Through the Parsi Prism

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Jimmy was driving me to his house; he would park his car in the building and then we’d take a train from Grant Road station to Vasai for a case we were following up on. On the way up to his flat, he warned me, “Look, I live with three aunts and I rarely invite any woman over because they start imagining I have been hooked. So, just don’t mind them.”

Three ladies in different stages of moisturised wrinkles appeared together to greet me. Jimmy went in. Ebony-coloured furniture was displayed discreetly. The napkins that came with the tea were lace-trimmed. The house smelled of talcum powder. The three of them sat across in stiff organza sarees and kept smiling.

Jimmy returned and was immediately given a special look. He rolled his eyes and suggested I hurry up but it would be better if I freshened up first, since it might be a few hours before we returned. I got up hesitantly and was directed towards a room. All three aunts followed. It was the bathroom attached to their bedroom. One of them brought out fresh towels from a locked cupboard. I tiptoed in and was afraid to even let the water in the basin run lest the sound break this amazing silence.

As I stepped out all of them were sitting at the edge of their bed facing the bathroom door. I thanked them and they asked me to join them for lunch another day. “Bye-bye, bye-bye,” they chorused as we left. Jimmy breathed out, “I live with them!” Three spinsters and a bachelor, all past what is deemed by society to be the marriageable age.

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“Feedosssssssss!” That is my earliest memory of Parsis. There would be a scream in our house on spotting a perfectly harmless lizard on the wall and our neighbour, Mani Aunty, would solicitously rush to enquire, “Soo thaiyyu?” (What happened?) We would point out the slimy creature…she would go to the passageway that divided our houses and call out, “Feeedossssss…” Firdaus her son, would arrive, half-asleep, and be handed a broom. He would wield it like a baton and with remarkable precision hit the lizard; it would fall to the floor struggling; someone would ask him to fling it outside the window from where it would find its way. But this was a manly challenge and until it had been decimated, there was no reprieve. I am amused now that while the whole contingent of ‘junooni’ Mussalmans would be cowering with their feeble “shoo-shoo”, the peaceful Parsi had blood on his hands.

My childhood was full of these little neighbourly observations – ‘sutarpheni’ (a sweet that looks like dry white grass and perhaps tastes like it, except for the sugar and pistachios) being sent to us on Parsi New Year; the daily ‘chokh’, a pattern made from rice powder, outside the door; Behram uncle, a soft-spoken man, standing in the balcony tying his ‘Kusti’ (sacred thread) three times round his waist to signify good words, good thoughts, good deeds over his sudreh (a muslin vest) and muttering a prayer. This is his heritage from the moment he was initiated into the faith, not at birth but after his Navjote ceremony at the age of eight.

The family would always be dressed appropriately for the occasion. You wouldn’t find them shoddy. If they were going for a stroll on the Bandstand promenade, they’d tie scarves round their heads to protect their hair and ears.

This Irani household taught me about simple things and a language that was delectable. If Uncle as much as voiced his opinion about someone, then his wife would admonish him, “Marey-re, javaa de Bei-aam. Te taddan gadherro chhe.” (Damn it, let it be…that man is a complete donkey.) It took me a while to learn to pronounce Behram. I would mimic Aunty and after ‘Bei’ there would be a long inhalation before the soft whimper of an ‘aam’ was exhaled, almost like a meditative ‘Om’.

Of course, as one’s world expanded, I found it hard to believe that Parsis were an endangered species; they were everywhere. Haggling with hawkers, at the theatre to watch English plays (in which most of them were acting anyway), when choir groups or Western orchestras performed in the city, in parks, at the David Sassoon library, usually snoozing on one of the wooden armchairs, in clubs eating ‘akuri’ (an eggy mish-mash) on toast, sitting in their now-dwindling eateries where they put up signs that read, “No smoking, no combing hair, no discussing politics”, driving at a snail’s pace, usually in the Fiat. A “Parsi-maintained car”, although used, is still considered as precious as a virgin in the automobile market.

And then you have the colonies. It is an entirely different world where you suddenly hear the same sounds, encounter people wearing similar clothes and even looking somewhat alike. But the status is not always the same. You may enter Cusrow Baug, but if one flat has the Grand Piano playing Schubert, and another has a famous ballerina or a film-maker, there are smaller houses with little furniture and a lonely man sitting and gazing vacantly at the wall clock that chimes every half hour. I know how hard it is because as a stranger when I had knocked on such a door for an assignment, I was welcomed in and offered porridge at 4 pm. I hate porridge at any hour, but when you have it with pent-up tears the taste changes.

More than images

It is the isolation of that gentleman that makes me ask: Is such exclusivity good? Is it all about when the bell tolls and is fear the only key?

A few months ago, The Zoroastrian Co-operative Housing Society challenged the Gujarat High Court verdict that the community could not restrict membership to only those of their religious persuasion. In a surprising judgment, the Supreme Court Bench set aside this argument and pronounced, “It is also open to the members of the Parsi community, who came together to form the co-operative society, to prescribe that members of the community for whose benefit the society was formed, alone could aspire to be the member of the society.”

Due to the initiative of this liberal community, others too now have the choice to restrict membership based on religious affiliation. The danger is it could extend to other areas. In a country like India this is not desirable. We will have pure vegetarian colonies, colonies only for people working in multi-nationals, we are being divided, and I am shocked that the first stone was cast by the Parsis. In fact, the World Alliance of Parsi Irani Zarthoshtis (WAPIZ) has been recently formed; it is an answer to the more established Bombay Parsi Panchayat and its cosmopolitanism. “We will unashamedly stand for the voice of tradition,” they have declared categorically.

Did you know that only the Parsi community in India has a Parsi Matrimonial Court presided over by a High Court judge with an all-Parsi jury? This has been going on since 1936 when the Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act was formulated and there were no family courts. A recent move has merely altered the nature of the involvement of the jury, which will sit in judgment only in contested cases (incidentally, until 1988 consensual divorces were not permitted). While all other communities go through the family court, the Parsis are permitted to retain their jury system.

No one has questioned these aspects nor is the community accused of encouraging ghettos. Is this because they are non-threatening? Why don’t Parsis express their opinion on general political matters? Is this distancing a strategy for survival? There are some important figures like the Tatas, the Godrejs, the Sorabjees, the Narimans, the Maneckshaws, the Karanjias. Except for rare voices, one does not hear them hold forth on matters of national interest. They don’t have typical beards or turbans to mark them out. They can truly be the non-partisan representatives of minorities. Being considered the educated, peace-loving, understanding minority should not be seen as a mere honour; it must be looked upon with responsibility.

For a community that was supposed to completely submerge – they did say they would be like “doodh mein shakkar”, sugar that would dissolve in milk and yet sweeten it -- they cannot be termed as mainstream. They are complete outsiders. Their colonies are entirely self-sufficient, with schools, madrassas, parks, so they do not need to even go out and socialise. They speak Gujarati, but their dialect and accent are vastly different. Their cuisine is distinct, irrespective of the region they may choose to make their home in.

Their customs are non-inclusive. At a Parsi wedding, you don’t participate in any sangeet/mehndi ceremony or join in a baraat or attend the nuptials. You are invited to a reception which is as unique as it can be lavish.

The hosts ask you to be seated at a long table; fine china or a banana leaf is placed before you. There is the mandatory glass of Duke’s Raspberry. You are served the delicacies and just when you are about to pop the first morsel in your mouth, two matrons appear and start counting – each will count who is from their side. A neat roster is maintained so that the costs can be split.

The problem facing the Parsis is marriage outside the fold. They do not accept converts. Worse, a woman marrying a non-Parsi is given short-shrift. Should she wish to initiate her children into Zoroastrianism, it is not permitted. I know one such woman who does sneak in her kids to the Fire Temple. “I don’t think it is fair that they only learn the rituals of my husband’s religion. They ought to know where I come from too.”

There is a feeling they want to retain the purity of their race. What they do not realise is that they won’t be a race for long. Their fears are real. According to the last census there are just 69,601 of them in India. In her book, ‘Zoroastrians of India: Parsis’, Sooni Taraporewalla states, “By the year 2020, India will have achieved the dubious distinction of being the most populated country on earth with 1,200 million people. At that point, Parsis who will number 23,000 or 0.0002 per cent of the population, will cease to be termed a community and will be labelled a ‘tribe’ as is any ethnic group below the 30,000 count. Demographically, we are a dying community; our deaths outweigh our births.”

It is true that when they fled against persecution from Pars in Iran to Sanjan in Gujarat, the king had asked them to abstain from missionary activities and to marry only within their community. This, however, cannot apply to contemporary times. It is a cruel irony that at the Tower of Silence in Mumbai where the mortal remains of those who die are left for birds of prey, the vultures too are disappearing.

It will take more than the always burning holy fire for them to be able to see the dying of the light outside.