St. Jude Bakery

Early mornings in Ranwar village had its own soundtrack in the nineties.

On exam days, I’d wake up at 5:00am to the sound and smell of hot bread trays being pulled out of the oven and stacked one above the other at Jude Bakery or ‘Saint’ Jude Bakery for those who weren’t from Ranwar. This was followed by the sound of the milkman riding past our window. His milk cans banging against the sides of his cycle like a tambourine accompanying his morning burps. At 5:30am the first local train rolled out of Bandra station. The sound of its horn could be heard all the way up in my bedroom 3 kilometres away. And then there was the church bell that rang out at 6:00am, reminding us all that God was awake and brushing his teeth.

When we were growing up as kids, breakfast was always bread (Pao) and butter. No jam, no porridge, no cereal, rarely eggs because I hated the taste. I think I ate bread with butter for nearly 30 years of my life and 27 of those years was bread freshly baked at Jude Bakery, which was right in front of our house. Today, whilst baking my own bread in the oven, I am remembering breakfasts at home as a kid: buttered bread, dinner rolls, sweet buns and Jude Bakery.

As a kid, I used to make 2, sometimes 3 visits a day to Jude Bakery.

The owner, Mr. Dsouza, was a bald, lanky old man who never missed a day at the bakery. He was there every morning at 6am, dressed in a white shirt, grey trousers and white Nike sneakers. I can still remember the smell of freshly baking bread waking me up from dreams and nightmares, reassuring me that all was right with the world.

My mother would send me out to pick up the first batch of soft bread.

“Go while they're still hot," she’d say.

Mr. Dsouza would be seated in his chair, crouched over his book of accounts.

Above him, hung a 40 watt bulb that gave a special shine to his bald head.

He would look up from his book when he heard my voice.

“Good morning baba,” he’d shout at me.

He was hard of hearing, brought on by old age and/or the thick bush of hair that grew out of his ears like a bouquet of dead flowers. I would order the usual 8 loaves.

Mr. Dsouza would nod his head like I’d asked for the most expensive bottle of wine and bark orders to his bakery staff who were still busy shovelling trays in and out of the oven.

On some days, if Mr. Dsouza was in a good mood, which was usually after he was done with his accounts, he’d let me into the bakery to have a look at the giant oven in the back room, and if he was feeling especially generous, he’d offer me a bottle of chilled Goldspot.

The bakery was divided into three parts.

The front, which was the smallest part, was not more than fourteen feet in length and about four feet wide. The back room was where the bakers worked and the loft above was where they slept at night. The front facade of the bakery consisted of floor to ceiling glass showcases filled with a variety of breads, various kinds of biscuits, chips and soft drink bottles that had changed color over time. In the middle of the glass showcase facade was a pastry counter on which you placed your orders.

At any given time there would be around ten to fifteen men working in the back room; sweat dripping from their bare-bodies as they worked on the dough, while others lined up the trays in the oven. Then there were the ones I called the ‘White Bakers’ who were always covered in flour: Hair, face, beard, hands, everything. Most of the men who worked at the bakery were not from the city and didn’t have separate living quarters. They worked in the backroom, shared a tiny bathroom cum toilet the size of a porta potty and slept in the loft above.

This was one of the tiniest and busiest store fronts in Bandra and yet Jude Bakery never followed a queuing system because in India queuing systems only work outside public toilets. At Jude Bakery, you simply had to push your way through the crowd.

After successfully nose-diving my way under armpits and over coconut-oiled hair, I would have all of five seconds to place my order before the crowd standing behind me would have their collective weight pushed against my back as if desperately trying to get out of a train at Dadar Station. But, none of it mattered to Dsouza, who would be contemplating my 100 rupee note in the dim bulb that hung over his head. He was always suspicious of big notes; as if big notes had no place in a village like Ranwar.

I learned to bake bread during the pandemic and one of the reasons I enjoy the process is the rewarding smell of bread baking in the oven. It takes me back to early mornings in Bandra, standing outside Jude Bakery in the quiet and still hours before sunrise.

The smell of fresh bread brings back memories of Ranwar village and all the people and things that I miss.

Mr. Dsouza passed away almost thirteen years ago. There was a small handwritten announcement pasted on the bakery shutters with the funeral details.

A week later, the shutters were up again and it was business as usual. Mr. Dsouza’s wife had taken over right where he’d left off.

Dressed in a gold sari and white Nike sneakers, Mrs. Dsouza seemed to have her work cut out for her. I know what you're thinking, and yes, the thought did cross my mind, but no, I don't think she wore Mr. Dsouza's sneakers. But, a few months later she’d sprained her ankle and visits to the bakery became less frequent, until one day the shutters remained closed for the second time that year. Only this time, they were never to open again, at least, not as Jude Bakery.

Nobody knew what was to become of Jude Bakery. Some months later, we heard that a restauranteur had bought the place and converted it into a sort of experimental space and test kitchen for the restaurant business. In 2014, Jude Bakery awoke from its deep slumber and played the muse to a graffiti artist who gave the bakery its current look as part of a street art festival. A few years later, I had the good fortune of staging a play in this ‘experimental space’ which, incidentally, was still called 'Jude Bakery'. It was a very special experience for me because it gave me the freedom to explore the space from a very different perspective.

And speaking of a different perspective, did you know that Jude Bakery wasn’t always a bakery? I only learned about that fact very recently from my father. Before Mr. Dsouza’s Jude Bakery, there lived a family called the Mirandas who owned the house where the bakery stood. The had a tiny verandah, which was almost the same size as the store front. They even had a pigsty at the back of the house. My father remembers sitting in the Miranda’s house, playing cards with their son, Charley Miranda.

My father isn’t quite sure about the dates, but his guess is that Mr. Dsouza’s Jude Bakery came into the picture around 1969. Since then, the bakery gave us ‘our daily bread’ for the next forty years. It was so much a part of our lives that it even featured as a landmark on almost all of our official documents, including electricity bills and passports; 6, Veronica Street, Ranwar, Behind Jude Bakery, Bandra West, Mumbai - 50.

We no longer use Jude Bakery as a landmark, except for the delivery guy from Jimmies Kitchen (a nearby Chinese restaurant) who’s been at the same job for the last twenty odd years.

Phone ringing

“Hello Jimmies...”

“Can I get one chicken fried rice..."

“One chickun fry rice. Anything else?"

“No. That's it."

"Where to send?"

"6, Veronica..."

"Behind Jude Bakery." "Yes."

"Ok, thank you."

Phone disconnects

Now, I'm remembering Jimmies Kitchen and Chinese food.