Once upon a time, nearly three score years ago, there
used to be a magical shop at the junction of Kalbadevi Road and Princess Street.
The name board in all probability read either “Valabhdas Lakhmidas & Co.” or “The
Talking Machine & Indian Record Co.”. Maybe, both. This shop, a favourite
haunt of musicians and music lovers, used to sell all manner of musical
instruments, phonographs, vinyl records and related paraphernalia. Among the
plethora of things on sale was a wind-up toy gramophone with a dark almond-hued
leather body and a detachable golden-tinted tone arm made of aluminum. The turntable
of this contraption was wobbly. In turn, the sound emanating from the sound box
was a tad scratchy and cartoonish-sounding. This did not matter, though. The
stack of 7-inch vinyl discs accompanying the wee little phonograph was a bunch
of Mother Goose’s handiwork. A nursery rhyme bonanza was my sixth-birthday gift
received scant 14 days after His Majesty’s Government received the Quit India
ultimatum from Gandhi & Co. delivered at Gowalia Tank. This historic venue,
later christened August Kranti Maidan,
is, as the crow flies, a kilometer or so away from my childhood residence at 233 Khetwadi Main Road http://bit.ly/1fcggIG and a couple of
kilometers away from that musical corner
of Kalbadevi Road and Princess Street. That, boys and girls, is how and when I
first heard of Jack and Jill, Little Jack Horner, Hickory Dickory Dock, Little
Miss Muffet, Humpty Dumpty, Ol’ King Cole, the Quite Contrary Mary, the other
Mary with her Little Lamb, Old Mother Hubbard, Wee Willie Winkie, Little Boy
Blue, Three Wise Men of Gotham, Solomon Grundy, The Old Woman in a Shoe, Baby Bunting, Georgie Porgie, Itsy Bitsy
Spider, Jack Sprat, Little Bo Peep, Little Boy Blue among others. I became
aware of their celebrated eccentricities by and by. Only much, much later did I
read the various Freudian and post-modern reinterpretations of Mother Goose’s
handiwork that completely strips them of every shred of childlike innocence.