Did you know every street has its own language?” grins Mohammed Khadim. We look at him suspiciously; convinced he’s having a laugh at our expense. Then a luxuriantly mustachioed shopkeeper from next door saunters in to tell Khadim about the ‘pakki’ in his shop. Pakki? “Yes. That’s what we call a girl.” We’re unconvinced. “We say ‘minted’ for a boy,” adds a passing lungi vendor. “Don’t believe us?” chuckles Khadim. “Bet? One cel? Or pannacel?” The lungi man, helpful, translates. “That means 100. Or four hundred.” All three break into an unusual language that twists, turns, dips and dives around some faintly-familiar words. “See. It’s our own language. A mix of Tamil, Kannada, Malayalam, Hindi… and words created on this street,” says Khadim.
Emerging from an auto at George Town is faintly disorienting. The air is heavy with the scent of ripe jackfruit, courtesy a chatty vendor. Shopkeepers beckon potential customers by singing out, “sari, salwar, suiting, shirting…” The more enterprising ones whisper hoarsely, “Super sari: best price.” The street bristles with unconventional traffic: cycle rickshaws trundling past, unsteady carts pushed by sweaty muscular men and madly-honking cyclists.
It’s almost difficult to believe that this was once the heart of South India’s textile business. Almost. For despite the bedraggled buildings, unkempt streets and faintly desperate salesmen, this area has an unexpected majesty. Research into its past proves challenging. The Madras Piece Goods Merchants Association, formed in 1920, reportedly one of the oldest traders’ associations in the area, seems like a good place to begin, but their listed numbers don’t work and the address, which reads Godown Street, Parrys, is too vague to track.
We accost a pleasant looking old man leaning against the door of ‘T. S. Hajee Moosa and Co.’ A sign above him reads ‘Indentors to Buckingham and Carnatic Mills.’ “What’s an indentor?’ we ask. “I don’t know. Where did you learn the word,” he asks. “It’s on your board,” we counter. “Never seen it,” he shrugs. Just as the conversation veers dangerously close to ‘Alice in Wonderland’ proportions we lead him outside to show him his own sign, while two elderly staff, sitting under a noisy pedestal fan, stop work to gaze at us thoughtfully. We study the board together in silence. “I have no idea,” he finally smiles.
For the record, an indentor is a representative for a foreign company, product or a person who gets royalty on any transaction that takes place in his home country. Some quick online research also shows that the Buckingham and Carnatic Mills were textile mills run by Binny and Co. in Chennai. Moosa tells us that this building has stood for 110 years. “It’s my great great-grandfather’s,” he says, adding that they used it to sell textiles from here in 1904. Back inside his office, we admire the old wooden pillars punctuating the dim space as Moosa describes their business model. “Only wholesale. Only textile. And always full piece.” As we leave, he leans against his doorway and declares, “So many years: but this road looks the same. Except the residences on top are now shops.”
Khadim lures us into his basement boutique with promises of “bargain designer-style saris.” His tiny shop is stacked from floor to ceiling with wildly coloured, lavishly sequined cloth. Like everyone else on Godown Street, he once only sold wholesale, but now encourages walk-ins as well. “The rent itself is Rs. 8,000 a month” he says, adding that business isn’t too bad though. “People with shops in T. Nagar come here. They buy anything from one hundred to one lakh pieces.” For customers who want just a single piece, prices are slightly higher but still competitive. “Maximum Rs. 1,000 – Rs. 1.500” says Khadim. Unlike many merchants on this street who have taken on the professions of their fathers and grandfathers, Khadim is a first generation entrepreneur. “My father worked in Bank Of Baroda. I didn’t get into banking because, well…” he laughs shyly, “Studies weak…”
As the textile-stacked cubby hole-like shops get overwhelming, we stop for a breather by a wholesale banana vendor. Apparently, one cannot just stand and stare. He jumps up: “How many?” None, really. Since he looks hurt we buy a dozen, which he disapprovingly hands over. Skulking away we spot colourful Sree Vasari traders, surrounded by stacks of colourful applams, vadams and spices. “Seventy varieties in total,” says proprietor M. Bhaskar proudly, “This is the business of my forefathers.”
Telling us how the store began as a provisions shop in Kothawal Chavadi “almost 100 years ago,” Bhaskar says he moved to the present premises about 20 years ago. “Now we import from everywhere: China, Thailand, Indonesia… We also export to Sri Lanka and Malaysia.” He pulls out a pack of purple chips. “Tapioca. Thailand. Quarter kilo, Rs. 60.” As we chat, clients trickle in and out buying everything from noodle packets to cleverly packaged sachets of herbs and spices. Profits on walk-ins are low, “If I buy at Rs 31.50, I sell at Rs. 32,” he confides, before getting into an animated conversation with a customer on how to fry sago vadams perfectly.
This is really what sets Godown Street apart. It’s not just the low prices, impressive stocks or mind-boggling variety. It’s also the fact that business here is old school: purchasing anything requires a long chat, good-natured bargaining and often a cup of sweet, milky coffee. So it seems appropriate that Gowdown Street at Georgetown 600001 is where Chennai’s retail business was born: 375 years ago.
