In Other Times
An extraordinary chapter in the life of Juhu
Call it childhood’s innocence or arrogance — but we never thought it odd that throughout our growing years in Juhu, Sunday mornings were spent in a stately, book-lined lodge, singing ancient and new age hymns under the benign gaze of long-departed European spiritualists and occultists and one very alive and present Parsi heiress and cultural provocateur — Jer Jussawalla.
Bright-eyed in our crisply- ironed whites, it was here, we’d congregate, to quickly slip on our coloured satin collars, as members of the international order of the round table, an outreach of the worldwide Theosophy movement, founded by the Russian dowager Helena Blavatsky, in the late 19th century.
It was electric blue for the ‘pages’, parrot green for the ‘companions’, a deep purple for the ‘squires’ and finally, the order’s ultimate achievement –a jaunty pink, to signify the attainment of ‘knighthood’.
As the first few notes of a furiously —pedalled organ rose —we had to form a queue in the lodge’s verandah, overlooking the small shed that housed my kindergarten school, and when the hymn had gathered momentum, the senior-most amongst us, had to knock three times on the door.
“Who Stands Without?” a voice from inside would grandly demand. And on being satisfied with our response, the door would open and our little crocodile, led by a junior page, crushed under the weight of an enormous ceremonial sword and shield, followed by a ‘thurifer’ (whose job was to gracefully swing their ‘thurible’ so that the air was filled with the fragrance of heady loban) would make its entry.
Inside, there’d be chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the empty ‘throne’ bedecked in red, representing the universal power of God, in whose direction there’d be salutations and obeisance and some pretty robust singing. And the ceremony would end with Jer’s fervent prayer, delivered with eyes closed, arms akimbo:
‘O Hidden Life, vibrant in every atom;
O Hidden Light, shining in every creature;
O Hidden Love, embracing all in Oneness;
May all who feel as one with Thee,
Know they are therefore one with each other.’ and bohemian; after all, she practiced yoga, swam daily in the Arabian sea, romped around the beach in shorts, meditated, expounded peace and universal brotherhood, never married and spent her money just as she pleased.
That Theosophy, founded and championed by highminded, freethinking refined European women, would appeal to the Jussawalla ladies, with their Iranian ancestry was a foregone conclusion, certainly, all that piano playing, old lace and incense appeared to be a natural fit, for both Jer and her mother and soon Besant Villa became the centrifugal force in its growth and dissemination in the sleepy suburb.
This was just as well because it could have been just as likely that the ladies could have fallen under the thrall of that other great movement, founded by another European philosopher —Karl Marx— whose ideas had enchanted their immediate neighbours including Balraj Sahni and my late parents, whose cottages lay right next door in the same colony.
If all this gives the impression that our childhood was an esoteric precocious phenomenon crammed with solemn rites and rituals, it would be half the truth. Because as much exposure as Jer afforded us to spirituality, through our Sunday round table meetings, she made sure that there was even more emphasis given to fun and games, outings and escapades.
Most of these were centred around her capacious convertible jalopy, chauffeured by her trusty old driver, who would ferry at least a dozen or so high-spirited youth, standing on the back seat of the top-down car, singing at the top of their voices, to newer and ever invigorating adventures across the city. Chances are if you came across a vociferous bunch of young people singing robustly in the back seat of a vintage jalopy in the sixties and seventies, it was us - Mumbai’s answer to the Von Trapps, down to the last guitar chord.
There were trips to old people’s homes to perform small tasks and services, weekends at the Muktananada ashram or field trips to hear Swami Chinmayanada speak, along with frequent picnics, bonfires and camping expeditions. And when we were not haring around the city, we were engrossed in putting up plays like Light of Asia and The Merchant of Venice at Besant Villa and at least once a year during our school vacations, Jer would cart us all off to a hill station, where amidst trekking and picnicking, we would be afforded a scholar’s insight into the works of Bach or Oscar Wilde.
What is extraordinary and speaks of the times we lived in, is that as if all this exposure to the arts, culture and religions of the world were not enough, Jer undertook all the travel arrangements, responsibility and safety of over two dozen or more high spirited young people, with minimum fuss or expense, to the enduring gratitude of our parents who busy as they were making ends meet and fulfilling their creative pursuits never questioned her largesse or her motives.
As for us children and its beneficiaries, it is with a measure of shame that I say that we accepted it all without giving it much thought as one of the neighbourhood’s rites of passage.
It is only now when I look back that I marvel at how much it enriched and enhanced our lives and what an act of generosity it was.