dead. But somehow the message was sent to us that she was safe and that she would be able to come home only the following morning. And we were taken care of that night by… Lubna aunty! Another neighbour who stayed on the floor above us. She had 4 kids and she is the wife of Gulam Parkar (die-hard cricket fans will know who he is). She had assured my mom that we will be taken care of and she went out of her way to keep us well fed and feel safe.
When a B.E.S.T bus passes by a Church, I would see most of the travellers making the sign of the cross, not necessarily because they were Christians, but because they had studied in a convent school and showed genuine respect.
Now, I don’t make the effort to know my neighbours and neither do they. Should I blame the lopsided conversations I hear now and then, I don’t know. But one thing is for sure, the trip to Mohammed Ali road made me realise, “ke hum abhi, wahi log hain”... the ones who are happily celebrating every festival irrespective of what faith we are born in and what politics would like us to believe otherwise.
Thank you to all of you who remembered NOT to wish me a ‘Happy Good Friday’ this year but wished me for Easter instead and filhaal ke liye, aap sabko meri taraf se ‘Chand Mubarak’.
-SuVi