Woman of Letters: The end of innocence

Dear Samovar,
So, you are finally downing your shutters, disconnecting your cooking ranges, giving away all the handpicked, home spun handicrafts that had adorned your walls for five decades and departing to that great food court in the sky where erstwhile restaurants must go.

And with it you will take so many things: the notion that plonk in the middle of Mumbai's most imposing square, where institutions like the Prince of Wales Museum, the David Sassoon Library and the Elphinstone College resided, a simple, 38-year-old woman from Juhu, my mother Usha Khanna, could plant the seed of a café 50 ago, with nothing more than love, fresh air, hope and good intent.

The story has been told, but it bears re-telling: my mother had three children under twelve when she started Samovar; had never run a restaurant; knew no one who had; had no 'financial backers' or 'angel investors' or even a friendly banker; had never seen a balance sheet until then; but went on with grit and integrity, through many years of struggle and hardship to create a restaurant that became a city landmark, an internationally renowned café, beloved not only of the famous and celebrated but also of the ordinary and unknown.

And she did this with grace and style and a generosity of spirit, which might not have made her much money at the end of it all, but which reaped an unimaginable harvest of love, gratitude and respect which I can swear any billionaire businessman would give his eye teeth to receive.

But this of course, however entwined it is with the story of Samovar is the story of its creator.
And like all great things, Samovar is much more than the sum of its part.

Which is why on receiving the news of its closure, there was such an explosion of dismay, genuine sadness and anger.
Letters of tribute poured in by the hundreds, poems were written, photographs taken and in the run up to its closure, the number of articles mourning its passing, were matched only by the number of people who thronged to the café for a last meal there.

Because with Samovar going, people knew that what was leaving was not only a café, where they had spent some of the best days of their lives, but an entire value system which was leaching out of Mumbai forever.
A Mumbai where there were pockets of compassion, kindness, empathy and love even in its busiest districts; where you could go for a cup of tea and would not be hurried, or overcharged, or made to feel unwanted or expendable, whoever you were and whatever your bank balance.

Out of all the many tributes paid to Samovar, the ones that make my heart swell up in pride, are the ones from ordinary customers, who narrate again and again, how the café had not charged for a spilled mango lassi or a paratha that got cold or unasked replaced dahi wada which had gone astray.

These remembrances are cherished perhaps even more by my mother, than tributes from the famous artists, film makers, editors and international media mavens, for they speak of a way of life, a value system that is so profoundly important and which Samovar so fiercely embodied.

Because yes, of course it was charming and quaint and delightful and hip and served the best aloo parathas ever.
But, in the last weekend of its existence as we dismantle it bit by bit, what is evident is that the reason for its success was that in a city increasingly becoming more and more impersonal, businesslike and fast paced, Samovar made every one who came, feel welcomed, cherished recognized and loved.

And now, those responsible for its closure (they know who they are) should know that they have not only erased a bustling brimming café, but a value system and a way of being.

So good-bye and God speed Samovar, with your closure it is not only the end of slow afternoons and pudeena chai, but for many, the end of innocence itself.

May you live long in the memory as once what was one of Mumbai's kindest and most humane faces.
With every good wish, etc.