Life at Hari Niwas

Life at Hari Niwas

Mumbai today is a far cry from one I lived and loved in 1975. The city then had grace, beauty, elegance, and elan. My stay in Hari Niwas on C road, Churchgate is a part of those memories.

I arrived early morning at 6 am at the Bombay central station from Ahmedabad. A freshly minted MBA wet behind ears, wide-eyed with starry dreams to work in a big bad city. The company I worked for was considerate and had deputed Natarajan, a guest house caretaker, to meet me at the station.
Natarajan was to become my friend, philosopher, and guide for the next year. Natarajan was taciturn in his speech, not because he did not want to talk, but knew a few words of English and a few more of Tamil. He guided our taxi driver with the economy of the words and gestures that Bombay is well known for.

Hari Niwas is where my company guest house was on C road, off Marine Drive, two minutes walk from the station, and five minutes to the center of all actions for a young heart like me. Eros cinema, Astoria hotel with Venice bar, Gaylord, Talk of Town, K. Rustom, Kemling, India Tea House, and Marine Drive promenade. For a small-town soul like me, Churchgate station was itself amazement and the 8th wonder of this world.

The guest house was a large flat with a sitting room and three bedrooms. But Natrajan and I used to be the sole occupant. I was his only client, so Natrajan waited to obey my commands. On my command 'breakfast Natrajan', he will rustle up omelet and toasts. Shout 'washing Natarajan' and he will collect clothes for washing and ironing. Just holler 'paper, Natrajan' and he will fetch it for me from the central hall to the dining table. The only time his face showed a flicker of a smile was when I added a tip on top of my monthly bill.

My office was in a deprecated world-war II building on P. De'Mello road behind GPO. I would undertake that enduring walk daily from the Churchgate station to GPO via endless colonnades of Fort. My office comprised my private secretary Mrs. Hinduja and two wily salesmen Gandhi and Shibu. Each one of them was so colorful and eccentric that they deserve a blog of their own.

Regal, Strand, and Sterling were a stone throw away from my office and it was not unusual for me to take an afternoon off from my work to watch Guns Of Navarone or The day of Jacal in one of these splendid cinema halls.

In the evenings, I was a familiar face at the Venice bar at the Astoria hotel behind Eros cinema. I was introduced to Gin & Tonic in this fabled second world war favorite watering place. My evening meals were always at the iconic Satkar restaurant near Churchgate station, usually a plate of puri-bhaji at the cost of Rs.3.50. There was no TV in 1975, so my post-dinner walks took me up to Churchgate station to buy magazines for bedtime reading.

Hari Niwas was populated by the rich Sindhis. Returning home and going up in the lift was never without smelling imported perfume or in the company of bejeweled women. The men talked in share market lingo that was foreign to me.

I spent pleasurable one year in Hari Niwas. Boarding Gujarat Mail at Bombay central station and saying farewell to Natrajan brought tears to my eyes. As the train exited the station, I realized tears were as much of farewell as of my joy of returning home, closer to my friends, family, my girlfriend, and to my tiny one-bedroom flat in lush green and leafy Sweta society behind St. Xavier College in Ahmedabad.

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