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| Every morning, at 7 o`clock, I walk through Flora Fountain to the office in Nanabhoy Lane. Getting down from the taxi at the head of the Oriental Insurance Building, under the statue of Dadabhoy Naoroji, crossing the Fountain circle to the opposite side, near the American Dryfruit Store, and entering the lane. I am happy with this morning ritual. It is a great feeling to begin the day in the living heart of Bombay, which is what Flora Fountain, now renamed by the municipality as Hutatma Chowk, is. It is also the nation`s business centre. Nariman Point, which in recent years has made ineffective attempts to claim the title, is only an annexe: offices of new and nouveau riche businesses, including those of Dhirubhai Ambani.
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| Originally Written/Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
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| Posted on: 2007-12-06 |
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| Total Comments on this Blog : 6 |
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| From weekdays to Sundays, it is an ever-changing scene, and all this the statue of Flora, sitting slightly right of centre, watches as the waters ripple down her waist. As fountains go, it is not a particularly elaborate fountain. But it is an elegant piece of statuary and its appeal has been enhanced by Akbarallys, who have adopted and illuminated it and housed Russian ducks and geese in its waters. Arguably, it is Akbarallys most worthy contribution to the city. For what can be more touching than having a duck pond in the heart of Bombay.
What I miss are the trams that used to thunder through Flora Fountain, on their way from Museum to King`s Circle. In the centre of the Fountain circle, there was a proper red kiosk for passengers to stand in, waiting for the tram. There were glass showcases in the kiosk, one of them carried tram timings, another carried an advertisement of Eos Photography Studio, by appointment to Sir Roger Lumley. The tram was my regular transport, and, after night duties at the Free Press Journal, we used to walk down to Fountain from Dalal Street to catch the day`s last tram (1.15 a.m.). The service used to end at the Foras Road depot, from where Clarence Blake, Ron Hendricks and myself would walk the rest of the distance to Byculla. I still recall that Flora Fountain, dark and silent and empty, the magnificent old buildings around the circle (then as old as now) looking down at us. Then, in the distance, we would hear the tram coming in the night. Clarence Blake is dead, Ron Hendricks is retired and at home, only I have survived. And I have completed a sort of a circle: in those days I used to walk through Flora Fountain in the late night, at 1.15 a.m., now I do it first thing in the morning, at 7.15 a.m. |
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| The most striking thing about Flora Fountain is its solid conservative look. The buildings all date back to British India, when cement and prefab were still to be invented and buildings were constructed for posterity. There is age written all over the place, but it is not the age of a falling ruin but of an ageing wine. The place has been laboriously set up, stone upon stone to form the Central Telegraph and PWD offices (the two worst-kept public or private buildings in the area), the edifice that is the Bombay High Court, the three-cornered Central Bank, where Parsi cashiers still sit behind counters in their velvet caps, the Oriental, parting two main roads, building with arches and porticos, which thanks to a lax administration and a corrupt police and municipal force, the hawkers have converted into shopping arcades for dubious goods.
I am not sure whether the hawkers contribute to Flora Fountain`s ambience or impair it. Perhaps, without them, the place would not look like the centre of the world; it would look like the central square in any other town, with a decorative fountain in the middle. It is the hawkers who breathe life into it and provide it its atmosphere. And it is they who bring out-of-towners to Fountain looking for pavement bargains. The variety of the goods they sell, from Japanese electronics to Scottish marmalade (with Chivas Regal blended in it), and their vocal salesmanship, add to the sights and sounds of the place. And there is one particular group of hawkers who should never leave the place-the booksellers, with old and new books scattered on the pavements and parapets like autumn leaves. One of the ultimate pleasures of life is browsing among these books on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| And the waiters do not shout to the counter any more - "Rs.2.50 from the green shirt in the glasses." They present you a bill now and expect a tip. And outside the restaurant the Fountain Dryfruit Stall, with the proprietor sitting among his almonds and pistachios, chubby and pink-cheeked and an advertisement for his own products.Much has remained and much has changed. Marosa with its mint tea and chicken pattice, patronised by the bar and the bench of the Bombay High Court has gone. Long before Kwality and Taj, we had got used to Marosa and Mongini cakes. And the West End Watch Co., synonymous with Flora Fountain, has also gone. They could have at least left behind the large clock at the corner of the building. How many appointments I must have made under the West End clock ! There was a smaller clock in the shop`s show-window, which showed the correct Indian Standard Time, accurate to the last second. It was the practice of all passers-by to step up to the show-window, check the clock and adjust their wrist-watch time with it. I must have been among the very few persons who did not do this, but that was because I did not possess a wrist-watch. Upstairs, in the West End building, were Madam Sophia Wadia`s theosophy classes. I can still visualise her, Madam Wadia in a starched white sari, looking like an elderly Sonia Gandhi, talking of the dhamapada. The theosophy class is gone, but not Davar`s college, producing another generation of office secretaries. And, next door, Sundar`s. I do not recall what was there earlier, but they have certainly some of the most attractive window displays in town.
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| Three hours later, at 10 a.m., I come down from the office and out on to Flora Fountain for a breather and refreshments. The scene has dramatically changed: the place is crowded and industrious and noisy. This is the Flora Fountain that we all know. For some of us it is the centre of the world. For others it is home ground, a lifetime of familiarity with all the little things that go to make up the place. Pyrkes, the largest Irani shop in town, now, alas, shuttered and closed, but still very much a presence. And the bookstall outside, selling Illustrated Weekly crossword coupons and vouchers. And Kali Pundole`s Art Gallery next door. Part of it was a gallary, part a clock shop, and late in the nights, when dear departed Kali used to give cocktails for the opening of a celebrated artist, from the clock shop the guests could hear 100 timepieces simultaneously chiming and striking the midnight hour. And Balliwalla & Homi, Opticians to Lord Linlithgow and Raja Maharajsingh. The sandalwood seller outside the fire temple, where Parsis buy the sandalwood sticks and borrow velvet prayer caps. Unfortunately, Ideal, the Irani with the Distorted fairground mirrors and some of the finest bun and broon maska and bread pudding in the Fort, is no more there. Lost in the fire with the rest of the Alice Building.But Fountain Restaurant, at the other end of the square is still there, though the 20 commandments of the Bahais have been removed from the walls and replaced by a drawing by Mario Miranda`s son. The place has also been spruced up, with the old waiters put in fancy uniforms of pink-striped shirts and bow ties.
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| And it is going to be a joyous morning. Every day I feel this way as I walk through Flora Fountain; the place has its effect on me. Fountain has been very much a part of my life; it has been there ever since I can recall, and over the years it has not changed much.
Except for some minor traffic arrangements made by Traffic Commissioner Pasricha. He may have thereby improved the flow of traffic but in the process he has destroyed the symmetry of the place. The old Flora Fountain was a roundabout with traffic going round it in a clockwise direction, a grand passing parade that you could watch for hours on end. Mr. Pasricha`s Fountain has traffic moving only in one direction and that in one corner of the area. The rest of the place has been turned into a car park, filled with second-hand Indian automobiles.
At least, in the mornings, there are no cars in the park. And even on the road, only an occassional double-decker rumbles by, coming up the road from Victoria Terminus, raising dust or sprays of water, depending on the season. And sometimes a scooter goes by, a father taking his little daughter to St. Anne`s or Fort Convent, tiny hands clasping the father`s waist, plastic water-bottle round the neck. The ambience is distinctly provincial. A woman with flowers in her hair sweeping the road, the chaiwalla sitting at the top of Nanabhoy Lane with his samovar and tea glasses, the Parsis, the original residents of the Fort, going to their fire temples. There are four fire temples in the area, one of them dating back to early 1700.
But there are indications of life beginning anew. The pavement hawkers are pushing in their crates from wherever they have hidden them in the night, unpacking them and displaying their road-soiled smuggled goods. The shops are being swept and swabbed and shutters rolled up among creaking protests. And the first commuters are walking into the Fountain from Bori Bunder and Churchgate.
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| Comments Posted By : Soumya Singhi |
| Posted on : 2007-12-06 |
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| At 7 a.m., Flora Fountain is still getting up. Men who have spent the night on the hard pavements and the floor of the car park are stirring themselves under their ragged coverings. An early riser is having a bath from a plastic bucket in the middle of the road. And mangy dogs roam around in packs, making physical love, as little concerned about privacy as the man having his bath. There is one dog that I see every morning, a frisky customer, bounding away on the green top grass of the Martyrs` Memorial. But he is not a stray, there is his master, standing at the edge of the memorial, watching the dog tearing away into a joyous morning.
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