In the late 1980s and early 1990s when I was growing up, there were mom-and-pop stores for daily essential shopping. We did not go to the mall and buy 500 gm of butter; instead, depending on how many people were at our house that day and the cash availability, bread and butter were budgeted. I remember buying half a pack of bread and 25 gm of butter, which was a quarter piece of a 100-gm pack, from our neighbourhood shop.
On our way back home, from our morning walk with baba, these shops would be open, neatly dusted, with goodies arranged enticingly at the store front, waiting for us children to throw tantrums and buy things. Two of these neighbourhood shops are etched in my memory, one where we bought bread, butter and eggs and the other one, in front of which my brother would plonk himself on the ground till a shiny new toy was bought.
Unlike the branding practices very common today, all mom-and-pop stores were given quirky names which made sense only to family members of that household. If two neighbouring families discussed where to buy things from, hilarious conversations would ensue when both would insist that the best place to buy was such and such shop, and in the end discovering they were indeed talking about the same shop.
The first time I had to write a letter for my school assignment was when I learnt the word mohalla. My home address as dictated by baba was 609 Gali Kaitwali, Mohalla Bowli, Paharganj. The word gali meant street but the word mohalla was lost on me, so I was told that it means community or area or in baba’s words sukh dukh ke saathi (companions for good times and bad). This conversation was quickly forgotten and mohalla became just a word for me.
When baba passed away, the neighbourhood spurred into action. The tent-wala Arora uncle arranged durries for the mourning meet, Chawla uncle made sure that chai was sent to our house every few hours to cater to the growing population of visitors. Noni ki mummy sent Noni and Monty to play with us, so that my younger brother would have momentary relief from all the grief. In the 13 days of mourning, I saw the annoying aunties, uncles and beejis (elderly ladies) transform into our guardian angels. There was never a shortage of food, chai or a shoulder to cry on.
After the mandatory 13 days, the mourners left, relatives went back to their houses, and I took my brother to the terrace to play. He hit the ball onto the neighbour’s terrace. Unfortunately, she was the beeji who never returned balls but puncture them and throw them out. We were very scared of her. We felt defeated, we were tired and in no mood to fight for our ball. We were quietly going back downstairs, when we heard the ‘tap tap tap’ of the plastic ball bouncing. She had returned our ball, but was trying to sneak away, so that her reputation as the neighbourhood terror stayed intact.
That day Mohalla stopped being a word on the top right hand corner of a letter, it became a feeling of belonging, of reassurance. The noisy, nosey, gruff neighbours who were more of a family than the relatives who had just left.
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