The empowered Ferry Wharf society

Excited at the sight of the fresh catch of prawns, sardines and mackerel being auctioned, packed into baskets and being loaded into trucks and taxis, Rebecca, my researcher friend from Cardiff, UK, began moving around on her own.

The 7am breeze felt lovely at Ferry Wharf, awash in warm morning tones. Unmindful of the pungent, all-pervading fishy odour, I savoured the scene. It is not often one turns off Dockyard Road to head to one of Mumbai’s oldest non-touristy waterfront.

I got busy chatting with some maushis (that’s what years of training in haggling at fish markets makes you call fisherwomen), who were taking a beedi break in their long day, which had begun at 2.30am in Kalyan on the first local train. I told them that I, too, had lived in Kalyan. Tea was offered.

After a good deal at the auction, they had plonked themselves on handcarts with an eagle’s eye on the loaders. Amused, I gazed around and realised that they seemed leagues ahead of their office-going sorority when it came to calling the shots.

Apart from the loads of heavy gold they wore, they were the ones carrying wads of notes, smoking and swearing at the fishermen who’d brought the catch in, the drivers, the porters and the chaiwallahs on bicycle-mounted mobile tea-shops. Though men vastly outnumbered women, it was easy to see who was in charge.

Suddenly, I noticed Rebecca agitatedly gesturing to me. She told me that a cabbie had touched her indecently and his friends were laughing at her protests. Angry, my voice rose as I confronted them and this seemed to grab the attention of the four koli women I was chatting with.

They walked over. “Kay zaala re (What happened)?” asked the eldest among the fiery matriarchs. Once told, she grabbed the cabbie’s collar and the others immediately formed a cordon around Rebecca.

“Masti ali kay (you want to act smart)?” she asked as she flung her beedi and raised her hand.
Alarmed, the cabbie’s friends slunk away. After feeble protests, the cabbie realised what his odds were and folded his hands. “Madam, sorry bolta hoon. Bolo na yeh log ko. (I’m apologising. Tell them to let me go),” he pleaded.

But the vice-like grip on his collar did not loosen. The lady looked askance at Rebecca and only when she said she didn’t want to pursue the matter further was he let off with a warning that the next time he would get a thrashing and be handed over to the police.

Rebecca grabbed her saviours’ hands and the five of them just stood quietly in what can only be called a Mumbai-meri-jaan moment even as the Ferry Wharf bustle carried on.