Mushtaq Dawood Bhatkar – Mr B – was Newlands’ very own samoosa philosopher

The story of the Bhatkar brothers, Abbas and Mushtaq, and how the family survived tumultuous political currents to hold on to their famous The Avenue Café in the Cape Town suburb of Newlands is theirs to tell, not ours.

For those of us who have lived in Newlands for many years, Mushtaq Bhatkar, Mush or Mr B, and his older brother Abbas, or Abu, have been a constant to generations of residents, just like the mountain or the streams that rush through the suburb in winter.

Since last Saturday, 12 October, those in our neighbourhood for whom Mr B and Abbas have been daily fixtures have been struck by a deep sorrow and an acute awareness of the presence of absence.

Mush died on that morning shortly before he was to return home to his beloved wife, Ganiefa, after spending some time in hospital recovering from a fall. Just before he was discharged, he slipped away quietly. He was 71.

It was a fitting departure, but far too early for those of us who would visit him, sometimes just to talk. Former professors would make their rounds and sit for hours with Mush – he behind the counter, as always. His curiosity and knowledge knew no bounds.

“Dada”, as we all knew him, was looking forward to being back in the old rickety swivel chair behind the counter, early as always, with a prayer and incense to thank the divine for another day he could enjoy.

Sometimes he would be on a call. “Salaams to all, I have a customer”, is how he would end it. On Saturday, when a crowd gathered as Mush was taken from his home above the shop to be buried before sunset, it felt as if a unique light had been extinguished.

You could traverse a universe when you came in for some of the café’s trademark samoosas, biltong, cheesecake patties or strange imports from the UK (clearly aimed at the sensibilities of many in this wealthy neighbourhood bordering the University of Cape Town and a magical indigenous forest).

Mushtaq knew who lived where before the forced removals; he knew the paths to the secret places in the forest; he knew where the rope swing once hung and where the neighbourhood’s children played.

He never, ever mentioned apartheid or how the family had been affected.

He knew every regular customer by name. “Hello, Prof.” “How’s Doc doing?”

One afternoon I ran into Pravin Gordhan in the parking lot outside The Avenue Café. He had stopped there on his way home to buy some coriander. Gordhan was the same kind of gentleman.

Mush was always dressed in a tie. Some days he would wear one with cartoon characters on it and you could tell he was in a playful mood.

He was a hoarder of things and stocked the café with books. He found amazing bargains – a pair of Elvis glasses, tennis balls, you name it. Mush had an eye.

I loved his eye and the shop, as did my children, whom the brothers watched growing up. All the children in this suburb with its private and successful model C schools know the shop.

The Bhatkar family is suitably discreet and old-fashioned about doing business. If I ran out of money, I could always buy food or necessities “on the book”.

Brother Abbas, Mushtaq and I would laugh, was “the sweeper” who kept account of who owed what.

A week before he died, I found his son, Riaaz, smacking the old NAD amplifier, which often provided cracking reception. Mush’s favourite station was Fine Music Radio, or FMR. It brought a calmness to the shop and Mush would busy himself reading and, more recently, marvelling at the use of artificial intelligence on WhatsApp.

For 20 years I tried to catch Mush out by rushing in to ask for something obscure. He would call out to Abbas, “Where is that whatyamacallit”, and hey, presto! There at the back of the shop, along with the plastic Ninja Turtle motorbikes still in their wrapping and an old Polaroid camera, would be the thingymabob you were looking for.

Mush, we will never forget you. There are many like you – never in the spotlight but dotted throughout communities all over this country – who leave a quiet and deep, deep impression on many generations.

On Monday, I went to greet Abbas and found him behind the counter. Life goes on. FMR in the background. Like Mush would have wanted. Abbas has promised to keep going. Mush is still all over in the shop in the ridiculous items he stocked, the happiness the colours bring, the magic of finding a plastic yo-yo, a pack of six, just before that birthday party.

The saints always depart quietly and their works and nourishment grow in private. Rest in peace, fine gentleman. Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un (Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed, to Him we return).

May Allah grant Mushtaq Bhatkar the highest place in Jannah. DM

This story first appeared in our weekly Daily Maverick 168 newspaper, which is available countrywide for R35.