A colleague’s chance remark brought back memories of the once-upon-a-time ubiquitous vinyl records. And then I read an article which claimed that vinyl records had a ‘warm’ sound. Voila, how true! As I dived into my hazy memory, I felt those words extremely true.

That was it. The urge to own one again started.

For those who were born this side of the nineties, vinyl records were standard music storage formats, till about the eighties when the audio-cassettes took over. They were often called ‘long-playing records’ or simply LP’s (there were smaller versions too, which carried just the ‘singles’). In a way (and in an uncanny genetical resemblance as well) they were the grand-dads to compact-discs.

I always loved the records. As a child, I used to fascinately watch those large black discs languidly rotate on the player, with the ultra-thin needle nimbly moving over shiny black lines demarcating each number. It’s one of those childhood loves that never really dies down; it just slips into misty sub-consciousness.

I had a record-player till about 1996. It was part of a tall Akai system, and when we sold it off (to make way for a more sophisticated Sony 3-CD changer player), out went the record-player too.

By that time, in any case, finding LP’s was incredibly tedious. The audio companies had stopped publishing them (and the last one I have seen is of Maine Pyaar Kiya, though I am told HMV had released LP’s as late as the release of Dil To Pagal Hai!). No modern shop kept them. I had to travel to far-off & crowded Chandni Chowk – and there too, only one shop stocked a somewhat decent fare, and selling vinyls was certainly not their primary motive. From this cluttered store, I bought quite a few – notable amongst them being of Teesri Kasam . In 1995, I had traveled to Calcutta on work, and had managed to squeeze in time to visit the HMV store. I bought three there, the best buy being a rare Lata Mangeshkar compilation that had ten marvellous Shankar-Jaikishan fifties numbers. Earlier, a college-mate had gifted me Guide. From my dad’s collection two hot favorites (which I played most regularly) were Sangam and Dharam-Veer. I also owned the LP of Sanyasi - a loss that pains me most, because since then I haven’t been able to find a decent quality cassette or cd containing the full songs.

Now, with the urge renewed afresh, I looked around exasperated. From where do I find something that has been out of fashion for more than a decade?!

Then realization hit me- I am in Mumbai: the place where all those music I crave for originated; the mecca of show-biz; the city where old music-propogating groups (like Keep Alive) are able to pull in huge crowds…surely, this place will have kept the traditional listening mode alive!

Enquiries to the same brought curious looks (LP records? Are you crazy?) to derision (Oh you are that old to want such a thing!) to arguments ( But aren’t CD’s better, without the hiss and crackle?) to – thankfully – some directions, however nebulous they be.

The Other Bombay

My friend M provided the best clues – Princess Street, Crawford Market or Chor Bazaar, she informed. Ok, great! But where are they? Out came the forgotten city map, and armed with some vague directions, I started my quest one Sunday afternoon. Princess Street is closed on Sundays, but from the shop sign-boards I judged it wasn’t the ideal place.

Crawford Market (for all it’s high sounding name) turned out to be a huge disappointment. This is Crawford Market? I wailed to M over the phone. This dirty, dust-smeared, stinking, filth-ridden, paint-peeled piece of British-Victorian stone enclosure? Crawford Market has not only lost its name (it’s officially Jyotiba Phule Market) but also its original grandeur.

Nothing there – though several pushy salesmen tried to sell off various perfumes and talcs and what-nots. I rushed out to the open…and breathed!

From Crawford Market, where I had parked my vehicle, I started walking towards Chor Bazaar (Don’t dare to take your vehicle, warned M’s husband. They will steal your own tyres and sell it back to you). At first, I sheepishly and fearfully asked passer-bys for Chor Bazaar (what will they think?), but I soon realized that no one is bothered.

I followed the directions, till the time a well-meaning elderly stated that it is advisable to hire a cab, as Chor Bazaar is some distance away.

Walking through Kalbadevi,( and later in taxi via Null Bazaar, Falkland Road, Grant Road et al) I realized, there is indeed a side of Bombay, which is completely insulated both-ways :- neither have they allowed the world to come in, nor of course, the other Bombay cares to talk about it or acknowledge it. These were places I had vaguely heard of somewhere in the past … but I don’t think I ever read about them in newspapers even!

I held a mix of responses – fascination, excitement, fear & curiosity.

So these lanes and bylanes complexly form Null Bazaar. And here is Falkland Road – limited spaced buildings looming over the narrow street; above, wires meshed in an haphazard criss-cross and drying clothes vied for the restricted air-space. And oh, that lady wearing an alarmingly garish lipstick, there is something not right about her. Few meters away, another one, and then a third, fourth – looking at you with luring eyes and lusty smiles. The taxi maneovers out into a bigger street. I try to catch the name from signposts and signboards. Both are rusty and dirty. The road is lined up with shops on one side, wooden stuff, iron material, odds and ends on another, with jumbled up traffic & crowd in between. From a shop’s rusted signboard I recognize the name – Grant Road. A road I had visited years back, then young, on a company training tour, and still the time when beer bars were legal!

I blurt out, so this is Grant Road? Jee sahab, replies the taxi driver, who evidently doesn’t know where Chor Bazar is and leaves me off in front of a lane, which looks like some sort of furniture market.

With some difficulty, I reach the place. At first, my heart stops a beat – it resembles a vehicle junk-yard. Cars are being stripped and ripped apart. Crowd in similar attires. A religious clarion call. Cluttered Shops. Signboards in two languages.

Later, I trudge through few streets, and voila! I am transported into a totally different variety of shops… these small entities carry an entire past in them. Here you can buy those quaint old telephones (that had separate mouth-and-ear pieces) or those bulky cameras or those alarm clocks that you would have seen only in your grandma’s photos and myriad other such items. With jaws dropped, I rummage through each shop’s wares…and like an excited kid let loose in a toy shop, I call M and tell her what I see.

Yes, there were record players too. Including those ‘bhonpu’ ones, that you would recognize from HMV’s logo.

I nearly bought one workable Philips player. But the asking price was beyond what I had expected. Plus, it was too obviously ‘second-hand’, with the mica peeled off from one-side. In my imagination, I had planned to own a sleeker and shinier piece.

On return, before hiring a cab back to Crawford Market (where my car was), I walked quite a bit of Grant Road … till the now defunct beer bar that I had tremblingly visited in my mid-twenties. Memories crowded in. No, there was a genuine crowd (some festival, I was told) and I rushed back.

Even though I couldn’t buy the record player that day – yet, it was invigorating & stimulating and one which is etched in my memory forever.

As for the player, I found another colleague (in Pune) who shares similar interests. He told me he could help me find one there. If that doesn’t happen, I will be back to Chor Bazar and clinch the deal at the shop-keeper’s price.