Months Of Sweat, For A Day Of Glory
Colaba's streets echo with drills ahead of Gokulashtami, writes Manu Shrivastava
By the time the August sun begins to lean west, Colaba is already vibrating to the bassline of a festival in full swing. The lanes smell of frying bhajiyas, tangy chaat, and cutting chai strong enough to jolt the sleep out of the most tired eyes.
Somewhere above the chatter, the first whistle pierces through — sharp, urgent — and the crowd instinctively parts. Gokulashtami is here.
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| The Govindas, in practice, night after night in Colaba's bylanes for Gokulashtami |
Dozens of young men, t-shirts clinging to their backs, the mandal’s name stretched proudly across the cotton, some shirts bearing the face of a smiling local leader, dance their way into view.
From atop a slow-moving truck, a DJ pounds out the latest Bollywood remix folding into a high-tempo EDM drop — the kind that makes the crowd’s shoulders bounce without thought.
Bright flags wave from the truck, garlands flutter in the humid breeze, and above, between two buildings, the day’s first matki swings gently.
The climb begins like a ritual. The base — broad, steady men with thighs like tree trunks — lock arms and brace. Above them, lighter, wirier players scramble into position, gripping shoulders, gripping hips. The human ladder rises, one careful footstep at a time.
At the very top, a boy no older than seventeen balances on swaying backs, squints into the sun, and reaches. A split second later, the matki shatters — water, curd, and petals spilling down in a cool, fragrant shower. The crowd erupts, a thousand voices at once.
It looks effortless. It isn’t.
Months before this day, these same men trade their evening comforts for narrow-lane drills. They rush from work — taxi meters still ticking in some cases, delivery bags half-empty in others — wash the sweat of the day away, change into “practice clothes” and step out again.
In dim lanes where laundry lines sag above their heads, they form pyramids in silence, save for the whistle’s shrill order to descend. Feet find shoulders, hands find balance, hearts thud in rhythm.
At the next whistle, the descent is slow, deliberate, like water easing back into a vessel. This happens night after night, often until 2 a.m.
Before the city wakes, they’re at the gym — lifting, pulling, straining against weights. Shoulders must learn to bear sudden pressure, legs must spring and hold, arms must pull without hesitation. By nine, they’re at work: selling vegetables, tallying accounts, fixing engines, fishing deep into the sea. But dusk draws them back to the lanes, to the climb.
For the women of these families, the festival is a season of its own. Nalini and Geeta Raut, sisters-in-law who arrived in Colaba more than thirty years ago, remember when their husbands played Govinda.
Now, it’s their children. “In those days, we had fewer resources but more time,” Nalini laughs. In the weeks before the festival, their homes smell constantly of tea and frying batter, as they hand out plates to players, neighbours, even curious passersby who linger to watch the practice.
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On another lane, you might find Hari Suraiya, just back from the docks after leaving at 3 a.m. to fish, joining practice without so much as a shower. “If I miss one day, I feel restless,” he grins.
And then there’s Kaushik Patil, whose father’s three-tier climbs are the stuff of legend in the area. “We went to five tiers, then six. Now? Eight.” He trains the youngest climbers — steadying a foot here, nudging an elbow there — passing down a skill like a family heirloom.
Colaba’s children watch wide-eyed, perched on compound walls or dart between legs among the crowd. They squeal when the matki breaks, some catching stray petals, others drenched in the splash.
Bharat Raut, who often practises until the early hours, hopes his own children will one day stand atop that human ladder. His wife Sandhya smiles at the thought — the festival, she knows, is not just about climbing; it’s about belonging.
Even families with little to spare, like Sandeep and Priti Vaidya, make sure their sons, Lucky and Vansh, are there at every practice. “They must see it, feel it,” Priti says. “One day, they’ll climb.”
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