I love to go to Aamchi Mumbai ….a place which is still home to me …though I have lived most of my life in Dubai. Home is where the heart is and fortunately my heart is both in Mumbai and Dubai…so lucky to have two homes.

I always look forward to my Mumbai visits…there was a time when we visited Bombay annually as we went according to our children’s school vacations and stayed for around one and a half month or so…nowadays we visit Mumbai frequently sometimes even every two months or so but for a few days…In fact I have often overheard people saying that Dubai people should have a plane ka pass as they come so often..😊. But then Dubai is just three hours away and the lure of ones birthplace and meeting your near and dear ones is too irresistible.

Mumbai for me is Kataria Colony…my childhood home..and now my parents home. Though I just stay two minutes away so I am still a part of the colony. I love my Kataria Colony…the moment I reach Mumbai …I keep my luggage and rush to meet my mother who is bed ridden…the moment I enter the gates of Kataria Colony I feel as if I am being welcomed by my loved ones…a sense of peace..quiet and love embraces me.

I remember the time when I was just eleven yrs old and shifted to Kataria Colony. It was a new place and first time we were part of community living. Soon I made friends and I remember my childhood years being full of fun and laughter..there was no dearth of company and we played outdoor games like Kabbadi….Kho..Kho….Seven Tiles…Badminton etc etc. We would go to each other’s houses in the afternoon after school and I remember my mother would gives us a huge plate of kairis…cucumber and raddish cut and sprinkled with salt..pepper..red chilli powder and a dash of lemon juice. That was a feast for me and my friends as I was not fond of fruits but loved these chatpata kairis.

As young teenagers our favourite meeting point in the evenings were the benches and they were all packed with different age groups of boys and girls. There would be laughter resounding from all sides and we would try to sit as long as possible…all reluctant to go home…till one fine day we were given a warning that at 9pm sharp the bell would ring and we all had to reluctantly rush home. Though we were very smart and instead of going home we would quietly sneak to some building staircase and sit there and chatter away for some more time …really the good old times…never to be forgotten.

The Colony also has a beautiful temple . Here it is that Poojas and festivals are performed with great religious fervour. Adjoining is our Community Hall which has been a witness to innumerable marriages…kirtans….festivals and sadly also Chauthas of the departed souls. As I said the Colony is like a mini city so we even have a Ration Shop which fulfills all our needs and a vegetable seller who comes daily to sell her wares. So even if one cannot go out all ones needs are taken care of within the four walls of the Colony…what more can one ask for ? There was a time when we had a small stall managed by Jaman Uncle who sold delicious…Khatta Daboti…Bhaji Pao.Chaklis…Khara biscuits etc..that would be our evening snack…later we had Tikam Uncle and His son Guli who sold mouth watering chola bread…khasturi sandwich..Pattice etc…not to forget our favourite Vimto…Gold Spot…Rasberry and Soda with a Goti inside it. My mouth is watering even thinking about it all. Nowadays we rely on the Bhelpuriwala outside the Colony…and the vada pao and bhaji pao wala near the Colony.

We are all indeed lucky that our great ancestor Shri Takandas Kataria had the foresight to build Kataria Colony for the Bhagnari Community and he tried to put as many Bhagnari’s as possible together and in this way we became united and today we proudly say “We Bhagnaris”. The best part of our Colony is that it is a place where we have everything..there is a large open space which is surrounded by benches and right in the centre is our famous Anarkali platform or “thala” as we call it. Here it is that our mothers and aunts would all sit and exchange news..recipes..gossip etc…they were young ..full of life and they exuded so much love and warmth for all of us..there was always laughter echoing there…but now most of them have left for their heavenly abode and the few that are left are either bed ridden or even if they come down are lonely and it is sad to see them so weak and fragile..Time they say spares no one even the bravest and the ones who were leaders of our community through their foresight or because of their willingness to take on responsibilities today are no more…I still remember their names as my mother and my neighbour Padmini Aunty and my dear aunt Isho would often speak about them… they would often talk about Chiman Maa (my dadi). Hasananand di Ma (my Nani)..Suri Aunty…Gagi Ma..Tharu Ma….Shale Ma. Susheela Kataria..my friend Ashi Talreja’s lovable mother Aunty Rani Nasta.. Batto Aunty.. Niyaali Aunty(my friend Sabita and Latis grandmother) and many more… I call them the Jhansi ki Ranis of our community. ..but after them it was the next generation who took over the mantle of keeping the Bhagnari unity strong. There my dear cousin Sita Aunty was in the forefront…she had the leadership qualities and more so because her husband our dear uncle Naraindas was the Mukhi of our community. Narain Uncle is still fondly remembered by all as the most truthful and hardworking person…he strived always for the betterment of our community always in the forefront in trying to help the needy Bhagnaris. Kudos to him . Not to forget our great Mr. Harkishendas Gehani who was our very capable Mukhi…i still remember the picnics and outings he arranged for the community people. .Generation to generation fortunately we have always had torch bearers as you would say who carry on the tradition of keeping the unity alive…we now have Mr.Lachu Gehi. who is doing a great service to the community welfare and he is ably supported by Ramesh Poplay and many others. How can we forget Manju Dudeja who is so diligent and who so efficiently looks after all the Pooja’s…festivals..kirtans ..picnics etc. I think we should thank each one of these earnest people who are trying their best to be a help to our community. It is a selfless service…so all the more it should be appreciated.

Now when I sit on the same familiar and much loved benches with my friends ..we still remember our good old times…younger generations have come in…most of whom I don’t know but still there is a feeling of apnapan…people you don’t know will still smile and say a hello.. you talk to the older generation who are happy to be spoken to as I know old age is a lonely age… time goes on …years roll by…memories remain. So glad I am a part of a community as One fears loneliness and here One knows that they will never be alone…all are there for each other. I have always believed in the saying.. United we stand…..Divided we fall..

So apt the title “WE BHAGNARIS”

Jo bolega sukhi hoyega bol Sada Shiv! This chant signaled the end of the pooja and aarti, and also meant it was time for that very special Prasad made by her- thaadal. But I had to wait, till I broke my fast.

In those hot, sticky August days a cold glass of thaadal was like nectar to parched souls. It didn’t help either that I was a young girl of 13 doing her very first chaumasa fast. And to top it off it was Naanis thaadal.

Chaumasa poojas were always special. Held every Monday afternoon in our colony temple it felt like a festival. The shiv ling would be given a bath, and then decorated with pretty flowers and chandan by equally well dressed ladies. Katha would follow and then we would go into the aarti which would be sung with so much gusto( or hunger) that even the rain Gods would send us a little rain to cool us off.

In my little mind the temple bells that rung during the aarti were a sign for every household that thaadal was on the way. Sure enough a line would form outside of maids with containers and glasses in their hands eagerly waiting for their share.

And naani would begin her process, washing the buckets, pouring milk out of the the plastic thelis into the buckets,(cut very carefully so they could be used for storage again) and then creating magic.
Naani always kept all her thaadal making utensils separately. She had a special cheesecloth potli for her thaadal masala, the scent of which brought promises of something delicious everytime. Into the milk the potli would go, flavouring, infusing, settling into every little drop as if mocking all those waiting dabbas and glasses with glee. Finally those dabbas and glasses would be filled and satisfied the crowds would return home.

Back at Naanis home, we would get ready to break our fast. Along with all of Naanis delicious cooking we would each get a glass of thaadal. Even though I would fill up on the feast, I always had place for a glass, for that glass was filled with love that was unlike any other- Naanis love for bholenaath. Milky, sweet, delicately flavoured with a mix of unique spices, lightly colored with a hint of saffron- thaadal- no one made it the way Naani did!

Bol Sada Shiv!!

I was instructed to call her “Badi Mummy”—I was told this directly translated to “Big Mom”—a concept I understood solely in English as “Grandmother.”

I met Badi Mummy, my paternal grandmother, for the first memorable time when I was five. I had heard that she was really nice but I remember her being mostly mean, at least from my first impression of her. Of course, I could not understand a single word she spoke, so whether there was kindness in the meaning of words was negligible to me because somehow I managed to hear only frustration in her tone.

Neither could Badi Mummy understand me. Being raised in an English-only household for most (if not all) of my life has created a disconnect between me and what this entire blog initiative represents. This disconnect needs to be mitigated. My parents—both (proudly) Bhagnari—used Hindi and Bhagnari while I was growing up for one of two purposes: when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying, or, on long distance phone calls home to their birthplace.

Meeting Badi Mummy felt abrupt mostly because it was. A new person, a new language, a new culture, a new city, a new country, a new face, a new place. Everything new, everything unfamiliar. At the age of five, suddenly being told the unfamiliar person in front of you is your grandmother—and then not being able to communicate with her—is a fact of my past that has always felt unsettling and guilt-inducing.

Everyone is supposed to like their grandmother. How could I like my grandmother if I couldn’t even understand her? They say love is a universal language but what does that actually mean to a confused, wide-eyed five year old?

Most of my stories of my Bhagnari identity, in actuality, are stories of my not being Bhagnari (enough) and are therefore stories of my attempts to approximate myself to an unknown. An unknown that I am somehow supposed to naturally relate to because it runs through my veins.

Today what runs through my veins is endangered and thus, my contributions to this blog are equally in the hopes of preserving our community’s collective memories as much as in the hopes of preserving bits and pieces of myself.

The first time I came to India was when I was conceived, of which I have no recollection.

The second time I came to India, I also have no recollection of. I was one or two and I had come because my maternal grandmother had passed away and my family needed to pay a visit. I never acquired a term to regard my maternal grandmother because I unfortunately never needed language for that purpose. She died before I could speak, before I could meet her, before I could speak to her, before I possessed a concrete identity—more facts of my past that have always felt unsettling but less guilt-inducing.

The third time I came to India was when I was five and I remember a few things. But not everything. This prose comprises a (funny) story of Badi Mummy and I getting lost in translation:

I had walked with my dad from Kataria Colony in the morning to a place called Govind Nivas which was apparently where my dad had grown up. He dropped me off at Govind Nivas and I found myself in a room within an unknown place—apparently referred to as a flat—suddenly under Badi Mummy’s sole care. I remember some of the interactions that transpired but only vaguely. She didn’t seem to smile much and everything she said confused me, in a frightening way because she clearly wanted me to understand what she was saying. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t fulfill my grandmother’s desire. Her language confused me. Not knowing what she was saying made me fearful. I felt trapped. I felt alone.

Nobody was there to translate so I kept listening to her to no avail. Suddenly, I heard a familiar word that every child would naturally get excited about. My eyes lit up. “Tum cookie chaiye?” I had no idea what “tum” and “chaiye” meant but my recognition of the word “cookie“ (spoken through an accent) inspired a smile to spread across my face. I don’t remember if I also produced the word “yes” or maybe even “haan” but Badi Mummy vanished into the kitchen. I happily awaited the arrival of Oreos or Chips Ahoys.

After a few minutes, Badi Mummy emerged with something that looked nothing like any cookie I had ever known. It was flat, really big, warm, and tasted salty. Yuck. I had wondered why she had brought me a tortilla and I moved the steel plate to the side and said a universally-understood “no.” Badi Mummy made a sincere frown and pressed her hand against the air in my direction—a universally-understood gesture to wait. She turned on the TV and disappeared into the kitchen again.

I sat there watching Tom and Jerry and this time, she emerged after ten minutes with a proud smile on her face and presented me with the exact same tortilla, except this time, it was not warm but hot. I started to cry and around this time my dad came back. He seemed concerned and asked me why I was crying.

“Badi Mummy promised me cookies and she keeps bringing me these instead.” My dad, the translator, started to laugh and said something quickly to Badi Mummy who also started to laugh. Them laughing, me crying, and these strange, flat cookies occupied the room—this flat called Govind Nivas.

“Sahil, these are called ‘khoki,’” my dad explained, “I used to eat these for breakfast.” He looked at my face and continued, “But we can get you cookies. in India we call them ‘biscuits.’”

Badi Mummy got up and brought from the kitchen a slew of biscuits.

In this trip, I learned what khoki was (something which I wouldn’t like until becoming older). I learned about Parle-G, Marie, Hide and Seek, Bourbon and Nice biscuits…cookies that I would rarely encounter when back in the US. In this trip, I learned the translanguaging of love, from my grandmother to her grandchild. It’s an experience I’ve been processing and reprocessing even after Badi Mummy’s death.

I was nearly a teenager and my family was in our home in San José, California. We were watching a Bollywood movie in our living room that rainy night. (I was reading the subtitles throughout.) My sister and I were seated on the carpet and each parent on one couch. It was late at night, yet the phone rang. My dad paused the movie and left to answer it. His tone was sober and the call seemed short. He returned and said something in Hindi (or Bhagnari?) to my mom. She acknowledged what he said and he promptly pressed play and then my sister leaned towards me and out of nowhere whispered, “I think Badi Mummy died.” I’ve never understood what force of intuition existed for my sister to perceive this. Maybe she had understood their interaction.

I glanced at my dad’s face as I thought about how Dada, his dad, had passed just the year prior. It all felt so recent, but also so distant. I analyzed my dad’s face and he looked like someone who was sitting in a very warm room. His skin looked moist and red and his eyes looked somewhat in-between dry and moist.

“Dad?” He paused the film. My tactless pre-teen self blurted out, “Did Badi Mummy die?” I asked, echoing my sister’s words, now to my dad, in the form of a question. As if it were my question to own. As if it were his question to field. I remember him nodding stoically and returning to press play.

I can’t remember what film we were watching. I don’t know if he can either. But every time I eat khoki today, since it is something I enjoy more than I should (considering I don’t yet know how to make it) I remember to honor Badi Mummy who whipped up a fresh batch just for me. She’s not someone I knew well and quite honestly, not someone I ever grew to like (a guilt that will die with me) but I come from her and she loved me the way she could best.