The news spread, passed on from worker to worker, supervisor to babu, and the little stall flourished. The very next morning, he began selling his Irani chai and a few baked goods from an impromptu stall in a corner of the godown.
That day, watching the men at work, he felt a keen sense of opportunity. He had come to Bombay with almost nothing, and he was always seeking an opportunity to strengthen his toehold there. The Irani was of an astute business mind. Goods of every conceivable sort ebbed and flowed through the station, a veritable artery linking the Indian subcontinent to the Western world via the port of Bombay. Quickly, he found himself in a vast shed filled with the hubbub of a thousand industries: freight trains pulling in with a squeal, wagons being loaded and unloaded, men and machines labouring with their cargo. He wandered amongst the station crowds and then down a side track, off the main terminus. Growing hot and bored, the Irani decided to stretch his legs. ONE JANUARY MORNING in 1928, a young Irani – not long arrived in Bombay – was waiting to collect a parcel at Victoria Terminus.
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