After his wife d!ed in an accident, a father monkey pushed a boiled-corn cart through a Mumbai market to feed his three little ones, enduring daily teasing and stones from cruel people. One day, a starving beggar boy passed by, and the monkey gave him a corn cob for free even though he was almost out of money. Ten years later, everything had changed.
The Boiled Corn Cart of Dadar
Part I – Bandar Chacha
In Mumbai, nobody has time to look at anyone. The local trains have no time, the monsoon has no time, even the pigeons at Dadar station fly as if they have an office to reach. And in that Dadar market, between the flower sellers and the second-hand shirt stalls, there was a small boiled corn cart.
The cart belonged to what the market people called the monkey family.
They were not actually monkeys from the zoo. They were rhesus monkeys, the ones who live on the buildings of Mumbai, who steal mangoes from balconies and know how to open Bisleri bottles. But this family was different.
The father monkey was big, with a grey-black back and a face that looked old before time. His wife had died ten months back. A BEST bus had hit her near Plaza cinema when she was crossing with a stolen vada pav for her babies. Since then, the father was alone.
He had three babies. Tiny, pink-faced, with tails curled like question marks. One was always on his back, two were inside the corn cart itself, sleeping on the jute sack.
Every morning at 5 AM, before the BMC van could come, the father monkey would push his cart. It was not an ordinary cart. It was a wooden thela with one wobbly wheel that made a kich-kich sound. On it was a big aluminium degchi, black from below due to years of fire, inside which salted water bubbled and twenty to thirty bhuttas boiled, giving out that sweet, smoky smell that makes Mumbai hungry.
He would push it from his small shelter behind the Shiv Mandir to his fixed spot near the railway bridge. And there he would sit. Not beg. Not steal. He would do business.
People found it funny at first, then irritating.
“Arre dekho dekho, Bandar corn bech raha hai!” college boys would shout.
“Kay re, Monkey business chal raha hai kya?” the shirt stall owner would say and laugh loudly so that his customers also laugh.
Some people threw stones. Not big stones to hurt badly, but small ones, to tease. “Chal hatt! Badboo aa rahi hai!”
The father monkey never threw stones back. He would just cover his babies with his own body. He had learned from humans that if you react, they throw more. If you stay quiet, they get bored and go away.
His whole life was now only three small stomachs. He had to sell at least fifteen corns a day. One corn he sold for twenty rupees. Out of that, eight rupees was his cost — corn, salt, lemon, coal. Twelve rupees profit. If he sold fifteen, he got one hundred and eighty rupees. In that he had to buy milk for his babies — they could not eat only corn — and some biscuits, and pay ten rupees haft to the local dada who said “You keep cart here, you pay me.”
His wife, when she was alive, used to help. She used to sit on the cart and make the corns look more attractive. She used to call “Le lo, garam bhutta le lo!” in a funny monkey voice that ladies liked. Now the father had to do everything alone. He would pick the corn with his burnt black fingers — he had learned not to feel the heat — rub half lemon and salt and chilli on it, and give it with two hands, like a human shopkeeper.
At night, after the market closed, he would count his coins. He kept them in a small steel dabba that once had contained Bournvita. And he would push the cart back, with one baby on his back, two inside the degchi after it cooled down, to his shelter. He would feed his babies first. Whatever was left, he would eat.
Mumbai is a city that worships Ganpati and also throws stones at monkeys. The father monkey was learning to live in both Mumbais.
Part II – The Free Corn
It was Shravan month. Heavy rain. For three days continuously, it rained. The Dadar market was almost empty. Nobody wanted boiled corn in rain when you can get cutting chai and pakoda. The father monkey’s capital was finishing.
He had only six corns left for three days. He had not sold even one. The degchi water had become white and cold. His babies were crying, making that small, hungry kui-kui sound which only a father can understand. The smallest baby, the one he called Chikki because she was the weakest, had fever.
On the fourth morning, the rain stopped a little. The father pushed his cart to the spot. His hands were shaking because he himself had not eaten for two days. He lit the small coal angithi. The smoke went into his eyes.
At around 11 AM, when the sun came out a little, a boy passed by.
He was maybe ten years old. Thin, wearing a half-pant that was torn from behind, and a t-shirt that had “ROCKSTAR” written on it, but the t-shirt was so big it came down to his knees. He was a beggar boy. He lived on platform number one, near the dustbin. People said his mother had died of TB and his father ran away.
The boy had not eaten for two days either. He was smelling the corn. He stood near the cart, but he did not ask. Beggar boys in Dadar know — if you ask a human shopkeeper, he will shout. If you ask a monkey, maybe…
The father monkey looked at him. He looked at his own babies. He looked at his last six corns — his entire capital, his savings, his house rent, his babies’ milk.
The shirt stall owner shouted, “Arre ae, Bandar! Us bhikari ko bhaga! Customers will not come if he stands near your cart! Both of you are same category!”
Some people laughed. Some threw a peanut shell at the boy.
The boy started to walk away, his head down, his stomach making a loud sound.
Then the father monkey did something that made the whole lane stop.
He picked up the biggest, hottest, most perfectly boiled corn from his degchi, with steam coming out of it. He carefully applied lemon, salt, and the little bit of red chilli he had left. And he walked two steps and gave it to the beggar boy with both his hands.
The boy was shocked. He took it. His hands were shaking.
The market people were stunned. “Arre, yeh Bandar free mein de raha hai? Iska dimaag kharab ho gaya hai kya?”
The father monkey just sat back near his babies. He had no idea if he would be able to buy new corns tomorrow. But his heart was light.
The beggar boy ate the corn there itself, crying and eating at the same time, the salt mixing with his tears. When he finished, he looked at the father monkey and said something in a small voice that only the father could hear.
And as the boy whispered his thanks, the father monkey, who for ten months had not made a single sound except for monkey cries, opened his mouth and replied in clear, tired, broken human Hindi, “Beta, pet bhar ke kha le. Meri Chikki bhi kal se bhukhi hai,” and in that one second, the whole market realized with a shock that the father pushing the corn cart was never just a monkey — he was a man cursed and covered in monkey skin, a tribal man from Palghar whom an accident and poverty had turned into a monkey in the eyes of Mumbai, and whose human soul was still alive inside.
Part III – The Man Inside The Monkey
His name was actually Pandit. Pandit Pawar.
He was from a Katkari tribal village near Palghar. Five years ago, a contractor had brought his family to Mumbai to work as construction labourers. During a building collapse in Parel, a slab had fallen on his face and body. He had survived, but his face had become disfigured — his nose had gone flat, his lips had pulled up, his body had become bent and hairy because of some skin infection he could not treat. He could not speak properly for months because his jaw was broken.
People in Dadar started calling him “Bandar” because of how he looked and walked. Slowly, his name became Bandar. His wife, Sunita, also a tribal woman, died in that BEST bus accident last year. She was the only one who called him Pandit.
After his face became like that, no construction site gave him work. No one gives work to a man who looks like a monkey. So he started doing what his mother used to do in the village — selling boiled corn. And because his three children — his three small babies, Sona, Babu and Chikki, aged 4 years, 3 years and 1 year — were always clinging to him, and because he himself had stopped speaking, people started thinking his children were also monkey babies.
The police, the BMC, the market people — everyone found it easier to believe that a monkey family was selling corn. Mumbai loves such stories. “Arre dekho, monkey business!” It is entertaining. A disfigured tribal man with three starving children trying to sell corn is not entertaining. It is uncomfortable.
But that day, when he spoke, the illusion broke.
The shirt stall owner came close. “Ae… tu… tu insaan hai?”
Pandit nodded. Tears were coming from his eyes. He had not spoken human language for almost a year.
The beggar boy was still holding the corn stick. He said loudly, “He gave me corn! He is not monkey! He is Chacha!”
For the first time, some ladies from the flower market came forward without fear. One lady, a Maharashtrian aaji who sold mogra gajra, touched Pandit’s hand. “Bala, tu manus aahes? Why you did not tell?”
Pandit could not say much. His voice was still broken. He just pointed to his three children, who were actually children — thin, dirty, wearing torn clothes, not monkeys. Everyone had thought they were monkey babies because they were so small and hairy and always silent.
That evening, the rain started again. But this time, people did not throw stones. One vada pav seller gave Pandit three vada pavs for his children. No one laughed.
The beggar boy, whose name was Iqbal, sat near Pandit’s cart till night. He told Pandit, “Chacha, you fed me when you had nothing. Allah will see. I will never forget. I will become big one day and I will come back for you.”
Pandit smiled, that painful, bent smile. “Ja, beta. Bada aadmi ban.”
Iqbal ran back to platform number one, with the taste of salt and chilli still on his tongue.
Part IV – Ten Years Later
Mumbai forgets fast. Within a week, people forgot about Bandar Chacha. Life in Dadar is fast. New stalls came. New stories came.
Pandit continued to sell corn. But now, people called him Pandit Chacha, not Bandar. He started earning a little more. An NGO that worked for tribals helped him get his children admitted to a small municipal school. Sona, the eldest, was very sharp. She learned to read Marathi in three months.
The boiled corn cart remained. The wheel still made kich-kich. But now there was a small plastic board on it, written by Sona in crooked letters: Pandit Kaka Bhutta Center. Garam Bhutta 20 Rs.
Iqbal, the beggar boy, disappeared from Dadar station after two months. People said some Maulvi from Dongri took him to a madrasa and then to a children’s home.
Ten years passed.
Ten years in Mumbai is like fifty years anywhere else. Buildings became taller. Dadar market got a new foot-over bridge. The HP petrol pump became a Jio petrol pump.
Pandit was now fifty. His back was more bent. His three children were grown. Sona was 14, working in a small tailoring shop after school. Babu was 13, helping his father push the cart. Chikki, the smallest one who once had fever, was now 11, and she went to school regularly. She wanted to become a teacher.
The cart was still the same. It was now even older. The aluminium degchi had holes.
On a Tuesday afternoon, a big white Toyota Fortuner stopped in front of Dadar market, where cars are not supposed to stop. The police whistled. But the man who came out of the car was not someone police could whistle at.
He was wearing a navy blue blazer, expensive glasses, and had a beard like film stars. He had two assistants with him. He looked around Dadar market as if searching for something.
He walked straight to the boiled corn cart.
Pandit did not recognize him. He thought he is some big customer. He said, “Sahab, garam bhutta? Twenty rupees only.”
The man in blazer smiled. His eyes became wet.
He bent down and touched Pandit’s feet.
“Chacha, pehchana nahi? Main Iqbal.”
Pandit froze. The degchi in his hand shook.
Iqbal. That thin beggar boy. Now he was standing like a hero.
Iqbal told his story quickly. After Dadar, a trust had taken him. He studied. He worked in a mobile repair shop. Then he learned coding. Then he got a small job in a logistics start-up in Andheri. That start-up became big. He became the co-founder. Today, his company has a turnover of 40 crores. He lives in Andheri Lokhandwala. But he never forgot the taste of that free corn.
“I had been searching for you for three years, Chacha. I came to Dadar many times but you had shifted your spot. Today I finally found you.”
Pandit was crying. Babu and Chikki were staring, not understanding.
Iqbal did not do any drama. He did not give a speech. He just called his assistants and said, “Measure this place.”
Next day, workers came. Not BMC workers who break carts, but private workers.
Part V – The Proper Shop
They did not buy the whole cart. They bought the whole footpath corner.
Iqbal had purchased the small shutter shop that was always closed behind Pandit’s fixed spot — it belonged to a Gujarati uncle who had gone to America and wanted to sell it. Iqbal paid full cash, forty-five lakhs.
Within two months, that shutter shop became something Dadar had never seen.
It was painted bright yellow. On top, a big board: Pandit Kaka & Family — Asli Garam Bhutta & Corn Snacks. Since 2014. In Memory of Sunita Kaki.
Inside was a proper steel boiled corn machine, with glass cover, so dust would not go inside. There was a small table and four plastic chairs for customers. There was a small fridge for cold drinks. And in the back, there was a small room with an attached bathroom — for Pandit and his children to live, so they don’t have to stay behind Shiv Mandir in the open.
Iqbal did not make Pandit his employee. He made him the owner. All the papers were in Pandit’s name. He said, “Chacha, this is not charity. This is your return on investment. You invested one corn on me when your capital was finishing. I am giving you interest only.”
On the opening day, Pandit wore a new white kurta, which Sona had stitched for him. He was still looking like his old self, bent, disfigured, but his eyes were shining. He cut the ribbon with Chikki’s hand.
The whole Dadar market came. The flower aaji brought mogra garlands. The shirt stall owner, who once teased him, brought a big box of sweets and said sorry.
Iqbal sat on the plastic chair and ate two boiled corns, with extra lemon and chilli, exactly like that day ten years ago. He ate with his hands, his blazer kept aside, tears and sweat mixing.
Sona, who now knew how to write English, had written on the wall of the shop with chalk:
In this shop, one boiled corn is always free for any hungry child or beggar boy. No need to ask. Just take it. This is our rent for living in Mumbai.
Today, if you go to Dadar market, near the railway bridge, you will find that yellow shop. Pandit Kaka still sits there, but now his children go to proper school and help him after school hours. And sometimes, you will see a big white Fortuner parked outside, and a man in a blazer sitting on a small plastic chair, eating corn and laughing with Chikki, who wants to become a teacher.
People in the market no longer call it monkey business. They call it Mumbai business — where one free corn can become a whole shop, and where a man who looked like a monkey taught a city how to be human.
