‘Why are you guys so obsessed with your cars and bikes?’
‘What’s a Dikra?’
‘Where’s the accent from?’
‘Two New Years? And two birthdays too?’
‘Your mom gave you your first drink?… Can’t believe it!’
‘You own half of Bombay?’
‘Shaadi mein no pheras?’
‘Bride wears white?’
‘Isn’t the way you guys do your last rites a little eekks?’
‘What’s a baug?’
‘Why can’t non-Parsis enter your temple?’
‘Daruwalla? Batliwalla? Pardiwalla?’
‘Dadabhoy? So you’re related to Dadabhai Naoroji?’
I love these questions. And I love answering them too!
Let me start by saying a huge, big ‘Thank You’ to the King of Gujarat, Jadav Rana, from many hundred years ago, for giving us refuge in Sanjan (Gujarat) and then graciously granting land in Udvada (Gujarat) to build the sanctum sanctorum, the Iranshah, our most revered fire-temple. The milk and sugar story is something every Parsi household has grown up on.
For the uninitiated, here goes: A boatful of people set sail from Persia fearing religious persecution. They miraculously reached Sanjan and were led to the then King, Jadav Rana from whom they sought shelter. His kingdom was full, he indicated, and it would be difficult to accommodate a new clan. Due to the language barrier, the leader of this band of refugees, Dastoor (priest) Neryosang Dhawal requested for a bowl of milk, filled to the brim, and added a handful of sugar to it.
The sugar dissolved, the milk became sweeter and didn’t spill over. The wise Jadav Rana realised the significance - that, we will enrich and sweeten his kingdom without any disturbance… and that was that!
We laid down our arms and ammunition and promised to lend strength to the generous king. And with open arms adapted to the language, the attire; sari for the women, ‘dagla’ for the men, the culture and the rituals – our wedding ceremony has an entire Sanskrit verse.
Over the years, we’ve held on to our eccentricities, and we’re proud of them.
Yup, we love our gaaries and bikes. And you’ll see a Jamshed or a Cyrus or a Homi polishing it, Sunday to Sunday! 80 year olds are shaking it up on the dance floor at a lagan to the Birdie Dance. Boys are checking out fatakris (chicks, to the uninitiated) while dainty damsels and silver headed dowagers carry off the gaaras (hand embroidered, nearly 100 year old Chinese silk saris) with low cut blouses and backless cholis, looking their best!
You’ll hear an old uncle yelling at someone on the road with an ‘Aye gadhera, dikta nahi hai kya? Aankh hai ke button?’
And yes, we completely believe in ‘Juice peevanu, carom rammvanu, majja ni life.’ Khai (eat) Pee (tipple) ne Majja (enjoy).
Because that’s what life is all about, doing majja!
On the flip side, Parsis have gifted Mumbai with the J.J. Hospital, the J.J. School of Art, The Taj Mahal Hotel, the Tata Cancer Hospital, The Tata Institute of Fundamental Research, the Cowasji Jenhangir Hall (now the National Gallery of Modern Art) and the Jehangir Art Gallery among many more.
Here’s to many, many more years of us being the sugar in the milk.
(May Ahura Mazda grant us the strength to overcome the demons of demography, that profess extinction and foresee us in the museum next to the Dinosaurs and the Dodo!)
But if that does happen, you can always tell your grandchildren that many years ago, you knew a Parsi and he/she was a gem! Meanwhile, Jamwa Chaloji (let’s eat), live and be loved by everyone.
(This article was first published on 18 August 2015. It is being reposted from The Quint’s archives to mark Navroze.)
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