Meet the man who will greet Ganesha as he passes Byculla
Express News Service
Mumbai, September 6: Ten years ago when the King of Lalbaug wove through a tense Muslim thicket of Duncan Road, a modest group in skull caps had waited by the ringside, with garlands for Mumbai’s favourite Ganesha.
It was 1993, not a great year to break communal stereotypes or ignore nervous advice from a thick cordon of police.
But over this difficult 10-year passage, signs of a city steadily shedding those inhibitions are sprinkled along a bold route—unchanged for 70 years—which the Lalbaug Ganesh will rumble along for immersion on Tuesday.
Sajid Khan, a maker of chair seats (with a photo album of Ganesha immersion processions since 1990 in his cubbyhole) says his mohalla has made choices to move beyond a painful past. ‘‘Once we started joining in Hindu festivals, we made friends with our neighbours. This way there’s no tension, no lafda.’’
By the Hindustani Masjid in downtown Byculla, Maulana Abdul Jabbar Azmi presides over namaaz, then steps outside to make plans to welcome Ganpati with his flock—as the mosque’s faithful have, since 1962. ‘‘Do you know why Mumbai kept its peace after this year’s blasts? Look here. I tell my people, as I did in 1993, that we have to live here, die here. Is it not better to just stick together?’’
New to this faith is Farhan Khan, a young scrap dealer clutching an invitation to visit Lalbaug’s Raja. He was a mere bystander at the Duncan Road halt, until the good cheer worked on him two years ago.
‘‘Cops tell me this halt is now a ‘cool point’ because we give them no headache,’’ he grins widely. His job: 18-20 drums of sherbet for the guests and fussing over VIPs.
Zabiullah Shaikh, joint secretary of the Bombay Citizen Welfare Committee, recalls Ganeshotsav 1990, when only a handful of Muslims had participated at Duncan Road and Byculla. ‘‘By 1993, the atmosphere was so charged, there were more cops than locals. Yet, acceptance increased. Soon our celebrations grew to require a stage. The first stage was just 10 ft by 15 ft.’’
‘‘More Muslims, more garlands since the Eighties and Nineties,’’ says Ashok Pawar, who headed the Lalbaug Sarvajanik Ganesh Utsav Mandal in 1993.
That explains Salim Khan’s presence at Ganesha poojas at the hardline Mohammedan tenements of Bhendi Bazaar. Sixteen years ago, the Ganesha idol here was 1 inch high. As bonds were forged, the idol grew to 8 feet.
‘‘During the 1993 curfew, Hindus and Muslims like us had rushed milk, flour and essential goods door-to-door. Nobody forgot that. Sentiments have strengthened since,’’ says Salim.
Salim and 40 per cent Muslims of the Tarun Mitra Mandal fuss over Bhendi Bazaar’s Ganpati Raja. Local Muslim Secunder Pathan lords over the all-important decorations.
‘‘Our procession passes by a dargah. We proceed only after offering shawls, coconuts and a holy chaddar,’’ says Dilip Sawant, mandal head.
In a Ghatkopar slum, the good faith stands in a cross-over named Ram Rahim Ganesh Mandal.
Commerce student Jabir Khan (18) performs aarti. Sagar Suresh Singh, his 16-year-old pal, attends daily namaaz. By evening, some 40 Muslims from nearby Azadnagar arrive gingerly for aarati.
‘‘Our first Ganesha, paid for by local Muslims also,’’ smiles Anand, Sagar’s brother. He’s unemployed, but knows his mixed group is on to something serious. They forge bonds with the help of Gods.