There is something about the quintessentially Irani cafes that can't be separated from the city of Bombay. They are integral part of Bombay’s identity.
Mosaic tiled floors, high ceilings, bent wood chairs with marble table tops with checked table covers, walls covered with mirrors in sheesham / teak wood frames, flakes of wall colour peeling, dusty, oily cabinets and hell lot of noise and amazing energy with heady concoction of the divine aroma of freshly baked delectable cakes/breads wafting in air, tempting one’s senses, this is what an Irani cafe of Bombay is all about and much more! There is reason why people still throng to these cafes; great food, good quality, quick service and its old world interior and charm of comforting familiarity that makes people across all the ages and classes feel absolutely at home.
Unfortunately, Irani cafes are fading from rich tapestry of heritage of Bombay and every time I hear about an old place with rich history, closing down, it pains me deeply.
I have been reading about one of the Bombay's famous Irani cafés of the yester years, B.Merwan, shutting the shop. Since last week, a few friends on facebook have posted pictures and write ups about the nostalgic times spent there, compelling me to pay a visit fearing being disowned as an “outsider” by the true Bombayites.
It was my first and alas last visit to B.Merwan. I was completely heartbroken! I was sad to realize what all I missed out in all these years and ashamed by my callous disregard for a place that I used to pass by almost every day, while going for my pottery classes a few months back! Maybe I had seen the place but not noticed. Maybe I was too freaked by the taxies barging in furiously, hawkers shouting at top of the voice and so much crowd and noise and felt claustrophobic and always rushed to the studio with my complete focus on not being crushed by any vehicle or stepping on colourful discharge being spewed by hawkers and passersby. Or, maybe, like most of other people, I did not care!
Two days back, when I went there, feeling completely out of place amidst the crowd of men, it took me a while to ask the owner, "Sir, may I take a few photographs please?" "Take only two three. Not more. And don't take my picture." Like an obedient child, I hurriedly took a few photographs, struggling to ignore glances from men baffled by my presence and camera. Within those few minutes I could sense endless tales pregnant within. A piece of history important for the city was going to be shut forever. And I was not part of it because I chose not to. I bought one of the few walnut cakes that were left and rushed back home with pangs of guilt and shame.
