Mangli Kanduri?

Having mostly written technical essays before, this prose is a departure for me. So, expect some rough edges. More than anything, I hope to express my gratitude to the prodigious documenters of the city. If I can augment their work in any way, it would be a great joy. I’ve included references and footnotes wherever possible. All photographs here are mine, and where I’ve used images from elsewhere, I’ve cited them. Street photography is challenging; capturing moments without intruding is something I’m still learning. I’ve struggled with the presentation of images here, but I trust it comes together.

While Mumbai’s traditionally famous attractions, from Churchgate’s colonial grandeur to Bandstand’s seafront charm, undeniably captivate, I’m more drawn to its underappreciated central neighbourhoods: Grant Road, Byculla, Sion, Dharavi. The absence of tourist crowds allows for a more intimate understanding of working class life and the city’s rhythms. To me, it’s enchanting to be lost in the liminal gullies, observing how diverse communities build resilience through shared spaces.

I’ve never really had a productive answer when people ask me about my interest in walking. But I’ll give it a shot now: walking is liberating, not just as a movement but as a way of seeing. It is the freedom to define your own dignified ruleset, to cultivate a taste for exploration, to lose yourself in the city’s unnoticed corners, to step into the conventionally unremarkable and find something worth lingering over. And maybe that fits, because I’m unremarkable too. Is it for everyone? No. It takes abundant time, patience, and either reliable bowel control or an acceptance of SBM toilets. I won’t summon the spirits of Mumbai, no grand exorcisms. I understand why many don’t see the appeal. Maybe further exaggeration, poetry, and surrealism can bring clarity. The expansiveness I feel as I loiter demands a matching expansiveness of language. For now, I’m limited by my lack of finesse. All I can do is try my best through a confluence of text and images.

One of my pastimes is zooming into Google Maps and hunting for curious spots in these neighbourhoods. Exploring Nagpada this way, I spotted the Mangli Kanduri Masjid and chawl, the name instantly catching my attention.

Theory #1: A Telugu Woman?

The first word, Mangli, reminded me of the folk singer I deeply admire, known for her spirited Telangana songs. She lends her fiery, tempestuous voice to popular Telugu film tracks, amassing millions of YouTube views. Her infectious personality shines brightest in interviews -- I’m particularly fond of the one with five-time CPI(ML)ND MLA Gummadi Narsaiah.

The second word, Kanduri, a surname I’m not personally familiar with, yet it rang a distant bell. I’ve encountered similar names like “Kandukuri” or “Konduri” before. I looked up Padmashali caste surnames and discovered that Kanduri is indeed one of them. To be sure, the list hardly seemed reliable: almost every surname I knew was crammed into it!

How fascinating, I thought, to find a Masjid named after what seemed to be a Telugu woman. Predictably, my online searches yielded little beyond maintenance complaints about the chawl. Yet this place sits in quite a prime spot, along the historic Foras Road (now RS Nimkar Marg), next to the famous Sayeed Seekh Kebab Center and the then infamous Bachuwadi (see Figure 4). The only recent update I found was about the inauguration of an Arabic Balwadi at the chawl, supported by local Congress MLA Amin Patel. Could its proximity to Kamathipura offer some clues about its history?

A Long Segue To Kamathipura

The first time I visited Kamathipura was during Zoya Kathawala’s walk in 2023. I went with a friend, maybe drawn in by the intrigue and notoriety surrounding the place. But the walk offered much more. I learned about the area’s politics, its textile market and business networks, and architecture. What struck me most was an arch that read Telugu Munurwar Wadi, standing right across from a Pochamma Temple.

Over the next several months, I read up intermittently on the Telugu influence in the area. Many migrants from the Nizam’s territories -- Nizamabad, Adilabad, Nanded, parts of Andhra -- came to Mumbai for work and settled here. Padmashali weavers found work in textile mills, while the Munurwar Kapu castes involved in construction activities became big contractors. Some of Mumbai’s finest buildings were built under the supervision of Telugu contractors. Some examples: Jaya Karadi Lingu (contractor for Watson Hotel, Sassoon Building), Vyanku Balu Kalewar (BMC), Raosaheb Naagu Sayaji (Secretariat, Bombay High Court), Wadnala Saibu (Nesbit Bridge, Hancock Bridge), Shankarrao Puppala (Plumbing for CST). Esa Shaikh has documented their architectural histories in great detail. I don’t understand all of it, but it’s clear they were both skilled and thoughtful. It goes without saying that Mumbai’s communities extend far beyond its Marathi core. The Gujaratis and the Parsis are well known, but the city is also home to significant Tamil settlements in Matunga, Sion, and Dharavi; Punjabis in Sion’s Guru Tegh Bahadur Nagar; Sindhis in Chembur; Odias in Kurla West, Meitei people in Kalina, Bene Israelis in Israili Mohalla near Masjid Bunder, and many others. Migration, both for work and in the wake of partition, has shaped these enclaves, each with its own stories. Walking through them feels like stepping into distinct worlds within the same city. I hope to write further about this diversity in a future essay.

I wanted to look beyond construction and explore their broader influence on the city, particularly in the freedom movement and politics. Much of what I learned came from a Google Group run by Mr. Jagan Babu Ganji and scattered scans from a Marathi book “Mumbaicha Ubharneeth: Telugu Samajache Yogdaan” by Manohar Kadam (which I couldn’t find online). Indeed, the community’s Sayaji Laxman Silam contributed to the Quit India movement and later became the speaker of the first assembly of Maharashtra Vidhan Sabha in 1960. Some members also had a strong presence in the Satyashodhak Samaj, working toward social upliftment. Several Telugu corporators, like Parshuram Puppala, held key positions in the BMC back when it was one of the most respected institutions in the city. Presently, Sudhir Mungantiwar is an active member of the ruling BJP. He was their State President back in 2010. Vijay Wadettiwar, also with Telugu origins, is a leader of opposition from the Congress Party in Maharashtra Vidhan Sabha. I’ve noticed that those with “-war” in surnames generally have Telugu origins (corresponding to “vaaru” in Telugu). A Google search revealed they are mostly Deshashta Brahmins from the Deccan. For instance, KB Hedgewar, founder of the RSS, also has Telugu origins. Though I’m not fully convinced by this theory as Vijay Wadettiwar is an OBC leader.

Jagan Babu’s group focuses on strengthening Telugu-Marathi ties and expanding political influence. Organizations like F-TAM (Federation of Telugu Associations of Maharashtra) and TAMCCI (Telugu Andhra Maharashtra Chamber of Commerce and Industry) further reflect these efforts. I’ll explore this in more detail later.

Understandably, many in the Telugu community are concerned about how Kamathipura is perceived. The name itself evokes images of crime, brothels, and vice -- an association they have long struggled against. Some even push for renaming the area Padmashalinagar in an attempt to distance it from that reputation and attract redevelopment. Kamathipura is immensely diverse, shaped by forces far beyond just its red-light district. Instead of offering my own summary, I’ll defer to those who have documented their lived experiences here, which I reference in the footnotes. Most depictions of Kamathipura in media fall short, often relying on sensationalism to draw viewers. Gangubai Kathiawadi (2022) takes liberties with locations, setting much of its story in Pila House (Pathe Bapurao Marg) near New Roshan Talkies (now lost to redevelopment), far from the heart of Kamathipura. A Hotstar web series in 2022 titled Kamathipura (later renamed to The Tattoo Murders) uses the name but does little to capture its milieu, reducing the area to its red-light district. However some accounts do stand out. Daya Pawar’s autobiography Baluta (1978) evocatively portrays the joys and struggles of Mahar Dalits in the Kawakhana chawl. Namdeo Dhasal’s Gandu Bagicha (1986) brings an unsettling, almost repulsive poetry to the area. Kamathipura has long attracted beat journalists, artists, and NGOs. Some approach it with genuine intentions (me, hopefully), while others are more exploitative, each attempting in their own way to frame its story.

I’ve always been drawn to stories of migration, but I feel a particular pull toward Telugus. Maybe it’s the familiarity of the language that makes me feel I can uncover something others might overlook. Or maybe it’s because their influence beyond business or labour is not celebrated enough, perhaps due to a lack of self-interest. Where are the figures of revolt, creativity, intellectual or technical excellence? Why hasn’t there been a Nayakan about a Telugu figure? If Dharavi had Mudaliar, why not a Telugu don in Kamathipura?

That’s why I find myself seeking out Telugus in unexpected places -- like CY Chintamani, a liberal thinker from Vizianagaram who edited an English newspaper in Allahabad in the 1920s, critiquing both the British Raj and Congress leaders. Or K Punniah, born in Chirala, who settled in Karachi and ran the Sindh Observer, openly challenging Jinnah in the 1940s. These aren’t the typical stories of migration we hear. Today, Telugu identity is often tied to NRI success stories (CEOs in Silicon Valley), but I’m more interested in those who shaped history here. Even if I don’t find anything extraordinary, the search itself is worthwhile. At the very least, it gives me new ways to think about identity.

Back to Mangli Kanduri: admittedly, the Telugu woman theory might seem biased and presumptuous, but consider the broader context. Kamathipura lies just nearby and Telugu influence in these neighbourhoods runs deep. Take Rao Bahadur Ellappa Balaram, whose namesake road stands near Grant Road railway station, slightly far from here. Also, towards one end of Foras Road, there’s a TB clinic which he funded during the plague crisis of the late 1800s. Moreover, even if Mangli Kanduri wasn’t herself prominent, the chawl might have been named by a Telugu contractor after his kin. Such gestures have precedent, like the Gaurabai Dispensary in Kamathipura, named after Balaram’s wife.

Theory #2: A Syncretic Link?

But I didn’t want to get too caught up in the Telugu woman theory. Another path opened up when I searched further: Kanduri, it turns out, is a famous mutton preparation in Marathwada. The region’s deep connections to the Deccan and Nizam’s rule are reflected in its distinct culinary masalas like Saoji and Kanduri. The word “Kanduri” itself traces back to feasts (nivad, naivedyam) at dargahs of the region, which also function as sites of cultural syncretism. Megha Kale vividly describes her experience at a dargah in Osmanabad district, where Muslims and Hindus together climb a gad (hill) for the Kanduri feast. After prayers, the men exclusively handle the goat-cutting and meat-cooking, while women prepare the masala and bhakri (bread). Intriguingly, there’s also a place called Mangli near Nagpur. Could Muslims from that region have made their way here to Foras Road, and named their settlement in commemoration of a feast they’ve once organized? The presence of the masjid and the predominantly Muslim residents of the chawl lend some possibility to this theory, however tentative. Kanduri's etymological roots remain elusive, though its cultural resonance spans widely. A similar festival in Nagapattinam draws Hindu devotees, suggesting a broader pattern of inclusive religious gatherings. The term also appears in the practices of Bahraich’s Ghazi Miyan Dargah, where a ceremonial Kanduri cloth adorns the tomb of Ghazi Sayyid Salar Masud. I was pleasantly surprised to find these connections. These recurring instances of syncretism across regions -- from Tamil Nadu to Bahraich -- reveal how deeply interfaith harmony is woven into our fabric.

Discovering syncretic traditions through a single word offered me a fresh lens to view our intertwined histories. In a time when media narratives fixate on Hindu-Muslim tensions, amplified by our conservative ruling party, embracing this theory felt important. Some argue that respectful economic transactions at arm’s length are sufficient for co-existence. But I disagree! To reduce our bonds to mere trade is impoverishing and overlooks centuries of shared spiritual and emotional lives. This harmony isn’t performative; it’s simply a part of everyday life. Perhaps its very ordinariness made us complacent, leaving space for divisive narratives.

Testing The Theories

Now comes the work of testing these theories. It’s far harder than it sounds. Really, it’s a grind -- reaching out, following leads, hitting walls. Inquiries go unanswered. Online, we see several accounts of generous informants eagerly sharing details, creating a deceptive impression that stories flow freely. The reality is thornier. There’s politics at play, telling silences, careful boundaries. Memories get reshaped over time, sometimes unconsciously, as communities make sense of their past. What follows is a glimpse into this process. The outcome might seem underwhelming, but that’s precisely why it matters.

To start with, here's a brief note on my trail: I stay in Kalina. The route I take to the chawl goes through Kurla, where I catch a fast local to Byculla, then walk through Mominpura and Madanpura. These are vibrant neighbourhoods with deep political roots -- from the Awami Idara, Mumbai’s oldest Urdu library (now nearly lost to redevelopment), to recent NRC protests, and the historic struggles of Muslim mill workers. I’ve tried alternate routes. Catch a slow local from Santacruz to Mumbai Central and walk through the leather market in Madanpura. It’s equally fun, but the Kurla to Byculla route is both quicker and thematically more relevant. Plus, the latter takes you through a Bhatiyaar Galli featuring enterprising street caterers.

Next, how do I even begin asking the people at the chawl? A big part of my hesitation came from having nothing to offer in return. What could I possibly say? Why should any of this matter to us? I’m not an ethnographer, a historian, or a journalist. I can’t improve their living conditions, highlight their struggles, or advocate for them in any meaningful way. I’m not even a walk host, framing this as part of some curated experience. At the end of the day, this is for my own hedonistic pursuit of knowledge, mining stories, and blogging. But stating that outright felt too inadequate.

On my first visit, I couldn’t summon the courage to approach the older residents, so I asked some kids instead, but they didn’t know much. I went again, this time with a pretext: something like researching the names of dargahs in Mumbai. To be fair, it’s a genuinely interesting thread to pull at. Haji Ali is famous, but what about the lesser-known ones? Near my house, there’s a Bengali Baba Dargah. In Antop Hill, one named after an Egyptian saint. Right next to CST, Pedro Shah Dargah. Each has a fascinating tale behind it.

So, using this as an entry point, I asked a chacha selling kids’ toys: How did this masjid get its name? He looked at me, unimpressed. Then, with a sharp edge to his voice, he shot back: “Why do you care? First, tell me your name. What’s the origin of that? Does it change anything? Mai idhar paida hua tha aur iss naam ka koi matlab nahi.” The kids around us laughed, but he wasn’t joking. I tried reasoning with him, but before I could get anywhere, a woman nearby tugged me away. Not forcefully, but firmly, like she had seen this play out before.

I think I understood his concern. This place is always under the radar of real estate developers. In fact, I had entered the chawl through an unusual route, cutting through the masjid, in the shadow of Orchid Enclave complex (see Figure 4). A narrow lane runs straight through the complex, leading from its gates to the masjid, and then further into the chawl. It felt strange. Apartment complexes rarely sit alongside older settlements; usually, they consume them. Redevelopment always begins with questions of origins, documentation, proof of belonging. Maybe, for a second, chacha thought I was one of those people.

Or, maybe, he was worried about the NRC? I can’t say for sure, and I’d be wrong to assume. But what was clear was their discomfort with my questions about origins.

I approached another older man, who seemed to have more authority in the area. He told me he was born here, that the masjid had been around for more than a hundred years, and that this was an all-Muslim neighborhood. “Telugus live far away,” he said. I felt too awkward to bring up the Kanduri feast theory, but I tried anyway. He dismissed it outright. “It’s not worth it,” he said. “No one knows.”

I found it sad that part of their self-discovery was overshadowed by fear. What if knowing more about origins unearthed something uncomfortable about their past? Could that, in some way, threaten their present livelihood? Again, this is all my assumption, but it lingered in my mind as I left, thanking them for their time.

Maybe the Telugu folks on the other side of Foras Road would care more about Mangli Kanduri? My plan was to visit the Munurwar Wadi office, hoping to find someone with answers. As I entered the lanes of Kamathipura, I noticed some event preparation at VR Tulla playground and decided to walk in. In one corner, I spotted a group of young men -- probably in their mid-to-late twenties -- gathered outside a small office. It turned out to be the Vittal Sayanna Telugu Gymkhana, a place I hadn’t known even existed. Stumbling upon it felt like a stroke of luck. I approached them, and to my relief, they were welcoming.

A mistake I made, which I only realized later, was sticking to the same pretext I had used at the chawl -- that I was tracing the names of masjids. This annoyed them. “We don't know either, but why do you care? Who asked you to study this? Why is this even a question? Adi Mangli Masjid kaadu. Adi Temple.” They were clearly conservative. One even mentioned he led the local Jai Shri Ram group. I explained that my real interest was in tracing a Telugu connection.

Slowly, the conversation shifted. They spoke with pride about their area, pointing out well-known figures like Parshuram Puppala. They showed me their gym, filled with old, worn-out gear. “Ambedkar was here”, they said. “Johnny Lever too.” Honestly, I didn’t need them to emphasize the area’s importance. I was already convinced of its broader relevance. But I was glad they wanted to share.

“This place is not that bad, bro”, one of them said, exhaling a trail of smoke as he passed me his beedi. Then, almost as if catching himself, he grinned and added, “Beedi is okay, bro. A little beer too. But not the brothel.” The contrast was funny: vice, but within limits. I didn’t argue. Their concerns had their own logic. This place indeed bears the weight of deep-seated taboos.

They had no trouble blending with Marathis. “I understand Telugu”, one told me, “but speak to me in Hindi, please.” They squarely blamed Muslims for the taboos associated with the area. “Not all are bad”, one of them conceded. “We respect their practices. But it’s not our concern. Maa gurinchi adgu mem cheptam. Ask anything about our Pochamma Temple. Attend our Shivratri, our Bonalu. We’ll show you real fun -- safely.” Before I left, they shared their numbers, promising me to think about the chawl.

I then went to Munurwar Wadi, where I met a videographer who shoots local events. He suggested I ask the politicians. He had filmed in the chawl before but never really paid attention to its name. Still, he patiently listened to my theories. Then he asked, “Are you from YouTube?” “I intend to write”, I said. He smirked. “No one reads anymore.” Dear reader, you’re proving him wrong!

I couldn’t explore further and headed home before the local trains got too crowded. I felt deflated because no one seemed to desire a shared story -- a wiser, more progressive telling of the past. It felt like there was little hope for such a narrative to emerge. Spaces shaped by migration should naturally be sites of progress and fluid identities. Instead, they have receded into constrictive readings of history.

Take the Telugu-Marathi book I mentioned earlier (Figure 3). It is now being translated by the local BJP Cell. The F-TAM group’s events revolve around religious gatherings: a baba delivering pravachans in Solapur, a matrimony service, a protest against the persecution of Bangladeshi Hindus. To be clear, these are not inherently bad. It’s heartening to see a sense of togetherness and a thriving communal life. But why is this the only form of collectivity left? Why is there no interest in engaging with the history of Muslims who migrated alongside Telugus back in the day?

A diverse history is what makes us unique. But today, looking back comes with tension. One community fears that digging too deep into the past might put their identity at risk. The other searches history only to claim ownership over land. A more generous, open-ended exploration that fosters understanding rather than division seems to be of little interest, at least among those I met.

This, I believe, is partly a consequence of progressive academics and civil society groups withdrawing from these neighbourhoods. These are sites of transformative potential, yet engagement remains confined to abstractions like textbooks or conferences. Or perhaps, we simply lack the funding. The BJP and its cultural organizations have both the money and the political will to shape the narrative.

This is not to say that the people here are entirely conservative. Most still vote for Congress. Amin Patel remains a popular figure. When Telugu star Chiranjeevi was with Congress, he frequented this area too. I don’t particularly care what political affiliations they choose, and if entering conservative power circles is a means of lobbying for their community, then so be it. What troubles me is the steady retreat of progressive values.

One of the functions of heritage walks should be to cultivate a shared sense of belonging and remind people of the wonders of co-existence. This doesn’t mean the past was free of conflicts, but there were largely moments of kindness. Heritage groups should work to ensure that the dominant voices in the streets and the media do not advocate for anti-secular values.

To reiterate, I don’t look down on caste or religious groups. If anything, they’ve managed to preserve valuable memories that few progressive circles seem interested in. But at some point, shouldn’t these identities be examined and interpreted in a way that brings a more inclusive understanding? Ideally, scholars should take on that role. Yet, they seem to have stepped away, leaving the space entirely to insular forces.

Imagine this future. If no one cares, the chawl will disappear. The gymkhana, gone. The Pochamma Temple, gone. All of it reduced to footnotes in text books, as fragments in memory, with no breathing physical space to anchor it. And with it, a potential path to inclusivity will be lost forever.

Final Remarks

Throughout the essay, I’ve not addressed the challenges of women in Kamathipura. The omission wasn’t accidental but borne from careful consideration. Walking through the lanes presents a visible normalcy, and I’m not equipped to excavate the deeper complexities. Approaching their specific circumstances demanded a sensitivity I feared I might lack. Rather than risk clumsy intrusions that would diminish their lived experiences, I’ve chosen to reference relevant documentaries and scholarly works in the footnotes. Chinki Sinha’s 2022 Outlook article “Love, Loss, and Longing among Kamathipura’s Sex Workers” has been instrumental in shaping my understanding of life in the area, offering rich detail on both sex workers and the transgender community, particularly their devotion to Bahuchara Mata. Several films and ethnographic works have captured the lived realities of sex workers in South Bombay. The Courtesans of Bombay (1983) by Merchant Ivory Productions remains a seminal documentary on the struggles of tawaifs, focusing on Noor Mohammed Begh Compound (Pawan Pul, Congress House). Geeta Thara’s ambitious 2016 ethnographic study of Congress House provides a strong critique of the documentary, featuring firsthand accounts from artists, tawaifs, and sex workers. Mira Nair’s India Cabaret (1985) explores the lives of bar dancers who migrated from South India, while Salaam Bombay (1988) presents the experiences of women and children engaged in sex work near Grant Road. More recently, Gangubai Kathiawadi (2022) offers an affective, though historically debatable, portrayal of Pila House’s sex workers. Iqbal Durrani’s Dukaan (2004), while less stylized, also addresses relevant issues in the same location. Manish Gaekwad’s book The Last Courtesan (2023) provides a deeply personal account of his mother’s experiences in Congress House and Bachu Wadi. Curiously, he notes that she never heard of Gangubai. Locations in Talaash (2012) are unclear, but it is also set in South Bombay’s chawls. Instead, let me share a couple of vignettes that linger in my memory.

In the cloth market, women from different faiths gather daily, united in their negotiations against high prices. It’s an ordinary scene, yet there’s something reassuring in the shared rhythm.

A few lanes away, at the Pochamma Temple, I witnessed a more imaginative way of coexistence. It was Vijayadashami in October 2023. A woman was cleaning the temple, authoritatively directing her brother as he arranged flowers. I left my chappals at a flower stall run by a burqa-clad woman before stepping inside. The woman at the temple noticed me, paused her work, and reached out to resume her priestly duties. She applied kumkum on my forehead as I prayed, then handed me prasad. I hesitated instinctively -- perhaps out of an unexamined concern for its quality. She read my discomfort, and suggested I give it to the flower seller outside instead. There was a natural grace to this moment, a quiet understanding, a sense of gentle pragmatism.

Epilogue: Kusumbala Fountain

Along the Harbour line, against the backdrop of Sewri’s oil tanks and Wadala’s slums, an ornate structure often caught my eye. Standing absurdly among weathered factories, its artsy onion dome felt wonderfully out of place. Google Maps named it Kusumbala Fountain, and further search led me to a detailed writeup by Ms. Sudha Ganapathi.

Sudha narrated a poignant tale: Kusumbala, daughter of Lowji Megji, would offer water to exhausted workers unloading cotton bales at the nearby exchange. When she died young from a lingering illness, her father built this fountain in her memory as a lasting tribute to her kindness.

A touching story - except it was entirely invented! Sudha’s sole source was a simple inscription: “The Public Gift Of Mr. Lowji Megji In Loving Memory Of His Late Daughter Kusumbala AD 1924”. Finding no other historical records, she spun this tale with a beautiful vision, gently disclosing her mischief towards the end. The story now lives on through reviews on Tripadvisor and Google Maps, each retelling further cementing this imagined history.

Incredibly, her fabrication’s contours aren’t entirely false! A Megji grandson confirmed parts of it much later. To me, it’s deeply encouraging to see a narrative borne out of care brush against reality. There were alternate ways to interpret this fountain, but Sudha’s conscious choice to craft a story with heart brought her remarkably close to truth.

Will I ever uncover Mangli Kanduri’s true origins? Maybe I haven’t talked to the right folks yet. I wonder if it’s even worth pursuing seeing the reluctance of different communities. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if I never find the definitive answer. It’s about the stories we choose to tell each other, the way we keep them alive in our memory. Following the thoughtful footsteps of Sudha and countless documenters of the city, I hope to approach these unknown artifacts with a warm, progressive lens. Sometimes, it seems, the stories we most lovingly imagine become basins of truth, attracting fragments of reality and affirming what we hoped was there all along.

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