Cemeteries as Historical Evidence

In Law and Identity in Colonial South Asia, Mitra Sharafi argues that rather than trying to maintain collective autonomy and integrity by avoiding interaction with the state, the Parsis sank deep into the colonial legal system itself. One way their unique identity was evident was in the cemeteries they dedicated for their dead.

Article By Mitra Sharafi

I didn’t expect to spend time in cemeteries when I began work on Law and Identity in Colonial South Asia: Parsi Legal Culture, 1772-1947. Quickly, though, cemetery trips became a personal tradition. At first, they did not seem to be an essential part of my research. They started as a way to while away my Sunday afternoons during solo research trips abroad, when my archives were closed. Soon, I was hooked. Cemetery visits across Eurasia added color and context to my historical subjects’ lawsuits and legal careers. From London to Rangoon, I came to see graveyards as a special kind of archive.

My book is about the Parsis, South Asian followers of the ancient Persian religion of Zoroastrianism. The community’s death rites are famous. Bodies are consigned to cylindrical stone structures known as Towers of Silence (in Gujarati, dakhma), where vultures consume the corpses. Picked clean, the bones are deposited in the hollow center of a tower, mixing with other Parsis’ now powdered bones. Religious sensitivities and Zoroastrian purity laws prevent anyone but hereditary corpse bearers (Guj. nasasalar) from getting too close. I am neither Parsi nor Zoroastrian, and kept a respectful distance from Mumbai’s Towers, which sit in the middle of a lush, tropical garden in the old colonial neighborhood of Malabar Hill.

In places where the Parsi population was too small to sustain towers, Parsis were buried in cemeteries instead of being exposed to vultures. Parsi cemeteries were (and are) varied and beautiful. One morning, I was jogging in the woods of Matheran, a favorite Parsi hill station outside of Mumbai. I followed a pack of friendly stray dogs to a tiny Parsi cemetery, tucked away on a shaded side-path. It contained small, tilted headstones from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, including some from the Lord family, the Parsi family that owned my colonial-era hotel.  By contrast, the Zoroastrian section of Brookwood Cemetery outside of London houses the grand white stone mausoleums of the Tata and Wadia families, reflecting the dazzling wealth and global mobility of colonial Bombay’s “merchant princes.” The Tata family also occupies a corner of Paris’ stunning Père Lachaise cemetery. There lies Sooni Tata, a French woman (née Suzanne Brière) whose marriage into the Tata family triggered a famous lawsuit in Bombay over the admission of ethnic outsiders (Guj. juddin) into the Parsi Zoroastrian fold. Had Petit v. Jijibhai (1906-9) been decided differently, Mrs. Tata’s bones would now rest in the towers of Malabar Hill.

From London to Rangoon, I came to see graveyards as a special kind of archive.

There was also the Parsi cemetery—or remnants of it—that I visited outside of Rangoon (now Yangon) in Burma in 2006. My guide was a young man claiming to be the last Parsi in Burma. He was also a descendant of litigants in another major conversion case in my book, the Privy Council case of Saklat v. Bella (1914-25). This man and his father had rescued Parsi tombstones when Myanmar’s military regime confiscated the community’s cemetery in 1995. Relocated to a new plot of land assigned to the Parsis by the government, this collection of headstones now sat in bits and pieces, piled in a storage shed. The barely legible English and Gujarati text reconstructed fragments of the history of the Parsis of Burma, a diaspora of a diaspora. Traveling later in Texas to speak to a Parsi organization, I showed my local hosts an image of the Rangoon tombstone of a long-lost member of their family, a young woman who had moved from India to Burma in the early twentieth century. Nobody had known what had become of her.

I also visited non-Parsi cemeteries. In London, I made one trip to Paddington Old Cemetery looking for F. C. O. Beaman, a blind British judge whose 1928 obituary identified this graveyard as final resting place. The tombstone had been removed, but I located a great-grandson through an address on file with local authorities. This descendant told me of the judge’s part-Jewish ancestry, a fascinating fact given Beaman’s comments from the Bombay High Court bench likening Parsis to Jews. In Mumbai, another Sunday trip took me to Sewree Christian Cemetery in search of the grave of J. D. Inverarity, colonial Bombay’s most celebrated European barrister. This grave too was now unmarked, but the cemetery attendant produced a huge, crumbling register, efficiently locating the grave site and providing me with details on the famous Scottish lawyer. Like Parsis consigned to the towers, these Europeans left no lasting, personal space marking their individual deaths.

Together, these trips revivified for me the story-telling element of the historian’s craft. They brought to life—through death—the stories I wanted to tell.

The post Death and Legal History on Sunday Afternoons appeared on Parsi Khabar.

‘Chikoos’, ‘aamras’, Parsi food and empty beaches—Bordi offers a restful break from the city rush

When you’re driving in Mumbai, you never get to speed, or even feel the wind in your hair. Road trips can change that. They may begin with a slow crawl out of the city but then, at some point, like a door swinging wide open, you leave everything—worries, work and traffic—behind.

The Mumbai to Bordi route provides one such escape.

Article by Bhavani | Live Mint

The husband and I set out early on a Friday, caught the Western Express Highway, which slowly morphs into National Highway (NH) 8 and runs to New Delhi via Ahmedabad. Once on the highway, I rolled down the windows and let the roar of the wind drown out the music. Hills flowed into each other on either side, the air felt crisp.

Just about 25km after the Virar toll booth, we turned into a parking lot crowded with other ravenous travellers and joined the queue at Vithal Kamats. Their chai could give kheer a complex, the sambhar tasted like sweetened dal, but the misal pav had steam coming out of my ears. Satiated, we headed back to the highway. At Kasa junction, we took the left turn on to Dahanu Road, taking the coastal highway till Bordi. The sea, with tall trees lined up on the beachfront, gleamed to our left. On the right, chikoo orchards zipped by.

A small town about 150km north of Mumbai, Bordi lies along the Maharashtrian coast. Most of the hotels there used to be Parsi homes. They may not give the feel of true home-stays—but Parsi food is on the menu.

There aren’t many attractions—barring the 16th century Vasai Fort, also called Bassein Fort—so we planned our trip around the sea and sand. On the beach, dark, mildly sticky sand welcomed us. A signboard proclaimed that locals weren’t allowed to use the beach for daily ablutions, yet I walked cautiously till the gentle warm waters of the Arabian Sea swept me up, inviting me to venture further.

The next day, after an unhealthy helping of akuri, Parsi-style masala scrambled eggs, we set out to explore Bordi. The Saturday village haat had taken over the main street, an assortment of stalls selling everything from vessels and groceries to lingerie. Down the road, a Parsi bawa, standing at a window of his bungalow in white pyjamas and short kurta, invited us in. The chance to see an old Parsi home should never be passed up. It was like a walk down memory lane—poster beds, old tiled mosaic flooring and wooden window shutters. “We are all cousins, between 60-70 years, who live here,” he told us. His breath was laced with alcohol, but we were all ears thanks to his stories and his generosity.

Bidding him adieu, we headed to Aswali Dam, a 15-minute drive away, to watch the day dissolve into dusk. The dam wall divides the two sides—the large lake hemmed in by hills, and endless stretches of green fields.

We didn’t want to leave Bordi without visiting a Warli artist’s home. The tribals of this area traditionally decorate the walls of their homes with an art form unique to coastal Maharashtra-Gujarat, a style dominated by squares, triangles and circles—and now, expressed on paper, popular in homes across the country. We chatted with the artist, Suresh, and his family, and bought a few pieces before making our way to one of Bordi’s chikoo orchards, most of which welcome tourists. The chikoo trees, with their dense canopies and low-hanging fruit, stood in rows, engulfed by the earthy smell of decomposing leaves, ripe fruit and wet soil. We boxed up that smell in a box of chikoos layered with leaves, raw at the bottom, ripe at the top, an edible souvenir. If you would like to experience the peak chikoo season, visit towards the end of May.

Back in Mumbai, as I gulp down yet another cold chikoo shake, my mind wanders back to Bordi. I dream about running a heritage home-stay in an old bungalow, walking down the quaint lanes and letting life unravel by the water…

The post Bordi: In Search of Serenity appeared on Parsi Khabar.

The heritage precinct is both, a tree spangled island and the last bastion of a threatened community. To its residents, the BMC’s move to fill its streets with hawkers has become a metaphor of loss.

Jimmy Gymkhanawalla is flexing his muscles. Homi Homeopath looks like an overdose of Nux Vomica. Soli Solicitor is preparing a brief which is anything but. Dadar Parsi Colony has never been so agitated – and certainly never so united – in living memory.

Article By Bachi Karkaria, Mumbai Mirror

Mani Manor, Villoo Villa and Tehmi Terrace have been shaken to their foundations. While nibbling eclairs at Cafe 792, buying Bombay duck at the Katrak Road bazaar, flirting on the Five Gardens railings, waxing legs at Cinderella salon, practising a Shiamak sizzler, swotting for the CA exam, or even lighting a divo at the Rustom Framna Agiary, there’s only one demand: Save Us From Death By Hawkers.

The Damocles sword is the Street Vendors Act 2014, passed on the double-edged premise of “livelihood”. Some 1,800 hawkers have been “allotted” space across Dadar Parsi Colony, Hindu Colony and Matunga. Signature campaigns have been launched, the media co-opted, authorities appealed to. The municipal corporation has thrown up its helpless hands, saying that only the Supreme Court can decide on the matter. It would indeed be a landmark case, calling for a great leap out of the box.

Today, residents and “well-wishers” will march in protest from the police chowky to the statue of the Dadar Parsi Colony’s founder, Muncherji Joshi. The foresight of this Bombay Improvement Trust civil engineer created a residential haven for Parsis in 1920, far from their traditional concentration in congested, plague-ridden “Fort”. Joshi is remembered gratefully by their descendants who live in the spacious, airy, three-storied houses cosseted by a benign and profuse botanica: not just the spreading rain trees or the banyan – “wad” which gave Wadala its name, but also rare ebony and mahogany.

The colony is a heritage precinct, spared Mumbai’s marauding concrete by a trust deed which does not allow high rises and by a vigilant NGO led by Joshi’s intrepid granddaughter, Zarine Engineer. It has actively kept out encroachment, and demanded accountability of corporators squandering funds on ugliness in the name of “beautification”. But now, as many as 94 “pitch licences” have been given for the very thoroughfare named after the visionary aesthete, Muncherji Joshi.

The irony is compounded by mindless indifference to the user communities. Located here are the revered agiary to which most of the residents make their daily way to pray, and the secular JB Vachha High School for Parsi Girls and Ranina Day Nursery. The other Parsi Colony hawker licences are for the radial Firdoshi Road, also the site of the inclusive DPYA boys’ school – and the precious mahogany trees.

If the allottees come, can the illegal ones be far behind? One only has to get to the main Khodadad Circle, or worse, cross Tilak Bridge to Dadar (west) to see the raucous, littered fate that awaits the sylvan Parsi Colony at Five Gardens.

Middle-class Mumbai has been fighting a (mostly losing) battle against hawkers. Look at the gaudy merchandise which has obliterated the equally historic bungalows and churches of Bandra’s Hill Road, and turned pedestrian movement into a hazardous obstacle course. Gauge the rage over such a wholesale takeover of pavements from Mumbai Mirror’s 2013 campaign, “Talk the Walk”, the overwhelming public response to which brought even Municipal Commissioner Sitaram Kunte on to the subverted streets.

But the hawkerfication of Dadar Parsi Colony cuts at something deeper. Yes, the sprawling eponymous Five Gardens and smaller parks are a breather for the thousands who descend here from miles around. From morning-walk bank managers to the Sunday congregation of bhaiyas; from taporis pumping iron at the al fresco roman rings to canoodlers and elders huddling closer for different reasons. Yes, it’s arguably the only middle-class area spared from hawkers; bar the handful of paan, pav bhaji, kala khatta and “Chines” stalls.

But, deep down, at the heart of the protest is not just paradise lost, but a bequest betrayed.

The Dadar Parsis study, shop, socialise within this enclave. It’s the home of their robust forefathers and their hope for an increasingly iffy future. The “Colony” is an island entire unto itself; a rare urban, mostly monocultural ethno-sphere. It’s the world’s largest concentration of Parsis/Iranis; every fourth Mumbai Zoroastrian lives here.

Being the creation of a Parsi for Parsis makes it akin to ancestral legacy, with all the attendant sense of entitlement. Belonging to a demographically threatened “molecularity”, the Dadar colony Parsis are far more obsessively possessive of their turf. Therefore the call to the barricades, the resistance to hawkers rattling at their genteel gates is much more than the usual NIMBY factor – Not In My Backyard.

Today’s collective indignation is laced with trepidation and paranoia. In 2009, the Dadar Colony may have won a six-year legal battle to stay exclusively Parsi, but already its architectural and ethnic signatures are smudged. The non-“covenanted” houses are being replaced by high rises, which has meant more non-Parsis moving in. A community which once created almost all of Mumbai is deeply wounded at now not even being allowed to hold on to its last little acre.

A COLONY PROTESTS

Zarine Engineer

It was a herculean task for my grandfather to change this jungle into a paradise — with planned, open spaces, trees, schools, a library, fire temple, gymkhana and madressa. Now, suddenly, after nearly nine decades, the authorities want to turn our peaceful, residential area into a commercial zone. Parsi Colony alone is to be invaded by 214 hawkers, 96 of them on Muncherji Joshi road. Are our school girls and their parents expected to walk on the road? And what about the senior citizens of our ageing community? It’s the responsibility of the present generation to preserve the integrity and distinctive character of the colony; it’s an inheritance for future generations.

Dinshaw Tamboly

I do not see the point of hawkers’ zones thrust on a residential area. Not only will the tranquillity of the place be severely compromised, the clean and green space will be replaced with filth and waste. How will the safety of the children in the two schools here be ensured as crowds throng? The Wadala Market and shopping complex at Dadar TT are all close at hand. So, where’s the need for hawkers in the first place?

Zubin Zarthoshtimanesh

The hawkers’ zones will not just be a physical infringement but a mental invasion of our space. Taking the populist route, the BMC is trying to grab the few empty footpaths left in Mumbai. Our colony is one of the last few green lungs, and it will be left gasping for air – and privacy. Every effort has to be made to fight this onslaught on our rights – and sanity.

Penaz Masani

Our colony is not just a green belt for us residents but for thousands of Mumbaikars who come in religiously every morning and evening to walk and exercise. Five Gardens is our heritage, carefully preserved, with its gigantic trees and beautiful parks. To think of a hawking zone here is absolute madness.

Katie Bagli

I feel sad. During my walks through Muncherji Joshi Road and Firdoshi Road, instead of the yellow flowers of the Copper Pods, and the red winged seeds of the Mahogany, I’ll be forced to look upon ungainly tarpaulins and whatnots belonging to hawkers. The avenues of trees which are so much a part of Parsi Colony would lose their pride of place as they would be hidden from view. With it, the colony’s property value will also drop.

The post Longing and Loss at Dadar Parsi Colony appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Brownpaperbag knocks on doors from Cusrow to Behram Baug to scout six Parsi ladies with hobbies and businesses that you should know about.

30.04.2015

Ranging from suspicious and wary to chatty and cheery, we found Gulshan, Zenobia, Benaifer, Gool, Nilofer and Roshan, all with mad skills. You should see what they can do with a fistful of Czechoslovakian beads from Bhuleshwar.

Turban Legend: Gulshan Kolah’s Parsi Paghdis

Right before her wedding in 1987, Gulshan Kolah had one major concern. It wasn’t cold feet or stomach butterflies, but organizing good head for her fiancé – turns out that she was having trouble finding him a traditional Parsi paghdi (head gear worn by men during marriage) for the ceremony.

“No one knew how to make these pagdhis so I tracked down 90 year-old Nariman Paghdiwala, the last proper paghdiwala in the city,” she says. From him, Gulshan learned the tricks of the trade and has been providing paghdis to Mumbai’s Parsis ever since. You can swing by her home in Cusrow Baug and choose from a collection of turbans that she’ll customise with traditional white crystals or red stones.

We spied a red and black polka-dotted tall cap that’s a stylish shield against the sun, whether or not you’re a Parsi gentleman on your way to getting hitched.

Call Gulshan on 22820017/ email her on gulshansk@hotmail.com, prices start at Rs 10,000 for a traditional Parsi pagdhi.

#SareeNotSorry: Zenobia Davar’s Garas

When Ex UK Prime Minister’s wife Cherie Blair wanted a gara sari, she went to Z’s studio, where Zenobia Davar hand embroidered a bird into the pattern. Feather in her cap!

Recommended by many voices in the Parsi community, Zenobia, who has a fashion degree from Sophia Polytechnic, sees herself as an embroidery purist. “I can make a lot more money if I start using machines but that would kill this delicate art form. Someone has to continue the tradition, you know!” While she swears that each of her designs are unique, be prepared to wait for up to three months for a made-to-order piece. Jabla tops for kids, jackets for women and embroidered frames have shorter wait periods.

Call 9869028943/9324106568 or email zsdavar@hotmail.com, prices start at Rs 4,000 for an embroidered frame.

No one knew how to make these pagdhis so I tracked down 90 year-old Nariman Paghdiwala, the last proper paghdiwala in the city.

From Toran to Czechoslovakia: Benaifer Amaria’s Traditional Door Hangings

Benaifer Amaria and her family have been giving the Parsi community a toran for their money for a while now.

“I come from two generations of toran (door hangings) experts,” she tells us. Creating traditional beaded torans for over twenty years, the ladies of the house scourge old cross stitch books and traditional patterns that are auspicious to bring clients good luck.

“Of course we customise as well,” Benaifer says, in a way that makes us feel silly for asking. “Just recently we had a pushy client who wanted a horse, horse shoe, swastika and even ‘god bless our home’ on the toran. We incorporated all five motifs in a way that kept them happy and was aesthetically pleasing.”

If a toran is really not your thing, Benaifer can use the same technique to make belts and neckpieces, with Czechoslovakian glass beads she gets from her vendor in Bhuleshwar.

Call 9892291565, regular toran with glass beads start at Rs 1,500 for 34-36 inches, crystal torans start at Rs 3,000.

If a toran is really not your thing, Benifer can use the same technique to make belts and neckpieces, with Czechoslovakian glass beads she gets from her vendor in Bhuleshwar.

Cottage Industry: Gool’s Topli Ma Paneer

For Gool Daruwalla, business is all about her friends. It began on a warm day in 2006, when a family acquaintance showed her how to make the traditional Parsi cottage cheese in a basket. Intrigued, Gool decided to try her hand at it, and began sourcing rennet tablets (unavailable in India and integral to many cheese making processes) from friends travelling to Singapore and Dubai, the States and England, who in turn, regularly ordered her succulent creations.

Gool now makes up to 40 pieces of paneer a day, which she recommends be eaten as salad or dessert, and has an ever-widening circle of customers. She is currently recovering from a fall and a fractured hip, so send get-well wishes for now, and place orders at the end of May.

Call 22833567, Rs 15 per piece.

Fruit & Futons: Nilofer Rustomji’s Sofa Sets

When Nilofer and her husband Reshad quit their jobs, they decided to pursue two things they loved – farming and furniture. Twenty five years later, they sip organic coffee from Kodaikanal while seated on a couch they call The Quiet Master. “It’s my favourite couch,” says Nilofer, who makes furniture of all kinds, but is recommended most for her sofas. Bums all over the city, including at Hakkasan, Axis Banks and the Mahindra Headquarters, sink into creations by Nilofer, sold under the Colonial Collections label.

Call 22090129 or email colonialcollections.india@gmail.com.

Jai Beam: Roshan Contractor’s Chandeliers

The adorable Mrs Contractor is in her eighties and in her own words, “has one good ear”, so you’ll have to speak up. She tells us that while she lives in her apartment full-time, it also doubles up as a showroom for chandeliers, art deco lamps and bulbs, all of which you can buy after a walking tour of the home (by appointment only).

The light fixtures are designed and put together by a “sleepyhead man” who takes almost three months to make a piece. While some of the materials are new, others, especially those fashioned from cut-glass, are made with antique materials sourced from around the country. Read more about here here.

15, Walton Road, above Cowies Hotel, near Electric House, Colaba, Rs 2,500 for a single hanging lamp, Rs 20,000 for an elaborate chandelier. Shop by appointment only, call 22842082.

The post Six Parsi Aunties You’ll Want For Company ! appeared on Parsi Khabar.

The anniversary of the Atash Behram, the most sacred fire, at the sleepy town of Udvada, is when the community opens up to all comers, and with free delicious food for everyone.

Article by Madhulika Dash | Swarajya Magazine

Parsees have always been a gated community, not because of arrogance but a promise their leader, Nairyosang Dhawal made for peaceful asylum. According to Qessa ye Sanjan, a book  that chronicles their journey to Gujarat, Dhawal assured the king that they would never rage a war, and never convert residents to their religion. A promise that still makes the Parsees a close-knit community, in spite their numbers dwindling to a tribal 60,000. But there is one day when this community opens up in parts to the outsider: The anniversary of the Atash Behram (the highest grade of fire that can be lit in a Zoroastrian fire temple), falls on the ninth month in the Parsee Holy Calendar. It happened at Udvada, on April 23rd 2014.

The great fire is made of fire taken from different places – that of a funeral pyre, a shepherd’s hearth, a goldsmith’s hearth, a potter’s kiln and from a fire caused by lightning – which then is invoked in the traditional Khorasan style. Considered the earthly representative of Yazdegerd III, the last Zoroastrian king of Iran, there are eight Atash Behrmans in India – four in Mumbai, two in Surat and one each in Udvada and Navsari.

Called the Maha Kumbh of Parsees, Atash Behram’s birthday is the day when this sleepy town, 200km from Mumbai, sees over 3,000 people come to pray, get connected and thank their ancestors. The town is a 30-minute drive from Sanjan, the point on the Gujarat coast where the first boatload of Parsees landed from Iran some 1,500 years ago.

Karl Karanjia visits Udvada regularly. “It’s a place that helps renew my faith in my community and appreciate the life given here. It is also my way of connecting to my roots.”  Rohinton Irani, owner of an Irani Bakery the oldest functional bakery in the hamlet agrees, “Like every other place, Udvada, too, has its flaws, but the sense of community here is unparalleled. People still don’t lock their houses and trust each other to watch their back.”

Neville Jamshedji, who calls Udvada the “home”, agrees that it keeps him spiritually connected and grounded. In fact, says high priest Dasturji Khurshed Dastoor “It is the day when generations connect, as people of all ages come together to celebrate.”

It is also the day that the gambhar is hosted by the village. Open to all, it is one of the biggest community tables that was instrumental in making the Parsees a part of the Indian culture. Says Dasturji,

“The idea behind this was to celebrate our existence and prosperity, and to mingle. Over a period of time of course, with donations and such, gambhar has become a sign of Parsee generosity of hosting lavish feasts, which is free for all.”

This year’s gambhar too was sponsored not by one, but five people – some through cash, some with the traditional pineapple juice and others by sending meat. Says Maneck Tadiwala, one of the seasoned gambhar caterers, “Unlike lagan na bhonu, the food in gambhar is pretty rustic, almost similar to what we had back then and is prepared on wood-fire.” So you had mutton, sadiya and the oldest appetizer, topli paneer and meethi seviyaan. Once made with animal fat, today topli paneer is an art practiced in very few places. While the main course is an indulgence, kulfi and the hand-churned mango ice cream sold in aluminium containers surrounded by ice in wooden barrels in an auto are the real winners!

Held at the backyard of the fire temple, the gambhar feeds nearly all visitors to Udvada. No food, says Maneck, is cooked at home, as even the elders get a food parcel from the gambhar, where it is cooked over wood fire and by specialists. “We cook about 50 kilos of vegetable and 90 kg of meat.”

The day begins early with a prayer at the Atash Behram followed by a Jashn. While the fire temple remains a no-non-Parsee territory, even from outside, the grandeur of this beautiful palace-like temple, which is said to have undergone many renovations and not less than four makeovers  in the past 270 years, is spectacular. But if you cannot get into the home of the Holy Fire, the Dasturji house is a breathing microcosm of Parsee living and architecture. It has the oldest model of the fire temple, which is said to have been inspired by the Palace of Versailles. There is also the museum, which has a scaled model of the inside sanctorum of Atash Behram.

Besides the Atash Behram, Udvada is home to a few timeless buildings that show the progressive nature of the community. As the Bikhaji Unwala is the oldest Zoroastrian Library, it is said to have contained the early works of famous Zoroastrian writers including Bahman Kaikobad, author of Qessa-ye-Sanjan. Another is the first all-wood dharamshala sponsored by the first Baron Sir Jamshedji Jejeebhoy for poor Parsees. Today, along with Sodawaterwalla Dharamshala and Dastoor Baug, it is one of the few places to taste authentic Parsee fare. The best part is that everything – including dhanshak and patrani machchi – are made on demand.

Udvada also boasts the oldest clinic, the Maneckji Cowasji Damanwalla Dispensary. Rebuilt in 1924 with a generous donation of Rs 55,000 by Sir Ratanji Jamshedji Tata. It dispenses free basic medical treatment to everyone, and the Pandole ni Agiary, which is home to the lesser fire made of four fires from the home of a priest, soldier/ civil servant, famer/ herdsmen and artisan/ labourer—the four classes of Parsees. But the most awe-inspiring is the four-star beach facing hotel, JRM Della’s Majestic. Today a store-room for older relics – a few damaged – from the fire temples across Mumbai and Gujarat, it stands testimony to the Parsee penchant for living the beautiful life.

The post In Udvada: The Maha Kumbh of the Parsis appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Parsigutta is one of the popular suburban areas in the city. It comes under Boudhanagar Municipal Division. Parsigutta is surrounded by Ram Nagar, Padma Rao Nagar, Musheerabad, Warasiguda and Adikmet. There are many basthis including New Ashok Nagar, Sanjeevapuram, LN Nagar, Amber Nagar, Alladi Raj Kumar Nagar, and Gangaputra Colony (which houses the largest fish market) abutting the area.

On the eve of Sankranti, hundreds of women participate in the Rangoli competition organised at the Community Hall near Pochamma in New Ashok Nagar. The famous temples near Parsigutta are Shirdi Sai Baba & Sri Anjaneya temple.

History

According to locals, Parsigutta was a dense forest and so people were scared to venture into the dark due to fear of being attacked by wild animals. To ward off such fears, the Parsi community built a well on a hill (gutta) where dead bodies were dumped into it which acted as food for the animals. That’s how the area got its name. The hill is now popularly known as Tower of Silence which is a circular, raised structure used by Zoroastrians.

Problems

Majority of residents in Parsigutta belong to the weaker sections of society who usually live in a house which is hardly 50 to 70 square yards. The residents have been plagued by bad roads, chocked drains and lack of drinking water. With the ongoing Swachh Hyderabad programme, Chief Minister K Chandrasekhar Rao visited basthis in the area and promised to resolve their issues soon. He also promised to construct IDH model housing colonies on par with the present constructions at Bhoiguda.

Article By : Ch Saibaba | The HANS India

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BORI, in collaboration with London University, to hold 10-day course in Avestan, an ancient language now fading into oblivion.

In an attempt to resurrect the ancient Iranian language Avestan, Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute (BORI) is conducting a 10-day course from July 6.

Article By Mayuri Phadnis | Pune Mirror

The ancient language, sacred to Zoroastrianism, has few takers and even fewer scholars. “It is the language of Zoroastrian scripture and is close to Vedic Sanskrit. For instance, just as ‘asur’ means ‘powerful’ in Sanskrit, the corresponding Avestan word is ‘ahur’. The course, titled ‘An Introduction to the Avestan Language’ is being held in collaboration with the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London,” Dr Shrikant Bahulkar, honorary secretary in charge of BORI, told Mirror.

This course is supported by Unesco Parzor, started for the Preservation of Parsi Zoroastrian Heritage, which has now developed into the Parzor Foundation. The course will be taught by Almut Hintze, Zartosthy Brothers Professor of Zoroastrianism from SOAS, one of the very few teachers left from the stream.

“The course is free of charge and we have got a great response, with people coming from as far as Ethiopia and Germany. This could be phase two of the Jiyo Parsi programme. The whole point is to create awareness within the community and across the world about the value of this ancient civilisation and the importance of the language. When a language dies, wisdom too is lost,” said Shernaz Cama, of Unesco Parzor. India has around 60,000 Parsis, though the number is seen to decline by 10 per cent every census. The number of people knowing Avestan is possibly even smaller.

The course will contribute to Oriental studies, Vedic studies and Indian Culture by teaching Avestan from a comparative perspective that takes into account the common Indo-Iranian heritage shared by Vedic and Avestan. It is open to all and there is no eligibility criteria. “The point of the course is to preserve the language and develop people’s interest in it which in turn will lead to more research in the field,” added Dr Bahulkar.

“Avestan is a beautiful script and must be understood in order to understand the wonders of the Zoroastrian faith, a religion older than most. Starting courses is a brilliant initiative to honour the language and will hopefully encourage hundreds to uncover a piece of history. I hope the courses are advertised and promoted well,” said Freyan Bhathena, founder-editor of The Parsi Times. a community newspaper.

The post Dying Iranian language gets boost appeared on Parsi Khabar.

A mega festival, with exhibits being brought from world over, is being proposed by Minority Affairs Ministry for March next year

Article by Sobhana K Nair | Bangalore Mirror

New Delhi: In March next year, Delhi will be hosting, for the first time ever, a celebration of Parsi culture, with three exhibitions, one of them travelling from UK and a host of other events.
The festival is being organized by Ministry of Minority Affairs at a total budget of Rs 13.4 crore. It is expected to be inaugurated by Prime Minister Narendra Modi on March 19 next year and will go on till May 29.

The exhibition – Everlasting Flames – which has antiquities loaned from 15 museums across the world including Syria and Iran will be coming from UK.

It traces the 3,000 years of Zoroastrian History through artefacts, silverware from imperial periods of Iranian Zoroastrian history, textiles, coins and manuscripts. This exhibition was first organized by SOAS (School of Oriental and Asian Studies) in UK in November-December 2013.
One of the main attractions is Gathas of Zarathustra, 17 hymns composed by Zarathustra, founder of Zoroastrianism, which will be presented in a series of large calligraphic panels accompanied with voice recordings of the text. The hymns of the Gathas, written in Old Avestan, belongs to the old Iranian language group.

“They have never loaned manuscripts to India. So it needed a bit of convincing and we went back forth bringing everyone on board,” Prof Shernaz Cama, of Parzor project of UNESCO, one of the key partners of the festival said. Cama says it is first time ever that Parsi culture is being celebrated at such a scale.

With a huge insurance premium for the exhibits, the Everlasting Flame, alone is costing nearly Rs 10 crore to the government. Apart from the exhibition at National Museum, ‘No Parsi is an Island’ an exhibition which was held in Mumbai’s NGMA in 2014 will also travel to Delhi. The exhibition shows Parsi trade with China and the rest of the world.

A third exhibition is being planned in IGNCA (Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts) ‘Threads of Continuity’. For which Google Culture is a partner. This will be a multi-media exhibition where Parsi life and stories will be told through various media. “For example, the Chinvat Bridge, a concept in of the road leading to heaven and hell in Zoroastrianism will be installed with help of multimedia tools to give the visitors an experience of the concept,” said Prof Cama.

Prof Cama says that apart from the academic exhibitions, all things Parsi will be available. “We are arranging for a Parsi food festival, Parsi humour, Parsi theatre and Parsi dances,” she said.

The festival and the exhibitions are important, says Feroza Godrej, who curated the Mumbai Exhibition ‘No Parsi is an Island’. “The Parsi community is shrinking, before we die and become museum pieces, we need to educate the world about this civilization,” Godrej said.

The post New Delhi To Host First Ever Large Scale Festival on Parsi Culture in 2016 appeared on Parsi Khabar.

While lamenting the lack of interest on Zoroastrian religion, the mother-in-law mentioned that there are opportunities to learn the Avesta language and Zoroastrian scriptures.

Article by Natasha Dotivala | DNA India

Curiously, the Parsis, a dwindling community, show little interest in their heritage and scriptures. This, despite the fact that the oldest Parsi newspaper, the Jam-e-Jamshed, has an advertisement this week on the commencement of structured courses in Avestan, Pahlavi & ancient Iranian languages at Sir JJ Zarthosti & Mullan Feroze Madressas. The classes are managed by the Bombay Parsi Panchayat (BPP). Thanks to the efforts of various organisations and individuals, the community is now being goaded to reconnect with its lost language and take pride in its rich history.

Avesta is a language of the ancient Indo-Iranian family and is the oldest extant Iranian language. There are a lot of similarities between Vedic Sanskrit and Avestan due to their common origin. What Sanskrit is for Indian languages, Avesta is to the Iranian branch of the Indo-Iranian languages.

Little is known of the basic religion, rituals, customs and ceremonies of the Parsis and even less is understood. It was Avabai, wife of Jamsetjee Jeejebhoy, the 1st Baronet, who founded a school in 1864 to promote the Avestan language and scriptures for the younger generation of the priestly class. Around the same time, one Mullan Feroze, started a similar initiative. Lack of students, however, led to the merging of the two schools in the last century. Thus was formed the Sir JJ Zarthoshti & Mullan Firoze Madressas (school).

It was in 1894 that the Avesta-Pahlavi department was set up for graduation and post graduation studies in the Bombay University as it was then called. Then, too, due to lack of enthusiastic response, the undergraduate course had to be scrapped.

Ervad Dr Pervez Bajan, the Principal of Sir JJ Zarthoshti & Mullan Firoze Madressas, said that St Xaviers’ College, affiliated to the Mumbai University, is the only institution in India which offers a masters degree in Avesta.

Currently, there are 35-40 students with some even pursuing PhD. Abroad, the language is taught in the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) at the London University, in the US, France, Germany and Sweden.

The religious texts have been transliterated into Gujarati and, in the recent times, into English to cater to the youth. But the meanings of the words still elude them. For that, one needs to study the language, which most of them are reluctant to pursue.

Learning the language and scriptures takes time, effort and passion. Farida Khambatta, a fourth year student at the Madressas, says, “It requires dedication and hard work, which is why many people drop out in the first year, especially because of the grammar.” To encourage students to soldier on, the BPP is offering scholarships to those who successfully complete each year at the Madressas.

UNESCO’s Parsi Zoroastrian Project, in collaboration with SOAS, is offering a free 10-day course at the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, Pune, to teach the basic principles of the Avestan language. By the end of the course, students can translate simple Avestan texts into English.

To revive interest in the rituals, customs and traditions of the Zarathushti community who still stay in Iran, Parsis are encouraged to travel to that country. Twice a year, trips are organised by two religious scholars Ervad Dr Ramiyar Karanjia and Ervad Bajan, who take about 75 people with them. According to one account, Parsis began trickling into India from Iran in the 7th century to escape religious persecution. The visits to their place of origin are aimed at firming up their understanding of their roots and the Parsi-Iranian way of life.

It is a robust beginning of a journey that will throw light on the course the Parsis may take in the future

The post Parsi-Iranian way of life and a journey to the roots appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Sleep had eluded me the night before due to sheer excitement, but a light tap and I was wide awake. The summer vacation had begun. Today, we were going to Nargol, my Mum’s native village. This was a yearly ritual and my two brothers and I looked forward to this outing. The excitement would begin from the time the huge tin trunk was pulled out from beneath the bed, dusted and readied for the packing, and would keep on mounting till our Dad put us all in the train. In the 1950s an annual vacation meant visiting relatives, either the grandparents’ house or visiting an uncle or aunt. There were many advantages to this exercise. Family bonds got stronger, the mother had rest at least this one month due to the extended family taking over the welfare of the children and most important, the children had time away from the routine of school and studies. No extra classes learning a new ‘skill’ – just pure unadulterated relaxing time-pass.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

Mum would count and recount the various bags and trunks that accompanied us. After all, besides Granny and Grandpa, there was the extended joint family of uncles, aunts, cousins, cousins’ cousins ET all. Mum always carried various goodies and gifts for everyone, especially since we were coming from Bombay. Once the shrill whistle of the steam engine sounded and the train started, we would bid goodbye to our Dad, standing forlornly at the station platform. The usual fights for the window seat began as soon as the train chugged out, heaving and panting like an old person.

The journey to Nargol took 4 hours and our eyes would be glued to the passing scenery outside our unbarred windows. Mum would keep coins ready for us to throw in the Vasai Creek as was the ritual in those days. The brief halts at various stations were made more interesting by the shrill cries of the vendors selling drinking water in earthenware pots, summer fruits like jamun, pears, targilli in leaf containers or hot spicy dal laced with onion or sometimes coconut water. This would immediately start the clamor from us to buy something. Mum was never in favor of eating fruits without washing so all our pleas fell on deaf ears. ‘You can eat all this to your heart’s content at Nargol’ would be her refrain.

The halt at Sanjan, from where we would be going to Nargol by tonga, was just a minute and my Mum would be worried that all of us with our numerous trunks and bags will not be able to get down in time. But the ever willing co-passengers, happy to get some sitting space, would pass us down through the unbarred windows, in the waiting arms of our ‘Puppaji’. The retinue of servants would bring down the trunks, bags, parcels under the watchful eye of my Mum and a quick second count would begin. Satisfied, we would troop out of the station, talking, chattering all at the same time. The tonga would be waiting for the 7 miles journey to Nargol, the horses snorting and stomping their feet, their tails swishing to ward off the flies. It felt so good to see the familiar rolling fields, with the thorny cacti hedges dividing them into neat blocks. The khajuri trees swayed gently in the breeze with little pots hanging way above to catch the sweet toddy. On the way, little villages would break the monotony, with people sitting in clusters whiling away time or women in colorful saris filling water from the wells.

Soon I spy the pond, now mostly dried due to summer, with patches of slush, where buffaloes were seen cooling themselves. The drone of the flour mill made me crane my neck and I realized we were at last in Nargol. We pass the 4/5 shops dispensing the basic daily needs, Doctor Wadia’s dispensary with listless patients, the library with the wide Verandah, where the usual bunch of oldies was sitting and discussing about worlds beyond their village, either arguing about politics of the day or simply reading yesterday’s papers. Our tonga momentarily halted the animated discussions. There were shouts and waves and a taste of the first welcome. My grandfather was a well-known figure in the village, a broad handsome man with a moustache, who all the time laughed and played practical jokes on unsuspecting people. The tonga kept on rattling on the cobbled roads, past the deserted bus stop, and after a turn on the road, we spied Mum’s school. It looked as majestic as ever with huge playgrounds. ‘The Agiary, the Agiary (the firetemple, the firetemple)’ my brothers shouted. The tonga had slowed down since the road from the Firetemple to my grandparents’ house was not paved but sandy.

The house was a mammoth, three-storied structure, with 2 sets of semi-circular steps, leading to a wide verandah which stretched through the breadth of the house. There were 2 separate entrances to the house, and my granny came running out of one. Her head was covered with a white cloth with wisps of grey hair lining her forehead, and sari draped haphazardly. I was seeing her after a year and felt great happiness and love to see her at last.

The huge structure housed many families all related to each other, but with their individual kitchens and living quarters. My aunts from other parts of India would also be there with my cousins and so also second and third cousins. In the summer, the house teemed with children. In the evening, after the day’s work, the women would gather in the courtyard or verandah. There was a lot of chatter and frequent bursts of laughter. Living in a nuclear family in Bombay, this gave us a sense of security and continuity. All the children too kept on hovering around these adult groups, trying to understand the jokes with their double innuendoes, the philosophy of life spouted by the older women, the different ways of cooking chicken and plenty of other inane talk. But it was not just time whiled away. Vegetables were chopped for the next day or rice and pulses cleaned and may be some stitching or darning done or the chakri spun to make the thread for kusti weaving. Since my Mum and her sisters were meeting after a year, there was a lot of exchange of news and gossip.

My grandfather had been adopted by his eldest brother and so my grandparents had inherited a larger share in the house. The kitchen was huge with wood burning stoves, huge trunks with vessels and plenty of pots and pans hanging from hooks. The bedrooms were large and we slept in the first floor bedroom where the sea breeze and cross ventilation made it cool.

Over the kitchen was the loft, the most enigmatic place for us. The huge earthenware jars stored with grains and pulses, the smaller ones stored with various condiments, the massive dried, salted fish hung out to air them, all reminded me of the tale of Alibaba and the forty thieves or some scene from the Arabian Nights. The mixed aromas were heady, the creaky

wooden floors creepy, and many times I would vicariously imagine that the hidden thieves will jump out and carry us away to a far-off land.

With so many children there would be a lot of hustle bustle all the time. We had a lot of activities and distractions to keep us occupied and amused. The only time we got a lot of attention from the adults was the time spent at the beach, which happened to be 5 minutes walk from the house. The beach was beautiful, open and stretching for miles. The coast was lined with plantation of sarovar trees to preserve the coast line. We ran to our heart’s content, rolled in the sand or went for a swim during high tide, accompanied of course by an adult. Sometimes when the fishermen came back from their catch, my Mum and aunts would bargain with them and buy the fish there and then. The fact that they knew each other and maybe had studied or played as children helped in getting a good bargain. On Sundays, there would be more than the usual crowd of holidaymakers. The locals would then come to sell their wares and make a quick buck. There was the usual balloon seller with his colorful balloons hanging from the rod, Laxmi selling Khajuri or the fresh dates, the chana-singwallah. In those days, the simple pleasure of just being out in the open, enjoying the fresh sea breeze and meeting up with all kinds of people made our day. Since there was no piped running water, after our swim, we would all be herded to the well and given our bath. We tried to chip in to draw water from the well, but our efforts drew up half empty pots! We also learnt the valuable lesson of not wasting any water when we saw the effort required to full up those drums and buckets.

One would think that all these activities would exhaust us, but no! After breakfast, we would explore the house, go to various kitchens and sample whatever was offered or simply roam in the village. We especially enjoyed visiting the “mangela quarters” where the fisher folk stayed. The women would be out salting and drying out the fish and the men repairing nets and boats. Then back to the house for lunch. Like locusts we would all pounce on the food. But what we all looked forward to was eating the mangoes. One outhouse was stacked with mangoes laid out on the floor to ripen. Whenever, we passed from there, the heavenly aroma would waft out. I would close my eyes in glee with the thought of eating them after lunch. Washed ripe mangoes in huge baskets were ceremoniously brought out, and then would begin our race to devour as many as our bloated stomachs could manage. In our greed to eat as many as possible, we would leave some half eaten and grab the next, till they all vanished and huge piles of mango core and skin were left!

When the elders took their afternoon siesta, it was time to indulge in our favourite pastime. We would race barefoot in the hot sand, between our house and the Agiary. Our feet and faces turned red with the exertion, the hot sun and the hotter sand. Children can be sadistic and my chubby cousin, who had problems moving fast, was the butt of our devilish plans. We would call ‘get set’ and either not run or run real fast to the other side and stop her from coming into the shade, till she howled with pain.

Evenings were exciting with a daily trip to the bazaar. A motley crowd of women sat near the dried lake, their wares spread out in front of them. Fresh vegetables, fruits, fish were all piled in little heaps. There was a lot of shouting and haggling, the buyer and seller trying to outwit each other. We would dart in between the various rows, sampling the wares, pickingthe runaway crabs, trying out the colorful ribbons and beaded necklaces. Laden with various bags we would all head home but not before various stops were made to buy roasted chana or drinking the locally made ice-cream soda.

The night time ritual was different. The loose fowl had to be rounded up and tucked away safely in huge cane baskets, away from the eager paws of dogs or the occasional night-time prowlers. There were lots of squeals and flutter of wings as we all pitched in to help. As the night descended, lanterns were lit. The readied kerosene lanterns reminded us that the big house where we roamed at will, would soon be transferred into a mysterious place – a place where imagination ruled the roost. Imagination runs wild when darkness and light create dancing shadows, which the flickering lanterns did. Some days unknown ghosts came to torment and other days, the fairy wand would transform the high wooden ceilings into unknown territory to be explored at leisure. This was also the time when Mum and her sisters would tell us stories. We would all pile on one bed and raptly listen to the stories. When the high tide brought in the cool breeze, the dream merchants would at last take over.

Sometimes my grandfather would arrange picnics in the fields or trips to Sanjan for provision shopping. The days would thus merge into each other. The summer vacation was nearing an end. At last it was time for us to leave and bid good-bye. We would all be sad at the prospect of leaving each other. I especially hated to leave my grandparents behind, knowing that I would not see them for months and sometimes even a year. The ritual of saying good-bye to various aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins would begin. We would go around the house bidding good-bye to all our favorite places too. On the day of our departure we were all woken up early morning, dressed and barely awake put into the waiting tonga. On the journey back to Bombay, we were all subdued. There were no fights for the window seats, no chattering or joking – only a deep sadness and introspection of what had been.

Those were simple but happy times. There was no electricity, no telephone in the village, but we never felt the lack of it. Human interaction was the important aspect in people’s lives. People amused themselves with whatever way they could. The expectation from life was limited to the simple needs of daily living. Children in those days did not need any gizmos to amuse themselves. They invented ways and means to keep themselves occupied and amused. And even today, when I get the aroma of fish being fried, I just have to close my eyes and imagine I am in Nargol !!

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Childhood Visits to Nargol appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Married at an early age, she came to live with her husband in Bombay from Surat. She was a worthy partner. She bore him 6 children, brought them up, married and settled them. Gulbai was now the matriarch not only of her family but our entire building.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

A little short, stout fair lady with a regal bearing, she resembled Queen Victoria of the old British silver coins. She would be dressed in a long blouse, her sadra peeping out from underneath, worn over ijars, which resembled today’s calf length pants. A sari would be draped carelessly, which she hauled up whenever she sat down to cut vegetables or weave the kusti. A hard working and industrious woman, her large family’s well being was important to her. Saturdays were family day when her brood of children and grandchildren would have dinner together. One of her grandsons confided in me that he came over, leaving the opportunity to play with his friends, to eat her very tasty mince cutlets.

She woke up at 5 a.m. After her tea, which she had in a vessel called ‘kasia’ rather than a cup, her bath and prayers; she would start cooking for her large joint family with the help of her daughters-in-law. The verandah of their house had her customary chair with a jantar in front of it. She would then sit to weave kusti or the sacred thread on the jantar, for her family’s use and also for sale to earn some extra income. She was also an expert at making ‘vasanu’ a delicacy full of dry fruits, made and eaten by Parsis during winters only. Our neighborhood would be engulfed in the heavenly aroma of vasanu and we would all know that Gulbai was making it. She sold that too to augment the family income. She was good at making typical Parsi delicacies like chapats, bhakhras, kumas which she made and gave the ladies during the kusti weaving competitions or other such social events.

One would normally find her sitting out on the verandah. She was an ace at multi-tasking, both weaving the kusti expertly as well as keeping an eye on all the activity going on around her. Rarely did things escape her eagle eye. Without stopping her kusti-weaving activity, unfamiliar hawkers were questioned in her Parsi Gujerati Hindi as to what they were selling, what was the cost, why it was so expensive, where were they going etc. and only then allowed up the stairs. If anyone came to ask about an address she would first ask her routine ‘kahan se ayaa – kai ku milna hai’ (where have you come from and why do you want to meet) before giving elaborate instructions on how to find that person or household, which further puzzled the poor person. I am sure no one asked her to explain the directions twice.

If by chance the person asking was a Parsi, she would make him sit and ask his full family history, about his work, where he stayed, number of family members etc. She was being nosey but it was pure unadulterated interest in another human being. I realized that since she hardly went out anywhere; this was her way of widening her horizons. It was also her way of peeping into a world beyond her home and family. After her lunch, she would normally rest on a big sofa on the verandah.

When any of us were caught going to college inappropriately dressed according to her, she would stop us. In spite of our efforts to tiptoe past her open door and escape her eagle eye, we hardly succeeded. Most of us dreaded the words ‘ahiaa aav kahn jaiech’ (come here, where do you think you are going). We were then subjected to a whole lot of questions. “Why is your dress so short, did your mother not buy enough cloth or did you forget to wear pants underneath?” she would ask when she spied us in minis. She found the bell bottoms very funny. “Be careful that you do not trip on those elephant-ear pants when you are climbing a train or bus” she would advise. The high stiletto heels called for more advice. “Are you planning to work in a circus that you are balancing yourself in that fancy footwear? One day you will sprain your heels and then realize this fashion is not worth it” she would retort. Sometimes she would admonish “all this hair in your eyes will make you squint and you will soon be wearing glasses. Put up your hair in nice braids”. We would sit and try and explain all the latest in fashions but that really made no difference. When she thought we were dressed modestly, she would nod her head approvingly and spare us any comments. We would in turn tease her. We would call her ‘ijar’ ‘paunya (three fourth) bell bottoms’ which made her laugh loudly.

I loved sitting with her and hear her narrate about the times when she was young. It was fascinating to hear about the days when life was simple, families large, electricity a luxury, about traveling in ‘ghora-gaaris’ or horse carriages instead of cars and buses or trains, about the British Raj and goodies which came from England for the ‘gorias’ (white people).

My Dad had lost his parents when he was just 18, so I asked her questions about my grand parents and she filled up a lot of blanks for me. She described my grand father, his boisterous and jolly nature, his colorful vocabulary and his cockatoo. She told me that as soon as my grand father was spied coming, the cockatoo would shriek and call out in the colorful language which it had picked up from my grand father, and which alerted everyone of his arrival. The cockatoo was so attached to my grand father

that it died only two days after his demise. She described my grand mother and how pretty she was and how my Dad resembled her. I felt happy when she told me that they would have been happy that their first grand child was a girl since they badly wanted to have a daughter. She bemoaned the fact that they passed away so early. All thanks to her I felt that I knew my grand parents even though we had never met.

Those were the days when hardly any household had access to their own telephone and long waiting periods were the norm to even acquire one. If at all any of us had to make a call or during an emergency, we had to go out to a shop which was very inconvenient. Then someone had a brainwave and we applied for ‘public phone’ which was installed under the stairs near Gulbai’s house. She agreed to man it.

Whenever any one telephoned, Gulbai would take the call and shout out for that person, activating the relay system. If the person was in the same building, someone from the opposite building would shout out. And like the effective communication with drums and animals from Tarzan comics, the message was relayed and re-relayed and managed to reach the right person. That person would then come and take his call. In case the person could not be reached due to the distance of the house, Gulbai would send a written message through a servant, who had to be tipped for his services. Once, someone who lived in the buildings not reached by the relay system, called her up and told her to please send a message to his wife to keep a hot bath ready when he arrived home in another 20 minutes! Gulbai fired him on the phone and told him that she was not here to take and send frivolous messages. A day before the board results, all the children would crowd around that one little phone. A call made to Jame-Jamshed paper giving all the roll numbers, would get us the results a day in advance.

Her services though came with many riders. Gulbai was not discreet and would hover around to see that the person did not exceed an allotted time of 5 minutes. In those days, it was not 1 paise/second call or some such scheme. Once one dropped the 20 paise in the phone box, one could talk for one second or sixty seconds. Lovers wanting to make full use of their 20 paise call and wanting some privacy, would time their calls during the afternoon, when Gulbai would take her afternoon siesta. She had told everyone that she would not entertain any calls during the afternoon siesta

hours or after 10 in the night when decent people went off to sleep. If any of the girls received a call from a male caller, she would first ask him countless questions before she deemed it fit to pass the call on. The parents were also informed about the male caller!

Once, a friend who had faced a barrage of questions whenever he called me, complained to Gulbai when his cousin was getting married to her son. “There is a nosey old lady who makes my life miserable whenever I call a friend here. I wonder where she lives and if I meet her ………!” He realized his monumental blunder when he got a whack on his back and Gulbai introduced herself. But thereafter, our phone conversations flowed smoothly.

Gulbai was an Institution by herself. She was equally at ease with men, women and children and genuinely interested in all. She attracted people like a magnet and at any time, one would find someone or the other sitting and chatting with her. She was nosey, caring, watchful, forthright, full of verve and vigor, looking after the needs of her large family and also serving the community when required. If someone needed a servant, Gulbai was told, and the very next day, a servant was sent. If there was a wedding or navjote in the family, or birth of a child, Gulbai was consulted for the various formalities and rituals involved. If a fishermonger or vegetable seller passed muster with Gulbai, then all people bought without questioning. If there was some problem, people turned to her for her sage and practical advice. In short she was a committed and caring human being.

How does one measure the worth of a person’s life? By the name and fame earned? By the money amassed? By the services done to the community, to the country, to the world? Or the love received by family and friends? There are really no yardsticks. Any life that has been lived well serving even one other person is worthy. By all measures, Gulbai lived a worthy life, touching and influencing many who crossed her path.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Gulbai appeared on Parsi Khabar.

I had gone to stay with my daughter in one of the Mumbai suburbs. I casually inquired about her neighbors. I had not seen her visiting any of her neighbors or any neighbors coming over to visit us. “Where is the time to visit anyone?” she countered. “Also, entertaining anyone after a full day’s teaching job in the school is out of the question” she retorted. Sad state of affairs I thought.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

When I was growing up, neighbors were an integral part of our life. They were like an extended family. The doors were kept open and all of us were in and out of each other’s homes throughout the day. It was as though a joint family was staying in the building and not families who were unrelated. Everyone rejoiced at a family’s good fortune and despaired when misfortune struck anyone. Children had a place to hide from parents’ wrath and scolding and a support system for all in times of emergencies.

On my navjote in 1958, my parents were presented with a Bosch refrigerator by my Uncle who was working on a ship. No one had seen a fridge in my neighborhood. In those days leftovers were reheated and kept in water overnight, to preserve it for next day’s consumption. Everyone was fascinated with a white cupboard, which managed to keep the food cold so it is preserved for next day’s use and which also made ice! It was a bonanza for all the men of the building. In the evenings, children would be sent to our house for ice for their fathers’ drinks. This was indeed a lifesaver if ever there was one! Not only did people come to see and marvel at it, but all our neighbors felt that they had a stake in it. Every day’s leftovers were put in little containers and brought over, to be put in the cold cupboard. On any day, there were 5 to 6 boxes of various sizes from our neighbors, which my Mum had crammed in. Only she knew which box belonged to which neighbor. Even the small freezer had packets of mutton, chicken or fish of various neighbors, to be used later on at convenience. Some days my brothers and I would unknowingly eat some one’s food kept inside, and in the bargain hear an earful from my Mum. My Dad though felt that some sort of a fee from our neighbors, for the use of the fridge was not out of place! This went on for a number of years till over time, one by one, everyone could afford their own little ‘Godrej’ fridge.

The excitement was evident in all children when they had their birthdays. Early morning on birthdays, plates filled with hot sevai or ravo, generously sprinkled with almonds and kismis, 2 hard boiled eggs and 2 bananas would be sent out to all the homes. No fancy themed birthday parties for us. But we were summoned by the elders and along with many blessings for a long life and happiness we would be given a princely sum of Rs.2/- and sometimes even Rs.5/-. That of course meant that we had to get ice cream for all the children in the building, which was indeed a rare treat.

Any wedding or navjote in a family, called for a joint effort. Garlands would be put up on the doors of all the neighbors. Rangoli on the stairs and below at the entrance of the main steps would be done by all the youngsters together. During a wedding, we would all look forward to ‘ookardi kookardi’. A huge vessel would be filled with all sorts of goodies, sweet as well as savory, and kept at the entrance of the staircase on the ground floor. When a gong would sound all of us would pounce on the food and try to grab whatever we could lay hands on. In the meanwhile when all the looting was taking place, buckets of water would be thrown on us from the floors above. Even though most of us would be drenched to the bone, we would still stand and exchange the treats we had managed to grab before the water soaked it.

Practically each home had 2 brothers, their wives and children all staying together. This did result in some fights and arguments but instilled a sense of security and sharing and tolerance in the children. With only one bathroom and lavatory for use among so many people, children had to follow a strict regimen. Everyone learnt to adjust and of course in an emergency, one could always fall back on a neighbor.

Today, when one loses a life partner, the one left behind very often faces loneliness and alienation. In those days, the proximity of all the neighbors and their well meaning interference did help to tide over the loss. Dinshaw uncle’s wife Mani aunty died at a very young age leaving him with 3 little girls to look after. Family and neighbors all pitched in to help out. He eventually married again. Though a rank outsider, his second wife was accepted when people saw how lovingly she looked after the 3 little girls and how helpful she was to others.

Tragedy struck our house when my brother died of small pox at the young age of 5. My parents were inconsolable. They took this irreparable loss so much to heart that they forgot they still had 2 more children to look after. We missed our brother too, but like all children, got back into the groove of our daily lives. We went to school, did our home work, went to play with friends, felt hungry, and went to sleep peacefully at night when all the while our parents were still grieving. During this period, the neighbors rallied around and looked after our family’s mental and physical well being. They saw to it that some goodie would be specially cooked and brought to our house for us, and that we went to school neat and clean. We were helped with our homework and we were made to understand that it is OK to grieve, and that grown ups cried too when they were hurt.

On holidays and festival days, we were also taken out for a movie or a dinner by some family, along with their children. My parents took a long while to come to terms with their loss. When my youngest brother was born after a year and a half, things got back to normal in our family. I will always remember the kindness and the sensitivity of all those people who are no more now. They too grieved with us and helped my parents in a very unobtrusive way to tide over this loss.

Dinyar uncle was a good singer and earned some extra income by singing in bands which performed at the navjotes and marriages. On his own wedding, he called his wife Katy aunty on the stage and sang ‘teri pyari pyari surat ko kissi ki nazar na lage’. All of us had a field day teasing Katy aunty later on by singing this song.

The banana seller Gulub was instructed by my Dad to daily leave 6 bananas in our house, which he would hang without fail in our dining room. All 5 of us would have a banana each and the ritual would be complete when Katy aunty came down to meet us and finish the sixth. The day she did not come meant that either she was not well or had gone out of Bombay. When my Mum was bed ridden with cancer, Katy aunty would come every day without fail to find out whether my parents needed anything from the market. My Dad would just have to yell out her name and she came down to offer any help. She suddenly died of a heart attack, which left my Dad not only sad but really shaken up. Who would run errands for him and inquire about his well being now? But he need not have worried at all since there was some one at hand always ready to help.

Baji uncle was a bachelor who lived with his two brothers, their wives and children on the third floor. He supplied us with used shuttlecocks when we played badminton. He was a member of a club and when the club discarded the shuttlecocks after a little use, he probably bought and brought them over for our use. All the women tried to hook him up with someone but never succeeded. He probably loved his freedom and carefree lifestyle too much to oblige them or probably never came across someone good enough to bind him down. Theirs was a collective failure.

My next door neighbor Dina aunty lived with her sister Khorshed and brother-in-law Adi. Their home was as familiar to us as our own and we would be in and out of both houses playing ‘hide and seek’ and ‘catch catch’. Dina aunty played both the accordion and mouth organ very well. Many joyful days were spent in their house when she would play the accordion vigorously and all the children would do the jig. This not only kept the children happy but out of mischief too. Some days when we were too boisterous, she would calm us down by playing soothing happy tunes on her mouth organ. One incident stands out to mind, which was both sad and happy at the same time. Dina and Khorshed aunt’s father passed away a few days before Christmas. Some Christian friends of Dina aunty came to visit them on Christmas, unaware of the sad demise of their father. They brought along a cake to present to the family. They were dismayed when they heard the sad news. But, Dina aunty, always a sport requested them to give the cake to “our next door neighbors whose children will appreciate the sweet treat”. So one Christmas day long ago, Dina aunt’s good friends became our Santa. We were gleeful at the unexpected treat and relished the cake for 2/3 days.

Our movements in and out of the house were restrained considerably once Khorshed aunty got married. Adi uncle though a good soul did not take kindly to screaming, running children who did not respect quiet moments. He was a creature of habits. Every morning, he was out of the house at exactly 9.50 to go to work at a bank at Fountain. Khorshed aunty would be standing at the door ready with the tiffin in hand. Adi uncle would grab his lunch and literally run down to his car. Fortunately, there were hardly any traffic jams so he would comfortably reach his bank in half an hour. When we were grown up and wanted a lift from Adi uncle, we had to be ready to run down with him. He would wait for no one and if Khorshed aunty urged him to wait even for 5 minutes, he would grumble all the way about indiscipline in the younger generation.

Dina aunty worked in the Railways and Khorshed aunty was a housewife. After the day’s work was over, she and Mum would sit and catch up with news, views and gossip. They would discuss about the dirty politics, the wily politicians, or the spiraling prices of food, the state of affairs which in their opinion seemed to be going from bad to worse, the sorry and filthy state of the Bombay roads and how things were changing from the time when they were young. The twists and turns of the story they were reading in their favorite weekly Mahila, and the trials and tribulations of the characters in those stories were also discussed avidly. They would have an opinion on how the author should have written, the direction the story should have taken, or what will now happen next week in that story. The characters were analyzed, elevated, derided, sympathized with, even putting professional Psychoanalysts to shame. Without any television the written words were their ‘soaps’ and they were as hooked on to those stories as the ladies today are to their serials.

Evenings were a time for meeting for all the ladies. One by one, they would congregate at the entrance of the staircase where there was ample room for all to sit on the steps. Some would be cutting vegetables for the next day’s cooking, helped by others who had no chore that day. Many would spin a ‘chatri’ or a spindle on which fine thread for weaving the ‘kusti’ or the sacred thread was wound. The thread was made from lamb wool and this was an art by itself. They would laugh, talk all at the same time and spend a few happy moments away from their families and housework.

When I was going to college, my Sardar friend Jitty would sometimes visit my house. Jitty was a tall and huge man and wore a big turban which made him look really gigantic. None of the ladies had close contact with a Sardarji and were fascinated to see one not behind the wheel of a Bombay taxi. As soon as they would spy Jitty walking over, they would cease to talk, stop all their activities and look at him in right earnest. Jitty would always complain about feeling self conscious with so many eyes boring into him and the cessation of all talk and activities till he passed by. I told him there were really no differences between the ladies in his village in Punjab, and the ones sitting and staring at him, causing him so much discomfort. He was someone different, which probably was the cause of their curiosity. I told him to stand and talk and make himself familiar to them before coming home, but he felt too embarrassed. This went on for some time, till one day, while returning and trying vainly to hurry up from all those eyes, he slipped in the slime the rain had caused and dirtied all his clothes. When he slunk back to come to my house to wash up, he met with a lot of sympathy and uncalled for advice. From that day onwards, whenever he would visit me, Jitty would sit on the steps surrounded by the ladies exchanging views. They would ask him about his life, his parents, his village and he would ask them about Parsi recipes, weaving kusti, about their families, children.

My children would always wonder why I visited each household and met everyone, before returning home to Nagpur after a visit to my Parents. I explained that maybe when I next visit someone would be missing and that I would not like to feel any regret that I was careless enough not to meet my extended family.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Neighbors appeared on Parsi Khabar.

This is the story of a Parsi father and his son; their services for the city of Karachi long forgotten by the non-Parsi community of the city or the country.

The father was Edulji Dinshaw, and the son Nadirshaw Edulji Dinshaw. The city today has hospitals, educational institutes and residential colonies that are products of their tireless, selfless efforts for the development of this metropolis.

Article by Akhtar Balouch | Dawn.com

According to F.K. Dada Chalji, the only thing Karachi gave the Dinshaws in exchange for their favours were statues. They could be seen standing tall in various parts of the city. Dada doesn’t tell where to find these statues.

Before the Partition of 1947, the city had a number of these statues in memory of the people who had served it. After independence though, the statues in Pakistan started disappearing. The list of disappeared statues includes those of M. K. Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru.

We will come to the subject of the locations of the statues of the Dinshaws, but first, let’s talk about the more the important bits.

A hundred and thirty years ago, Dinshaw was the first individual in Karachi to have established no less than 12 hospitals for the people’s welfare. In 1885, the Vicerine of India, Lady Dufferin (wife of Frederick Hamilton-Temple-Blackwood, Viceroy of India from 1884-1888), announced the Countess of the Dufferin Fund which was meant to provide medical services to women in different parts of India.

The Raj asked Sindh for donations for the fund and the entire Sindh donated a total of Rs 10,000. The Dufferin Fund committee itself donated Rs. 5,000 rupees. The sum was not sufficient to build a hospital at the time, leaving the project uninitiated for more than half a decade. In 1894, Edulji Dinshaw donated Rs. 50,000 to the fund, making the initiation possible.

During the construction, certain changes in the design caused the cost to jump up a bit and Dinshaw voluntarily provided for it all. Not only this, Dinshaw also bought the hospital’s first consignment of medicinal supplies, while his son Nadirshaw donated furniture for it. In the end, compared to the total donation by the committee and the province, amounting to a mere Rs. 15,000, the Dinshaws donated Rs. 85,000.

That is what Dada Chalji calls in his book the ‘Zartashi jigra’ (Zoroastrian spirit). Apart from the Dufferin fund hospital, the Dinshaws also helped set up two missionary hospitals in the city.

Edulji Dinshaw was also an educationist. He would donate hundreds of thousands of rupees to the Bombay University in order to financially support students in need. The Mama Parsi School in Karachi and the Sardar Dastoor Girls School in Pune (India) are examples of their efforts towards education.

The most noteworthy example is the engineering institute in Karachi that many aspiring engineers dream to get a slot in – the NED University of Engineering and Technology; it is among the top engineering universities in Pakistan. Almost every educated Pakistani knows about the institute and honours its reputation, but not everyone knows that NED stands for Nadirshaw Edulji Dinshaw.

I was not able to find the two statues Dada Chalji mentions – sadly, the only thing Pakistan did give back to the Dinshaws is now untraceable.

Akhtar Soomro, a friend and a senior photojournalist, told me one day that he is going to the Parsi Institute to attend a lecture and I wanted to tag along, expecting to get a small tour of the place. To my disappointment, I was politely refused as the event was “invitation-only.”

However, when I saw Soomro the next day, he was kind enough to share his experience of the lecture.

“It was a nice place. As I entered the premises, there was a statue…”

He must have gone on, but I stopped listening after the word ‘statue’.

I had to see it with my own eyes, I had decided. The Parsi Institute is located on the route which takes you from Lines Area to Saddar. While the building is somewhat nondescript, it does have a spacious lawn and to the right, I could see a statue. I neared it and beheld Mr Edulji Dinshaw carved in stone.

I was relieved to see it intact. Standing there, I paid my respects.

Almost a week later, I was passing by the road leading to the Parsi Institute and noticed a festive commotion at the institute. I could see a number of cameras rolling, so I asked a man what was going on and he told me someone was filming.

My photojournalist friend Akbar Baloch was keen enough to point out to me that I had missed a whole other statue, that of Nadirshaw Dinshaw.

The Dinshaws’ statues were removed from their original location to the institute without any damage. This was a pleasant surprise for me, because the statue of Harchand Rai Vishandas had lost his head in the process, while that of Queen Victoria lost its limbs and nose.

How and why the statues ended up at the institute, only a Parsi would probably know. Sadly, there are not many left in Karachi and those who are here may not want to talk about it.

The plaques on these statues give some information on their original locations. Edulji Dinshaw once stood on what was once Victoria Road.

Victoria Road is now known as Abdullah Haroon Road and Nadirshaw Dinshaw’s spot has been replaced by a clock tower. The Bonus Road became the Fatima Jinnah Road long ago. The purity of the land of the pure does not allow the impure practice of erecting statues in the country.

Nevertheless, would it be too much to name at least the two intersections after the great father-son duo who contributed so much to this land and have their services acknowledged in some form?

—All photos are by the author and taken with permission of the Parsi Institute.

Translation by Arif Anjum from the original in Urdu here.

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The post Heroes forgotten: Searching for the Dinshaws of Karachi appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Could flagrant and repeated armed robberies in the Parsi Mecca of Udvada, a sea town 177 kms from Mumbai mar the glint of Modi’s 20-crore development boost, including December’s grand Iranshah Udvada Utsav?

By Shailesh Bhatia | Mid-Day

In January of 2014, barely weeks after Prime Minister Narendra Modi had assumed office, he met the religious head of the Parsi community, Dastur Khurshed Kaikobad Dastoor.

He suggested that in a bid that Udvada, home to the Iranshah Atash Behram — the highest order fire temple for Parsis — showcase rich Zoroastrian heritage and stand as symbol of harmony and religious tolerance, a festival be held to allow Parsis from around the world to congregate.

Earlier this year, the Gujarat tourism ministry sanctioned Rs 20 crore for the development of the quaint seaside town that sits 177 kms from Mumbai, to kickstart the development plan whose showstopper is the 3-day Iranshah Udvada Utsav scheduled to be held from December 25 to 27 this year.

The plan included addressing the long standing problem of coast erosion worsened by the wearing away of the embankment along the 1-km long coast, and installing toilets and garbage segregation units. Perhaps, security should have been top of the list on that development dossier.

In the last one year, residents of the holiest place for the Parsis, now numbering no more than a hundred and mostly senior citizens, have been vulnerable to rising crime. The most recent incident dates back to last month when an elderly lady and old time resident, who didn’t wish to be named, had an encounter with housebreakers in broad daylight.

Her maid had stepped out to fetch vegetables when three men entered the house, and tried to throttle her. Mercifully, her maid returned earlier than expected and the men escaped from a rear door.

The three break-ins

Among the more recent incidents was of September 29 when three adjoining bungalows, all vacant, were broken into. Details of what was stolen is difficult to ascertain, say the police, because their owners, who lived outside Udvada or abroad, weren’t keen to file a complaint.

One of the bungalows, named Ashirwad carried Baji N Maloo, its owner’s name on the gate. This reporter found that the heavy metallic door knobs had been cut clean. Ganesh and Leela Jeevan, the couple that serves as caretakers here, said they suspect that the robbers came in through the front entrance since the sea-facing section of the property was heavily fenced.

“In all probability, the crime occurred between 1 am and 6 am. The job was carried out so smoothly, we didn’t hear a thing despite sleeping in a hut right beside the entrance. We discovered what had happened only the next morning,” said Leela. The intruders took with them a heavy metallic safe, which it seems they couldn’t break open. It was later discovered lying on the shore along with a pair of heavy metallic cutters by locals.

Dar-Ul-Sharukh, the home next door, owned by Farookh Billimaoria, suffered a similar state. Its caretaker, Mangubhai Jeevan said the home had been vacant for long since the family was settled abroad. It looked like the intruders were looking for valuables since all the cupboards had been ransacked.

Dianbhai Narayan, the 60-year-old caretaker of Sagar Leela, a home next door, was allegedly locked inside his hut and discovered the theft the next morning, after he exited his home through a window. “All doors of the bungalow were wide open, and the home was ransacked. It was evident that the burglars had used a heavy duty cutter to slice through metallic bolts on three doors, before they were able to enter the house,” said Narayan.

A run-down structure in one corner of town used to serve as a police chowki. Now, the nearest police station is in Pardi, across the railway line, a good 15 kilometers away. It takes about 45 minutes to get to, often giving robbers enough time to make a quick exit after a break-in.

Shahin Jamshed Mehershahi, manager of the N M Wadia Dharamshala and vice president of a local political outfit, has been pursuing the matter of a separate police chowki for Udvada with senior police officers. She said an area had been demarcated for the same.

“Although the police in Pardi is prompt to respond to distress calls, the travel time complicates matters. It isn’t always cash and jewellery that the thieves are after, but antiques, often found in old Parsi bungalows, too.” The most dramatic escape from burglars would have to be Paresh Vitthal’s.

He is the watchman and caretaker of Paradise, a residential complex of 54 flats and a stone’s throw from the burgled bungalows. “On October 3, at 11 pm after I had finished my dinner, I stepped out of my house for a late night vigilance stroll, when three men, two carrying what looked like country made pistols, accosted me,” Paresh alleged.

While one of them shoved a gun into his mouth, the other held his close to Paresh’s temple. Two of them were wearing masks and dressed in black, while the third was wearing a red T-shirt. “My wife, Meenakshi, who witnessed the drama, made a quick exit from a rear door that is concealed by a fridge, and raised an alarm.

Seven residents rushed to our help and we then called the police,” he recalled. The story was confirmed by Meenakshi and Rakesh Hadpati, his brother-in-law, who lives across and was one of the first to respond. Manek Tadiwala, a resident who shuttles between Udvada and Australia, believed there was urgent need for the police to scrutinise every complaint, before rising crimes created a fear psychosis among the seniors residing in Udvada, which continues to resemble a peaceful, medieval village.

Police speak

None of the break-ins have been solved, admit the Pardi police. Their biggest challenge is the absence of property owners at site. And their reluctance to file a police complaint or share details of what was stolen. The absence of thorough facts hinders investigation, say the police.

According to PSI Bhupinder Singh Sarvaia, the police have decided to maintain detailed reports of crimes occurring in the town, based on information they have gathered individually, even if victims have refused to volunteer information or file an FIR. He said it was impossible for repeat incidents of theft to occur without locals functioning as informants and tipping off anti-social elements.

Following the incident, police patrolling had been intensified, he claimed. A five-member team was handed the responsibility of protecting the locals. As per directives of the state government, they have initiated the Police Mitra and Jan Rakshak schemes, encouraging collaboration of locals and the police in maintaining safety.

The on-duty policemen confirmed that orders had been issued to up vigilance, and that they were operating from the once abandoned police chowki until a new came up. Premvir Singh, Superintendent of Police, Valsad region, said, he had personally met members of the Parsi community in Udvada and assured them of help in case of emergencies.

“Considering most residents are seniors, I have instructed my staff to go beyond the call of duty and offer assistance even if the matter is not pertaining to crime,” he said. Dastur Khurshed Kaikobad Dastoor, the High Priest of Iranshah, seemed to be reassured after his meeting with the collector and senior police officials. “While the stories of break-ins are true, rumours had also been floating,” he said, referring to a climate of fear.

Festival security

The Iranshah Utsav announced by the Foundation for Development of Udvada and the Udvada Samast Anjuman, which will showcase the glorious history of the Parsis stretching over 1300 years, is a first of its kind event and expected to attract eminent community members from across the world. It could be graced by Modi himself, while the likes of Ratan Tata have confirmed their attendance.

“Special arrangements have been initiated at the SP level to ensure that the festival goes on smoothly. The exact security arrangement plan is yet to be formulated but police presence in the area will be strengthened to ensure that the law and order situation is not compromised,” said Singh.

Senior journalist and editor of community magazine, Parsiana, Jehangir Patel said, “Earlier, Udvada residents didn’t feel the need for policing. Unfortunately, the industrial population from nearby is closing in on a town that was once isolated, making it an easy target. It’s a town of travelers, really. Parsis from across India and the world drive in and out to pay their respects to Iranshah. Which leaves the few odd permanent residents to deal with isolation and vulnerability.”

He thinks the number of residents will only dip. “There was a time when Parsis thought of Udvada as a retirement centre, since Pune was expensive. But that’s no longer true. Most residents have moved out, sold their homes and plots. Parsis zoom in and out, alienated from the place and its people. That should change. We must be invested in the town. We should preserve what exists,” he said.

The post Crime steals Parsi heritage town Udvada’s thunder appeared on Parsi Khabar.

I woke up at 8 that day since it was a Saturday and a school holiday. As was my habit, I headed straight for the balcony, ignoring my Mum’s pleas to first brush my teeth and finish my morning ablutions. There was a huge truck parked underneath and the workers were removing wooden planks and big bamboo poles from it. My eyes rounded and I shrieked in excitement “so at last it is time for the stage to be built”. I ran to my Mum, my words spilling out, making me incoherent. But Mum understood, smiled and calmed me down, asking me to finish my milk and breakfast so I could go out to see the whole process of the stage being erected.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

Every year before the summer set in, our club organized a concert in March. It was a joint effort by many people both young and not so young, and fun for all who were organizing, participating as well as watching! Those were the days when TV had not made inroads into our lives and neither was there an onslaught of internet and ‘smart’ appliances. Circus, stage shows, play performances, movies were the popular forms of entertainment. The annual concert was the focal point of our club and we put up a variety entertainment program comprising of plays, dances, songs, and gymnastics.

The planning as such would be done throughout the year with the elders keeping in mind some new songs they heard on the radio or keeping a track of dance steps which had become a vogue abroad and which could be used for our concert. Homi uncle would take up a topical subject and start writing a play, changing, rewriting, adding, and chopping till he was completely satisfied. Many were glad to be involved in it, either writing, directing or choreographing or simply taking part in whatever they fancied. The children too were very enthusiastic to be a part of the dances, gymnastics or little kiddy skits.

This was popularly known as MN concert since a stage was set up between our two buildings Blocks M and N. The truck that I had spied in the morning was the one bringing raw material that was used to set it up. Under the guidance of Mr. Rusi Daruwala, carpenters, masons and other sundry workmen would get busy sawing, hammering and getting the stage up from scratch, in time for the concert. It would take about 3 to 4 days to get the stage ready with curtains, side screens, and different props for the plays etc. The electricians would then get busy putting up mikes and special lights for the stage.

This was exciting for the children since the “under construction” and unfinished stage was the perfect setting to play games like ‘catch catch’ and

‘hide and seek’. In spite of warnings from grown ups to be careful we would all run around, going up and down the stage, rolling on the dirty

wooden floor, taking somersaults or doing frog leaps. My Mum said we looked like little leaping monkeys from our house on the second floor. The dark space under the stage was both scary and thrilling, where we would hide from parents calling us home for dinner or crawl and play imaginary games of goblins and fairies and super beings. Since we were warned not to show off our dances or skits before the concert day, we would do the dance from last year’s concert, remembering the steps perfectly. Our parents had a tough time getting us back home for dinner since we did not seem to have enough of playing there. This lasted till the stage was fully ready for the D-day. Then after the concert was over we would all be back to our monkey tricks till the whole stage was dismantled. We felt sad when everything was cleared and the truck hauled away the planks and bamboos.

The concert was held on the 20^th. March. The practices for the dances and plays would start a month in advance. Rehearsals were fun too as the dances, plays and other items would start taking shape slowly but surely. Besides, this was a time when we could get away from our school home work early. There was a lot of activity and energy with various practices going on at the same time. Bursts of laughter could be heard ever so often and the whole atmosphere was full of bonhomie and happiness.

The concert was free and all were welcome. But there were loyal sponsors and donors who would give generously year after year, so that youngsters were encouraged to perform and the show would be enjoyed by all. Rows and rows of chairs and benches would be arranged in front of the stage in the morning. Spectators would come not only from our Colony but from all over Bombay. People would start pouring in from 6.30 so as to reserve good seats in the front. As was the practice the first 3 to 4 rows were reserved for VIPs, the chief guest and other office bearers, sponsors and well wishers. People who had their homes in M and N blocks would watch from the comforts of their homes, sitting on their balconies with ‘marghi na farcha and Parsi pegs’ for company. Relatives and friends were invited to witness and enjoy the show and there was an air of festivity all around, since this was an unofficial celebration of the ‘Spring Equinox’ or ‘Jamshedi Nowroz’.

Behind the scene, activities were no less frenetic. The air was charged up with excitement and nervous energy. The make up and change of costumes

were done in the 2 ground floor flats of block ‘M’. One flat was reserved for the women and one for men. Lists of the programs in their order of performance were stuck in both the houses so the participants would know when their turn would come to be on the stage.

One would see women in colorful attire, depending on the dances that were to be done. Some years they were fisher folk, or in Maharashtrian 9 yard saris if they were doing lavni, or in ghaghra choli if they were doing garbas or dandias or in North Indian style draped saris if they were doing dances from North East of India or Punjabi lungis if bhangras were to be performed. Some were in Western gowns or gypsy skirts. Men were also in ethnic outfits looking funny and alien to us. There were 3 to 4 makeup men who were busy putting stage make up for all the participants. False hairs were used for making buns and flowers put in the hair. For us the highlight of the evening was putting on make up. We kept on looking at ourselves in the big mirrors put up temporarily for the evening. We would all keep our lips in a perpetual ‘O’ and talk without getting our lips together for fear of fudging the lipstick. There were volunteers helping all the participants with wearing the costumes, doing up the hair and other sundry little tasks.

One corner of the stage was reserved for musicians. They would start tuning their tabla, harmonium, guitars and other musical instruments. The children were herded and kept together so that no one would go missing.

When at last on the dot of 8, the curtain went up, there were whistles and catcalls. The show every year would start with a welcome song and end with the National Anthem. The whole evening turned magical as the stage came alive with various dances not only from all over India but even the world. Most Parsis living in Bombay, who had never ventured beyond Surat in Gujarat, got to see the culture of different States of India or something from across the seven seas. Dances would be performed by groups of men and women, the dancers leaping and swirling in perfect rhythm, the colorful costumes lending an air of drama and exoticism. Sometimes a solo performance by an especially talented dancer would keep the spectators

spellbound. Performances by children were given extra ovation to encourage them to perform better and better. When an encore was called, the performers would go back on stage and perform the item again much to

the delight of the audience.

There were plays and skits with typical Parsi droll humor. The main play was especially long with dramatic dialogues, many songs sung by the actors themselves and funny outlandish situations which kept everyone in splits. When the stage was being prepared for some item, there were little gags and jokes in front of the curtain. Talented singers were given a platform to show their God given gift.

Another routine item which was very popular and looked forward to by all was the performance of ‘Pyramids’. Pyramids were done together by men, women and children, who were smartly attired in tight long black pants and white banyans or shirts. Different formations were done with women and children climbing on top of men in the bottom row and over each other to form pyramids. The pyramids took various shapes. There were horses pulling a chariot, or blooming flowers or flying birds, all done by the gymnasts. When especially a difficult formation was done there would be a collective gasp and spontaneous applause from the audience.

There was a short interval to give a break to the spectators and participants. Back stage there was tea, Dukes cold drinks and snacks for the participants. We would all gorge on the samosas and bhajias and have cold drinks to our heart’s content. This was also the time when women with cooking talents and hard work got to sell typical Parsi snacks, tea or coffee and cold drinks to the audience, and make a little pocket money in the bargain.

Three hours of fun and frolic would at last come to an end. Well wishers and admirers would come and congratulate us for putting up such a good show. The appreciation made us proud and gave us an impetus to do better and better every year. In fact Daulat and Bomi Dotiwalla from our Club earned a name for themselves on the Parsi Natak Stage. For years they were an integral part of Adi Marzban’s plays, entertaining people year after year with their sterling performances and flawless acting. In recent years, Bomi also started acting in famous Bollywood movies.

Till I married and moved to another city, I participated in our annual concerts every year. The concerts slowly shifted to posh air-conditioned theatres. The month of March was replaced by May which was the summer vacation for students, since the children were too preoccupied with their ever growing burden of studies and impending exams in March, to participate.

Participation in the annual MN concert from a very young age instilled in me a love for theatre, a sense of discipline, stage presence and team work from a very young age. I have known first hand the hard work and sweat that goes in to put up any show.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Concert Between M and N appeared on Parsi Khabar.

The girl gang consisting of tweens was growing up fast. Every evening and earlier on holidays, we would meet, talk, play, cycle around, exchange school news and happily pass our time together. In fact, whenever we had to go out with our parents there would be protests and resistance. We hated missing out on the play, the giggles and most important the gossip which Tina dished out to us now and again.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

Tina was the eldest in our group, a good 2/3 years older than most of us. She introduced us to the birds and bees and became our bible on “facts of life”. She loved to scandalize us by telling us outrageous stories, kinky or smutty news and giving us tid-bits on sex, which we all eagerly lapped up. She had our undivided attention whenever she opened her mouth. She swore us all to secrecy and told us that if we dared tell any of this to our parents, she would stop her sex education. None of us wanted this to happen, so this became our peer secret and further bound us closer.

Her claim that she had a boyfriend was a great source of excitement for us. She refused to divulge his name which further deepened the mystery and allure. One evening she declared very expansively that she would not be washing her mouth for a few days since she and her boyfriend had kissed for the first time. There were squeals and shouts and clamor for more details. That evening we only went home after the full blow by blow or should I say lip by lip account of the “first kiss” was given to us. Tina’s status went up a further notch – to have a boyfriend and to have kissed him was unimaginable to our naïve tween minds. I am sure that night many of us tried kissing ourselves in the mirror to get a feel of how it would be to kiss another!

Tina keenly followed the romance of her neighbor Zarin with great verve. Every few days we would be fed little morsels; on the path the romance was taking. Whenever she came across Zarin and Savky talking sweet nothing in each other’s ears, Tina would try her hardest to eavesdrop. None of us could verify the veracity of her gossip but none the less found it interesting. Some times when Tina knew the couple was alone, she would sneak us into her house. We would crane our necks to see if we could catch a glimpse of the mating rituals that couples go through. Even if we saw them hugging or holding hands, we would be shoving and pushing each other for a better glimpse. Zarin and Savky were probably too engrossed to notice the whispers and fits of giggles of a motley group of wide-eyed curious girls. All this stopped, when one day Tina’s mother realized what was happening and shooed us all out.

Some days, tired after our games, we would all gather and urge Tina to share some more knowledge with us. Most of the time it was all tame stuff which she had told us countless times before, about falling in love, or kissing or holding hands or the chemistry that existed between men and women.

But then one evening she burst a bomb. She told us she was going to tell us a big secret, which left us all breathless with anticipation. When the hullabaloo died down a bit, she announced that today she would be telling us how babies were made. Babies are made?

How does one MAKE a baby? Most of us thought that if the mother and father wanted a baby, God would put one in the mother’s belly. She looked at us pityingly and gave a wise and mysterious smile. “I read all about it in my friend’s sister’s book and that’s the truth”. With bated breath and total disbelief we heard how little babies were made and got ensconced in their mother’s womb. There were lots of protests and heated arguments and denials, but Tina stuck to her guns. Our first brush with adulthood was surreal and a little traumatic.

As we got older we became savvier. The girl’s school we went to was a hotbed of false or otherwise, information on sex. Without a TV or internet, knowledge on sex or other adult topics were mostly gleaned from peers. We slowly learnt about the difference in the anatomy of men and women, about different sexual preferences, about homosexuality and lesbianism, about how boys perceived sex, about puberty and on and on. The raging teenage hormones lapped up all the information we could lay our hands on from different sources.

We learnt that a flasher was not a person who wore fancy and flashy clothes, but a pervert who would exhibit his privates when he realized someone was watching. This knowledge was due to direct fallout of our brush with a flasher, who used to sit in front of our school. He was dressed like a sadhu with a long beard, forehead smeared with ashes and a saffron lungi. The lungi opened and shut when he realized that it was our school break and the girls would be out and maybe watching him. All this came to an end one

day, when the police were informed by the school authorities, and the flasher sadhu was hauled away not to be seen again.

Life went on. There were the usual teenage crushes, the breakups, the heartbreaks, the tears and on to the next attraction. It was so good to have friends one could confide in when needed, have a shoulder to cry on and to be able to share secrets, which normally one would not do so with parents, when growing up. In your teens, most things would revolve around love, rest was secondary.

All along Tina entertained us with more outrageous stories and sometimes, whenever we had an opportunity, nude shadow dancing on popular demand. When we had a house to ourselves without any interfering adults, Tina would put up a show for us. The lights would be switched off and a white bed sheet would be held taut by 2 girls. A dim light would come on and Tina would start dancing behind the bed sheet, a-la cabaret style in her under garments. There would be claps and whistles to egg her on. We did not have any moral police to stop what generation after generation did to learn and quench their curiosity about sex and which should be a natural part of growing up.

As we grew older and the boys joined our gang, the secret girly talks became fewer and far between. We started getting different feedback due to the entry of boys in our midst. We were now on the brink of experiencing the real world of men and women and the chemistry that existed between the two sexes. Since we had grown up with these boys, there was comfort in our interaction with them. We were not tongue tied but definitely shy at times. Occasionally, some one would sneak in an adult magazine like ‘Oui’ or ‘Playboy’, with scantily clad or half naked men and women. There would be hysterical giggles and rolling of the eyes. We were scandalized by the ‘brazen’ nudity but none the less interested. The boys compared us to the bombshells of their Playboy and other boys’ magazines. As a result many of us started having huge problems with our bodies. We thought we were too thin, too fat, or small built, or big built, alas anything but perfect. We tried our best to fit into the ‘perfect’ image of a woman. We had the padded bras and corsets to our rescue and took refuge in anything that made us look a little more like those bombshells of the boys’ magazines. Fortunately, most of us got out of that phase and accepted the fact that we were all different and that ‘beauty was to the beholder’ and hopeful that there was somebody out there who would like us for the way we were.

Today, children learn about facts of life very early. The parents are so busy leading their own lives, having careers and being caught up in the rat race that children have to fend for themselves. Their lives revolve around the internet and the information available so easily on it. The internet becomes their friend, guide and philosopher. Alas the learning process takes place on the net without any feedback, adult guidance or peer information. In spite of the ‘chats’ and hundreds of ‘e-friends’ and being connected to others on various social sites as well as other media feedback, it is a lonely world. The camaraderie, the closeness of real friends, the giggles, the sharing is all missing.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Birds and Bees: Growing Up appeared on Parsi Khabar.

He was the quintessential ogre. To my 6-year-old eyes there did not exist a more ferocious giant than Keka. When I first saw the Bollywood movie ‘Sholay’ and Gabbar boasting about his notoriety and how for miles his name was invoked by all mothers to frighten their children to fall in line, that Keka’s image came to mind. When the mothers wanted to frighten their children, it was Keka’s name they invoked. “Eat up or Keka will come to feed you”, “Stop this noise at once or else we’ll have to call Keka”, “Don’t cry, Keka does not like bawling children”. Most children were endlessly blackmailed day after day, to fall in line, with Keka’s name. Whenever Keka passed by the house, mothers would see that the children had a good look at him so that their jobs would be made easier when the need arose!

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

He was so embedded in my consciousness that whenever I read fairy tales replete with fairies, goblins and ogres to my children and now grandchildren, Keka again came to my mind.

Keka was homeless and in our affluent community, this was something unheard of. He was a huge unkempt man with a big belly. The hand-me-down shirt he wore strained to cover him. The buttons were broken and the gaps in the shirt gave us a peep of his hairy salt and pepper chest and a hirsute line running to his navel. Ironically, his pate was bald with wisps of matted hair and a huge black mole on the bald scalp stared at us like an ominous third eye. His pants were frayed at the edges and worn out at the seat. We would have a giggling fit, if by chance we ever spied part of his buttocks through the worn-out pants. A brown dirty handkerchief always showed in his pocket.

A battered tin plate and mug, along with some dirty bedding, comprised his earthly possession. All this was kept under the staircase near the electricity meter board. This was his ‘home’ where he slept come heat, rain or cold, snoring like a steam engine laboriously chugging up a mountain. We tiptoed to the small dark dingy place and watched in horror as his huge belly shuddered and his chest heaved like a volcano about to erupt. Alamai, who stayed on the ground floor, and who must have faced the barrage of smell, sometimes bribed her maid with extra money and food to clean up Keka’s ‘home’. That day the mixed stench of stale food and snuff did not permeate the entire building!

While playing ‘hide and seek’ on the staircase, our greatest fear was that Keka might come along and spy us hiding there. When we heard a shuffle of dragging feet and the distinct smell of snuff, we came out of our hiding places much to the delight of the one giving the ‘den’. None was brave enough to go on hiding at that juncture.

He lived off the kindness of the residents. Come mealtime and someone or the other gave him food. ‘Kekaaaa’ a shout would be heard and Keka, promptly picking up his plate and mug shuffled to that house. His plate piled high, he proceeded to devour, chewing noisily and breathing heavily through his nose, oblivious to the audience of little people. After a loud smelly belch, he sprawled out on the staircase, like a stuffed satisfied tomcat. This was our cue to scatter.

His dinner invariably came from Shireenbai who lived on the ground floor. She had an enamel plate and bowl separately for him. At a specific time every night, without a watch or any striking clock, Keka would gently edge up near the verandah and say ‘Baimai’ and his meal would be handed over to him. Many times he would return the plate and even say ‘Thank-you”. If he was not on time, Shireenbai would mutter ‘Mare, kahn gayo Keko?’ (Where has he gone?). Once in a while he requested for a bhelpuri which was willingly bought for him.

As we saw him shuffling around the Colony, we wondered why he did not have a family like most of us. Did he not have a mother and father or maybe a brother or sister? And did he ever go to a school? Why did he not go to office like our fathers did? None of us had the gumption to ask him these questions. According to old timers he was employed with BEST and cycled to work in the company of his friend Boman from R-23. Somewhere there was a setback; may be a failed relationship or an unrequited love which left him stunned with a vacant look in his brown eyes.

As I entered adulthood, Keka acquired a softer hue. I realized that his big bulbous brown eyes had never showed any anger. In fact we had never heard him raise his voice to anyone. Keka was a gentle soul, never given to violence or bouts of ill temper. The unique thing about him was that he was never teased, not even by the hardliners who spared no one…. he was left to himself since he never interacted with anyone. Keka addressed all elderly ladies as

Baimai and at times they shared tid-bits with him. This was probably the only human interaction he had.

Age took its toll and Keka took ill, was treated but faded away… and was given a decent funeral by the Panchayat.

Keka was a nonentity as far as the world was concerned. But he taught us a lesson or two; that, appearances are deceptive. He looked fierce, but was as gentle as a baby. That whatever cruel blows life dealt you, you do not take shortcuts. You lived your miserable life as best as can be. His life was pathetic but he never attempted to end it all or steal to better it. Keka was a hobo, but had managed to leave a lasting impression on me.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Keka the Quintessential Ogre appeared on Parsi Khabar.

The huge Rustomjee Cowasjee Banajee Agiary (Agiary – is a fire temple in which Parsi Zoroastrians pray) at 26 Ezra Street in Central Kolkata has been turned into an electrical market of sorts, but who cares!

Article by Phiroze Edulji | News World India

The Kolkata Municipal Corporation know that time and tide wait for none and thus are not at all concerned to evict the squatters and restore the said temple in spite of the Government of West Bengal declaring it as “Heritage Building” on 6^th October 2007 pursuant to the recommendation of the Expert Committee of the Heritage Buildings.

The fire temple which is Gothic in style with huge Tuscan pillars and dentil ornamentation is in a remorseful state. Plasters are peeling off from each wall; the marbles on the floor have been scooped out and sold. Vegetation growth has weakened the entire structure. Every inch of the building, including the temple basement, has been encroached upon by business units. Even the gate can scarcely be seen from the road.

There has also been a documentary made, showing the deplorable state of affairs titled: “A Brief Stroll Around The Parsee Fire Temple In Ezra Street, Calcutta.”

Since Rustomjee has thrown in the towel, that he cannot maintain the fire temple anymore, it is for the Parsis from across the world to unite and fight to get back the fire temple which is rightfully theirs and restore the fire temple to its former glory.

The fire temple was inaugurated on 16^th September 1839 and was built by Rustomjee Cowasjee Banajee. On 19^th December 1842, a trust was formed with the object that from the rents and profits of Rustomji’s bazaar lying at Beliaghata then a suburb of Kolkata, the fire temple would be maintained.

Over a period of time disputes arose in the said trust which was subject matter of lawsuits before the Hon’ble High Court at Calcutta. The trustees were unable to manage the affairs of the fire temple and ultimately the fire temple shut down sometime in the 1980’s though the exact date or year is unknown. Subsequently, unscrupulous traders started to encroach upon this fire temple.

The Ezra St Fire Temple is presently managed by one C. M. Rustomjee who claims to be the Shebait Priest of the Fire Temple and as per him the said trust is a “Public Charitable Trust”.

(Photo courtesy: Brian Paul Bach)

However in the Parsi Zoroastrian religion there is no such concept of Shebait Priest. Upon an application moved by Rustomjee in 2012,  the Calcutta High Court directed the trial court to hear his application for recalling of the order whereby the said Rustomjee was directed to “give delivery of operation of the Agiary Empowerment in 26 Ezra Street” to one Suresh Kumar Daga, Director of Monotona Marketing Private Limited.

In another writ petition moved by the said Rustomjee, Hon’ble Justice Shivakant Prasad directed “the Municipal Commissioner and the concerned respondents authorities to take all possible steps and to exercise their power for protection and preservation of the heritage building as the trustees of Rustomjee Cowasjee Agiari Fire Temple Charitable Trust have failed to maintain, preserve and conserve it due to their financial condition”.

Since Rustomjee has thrown in the towel, that he cannot maintain the fire temple anymore, it is for the Parsis from across the world to unite and fight to get back the fire temple which is rightfully theirs and restore the fire temple to its former glory.

The Central Government

(Photo courtesy: Brian Paul Bach)

The Prime Minister even when he was Chief Minister of Gujarat was always promoting the Parsis who are a microscopic minority. In 2011, Modi as CM had visited Udvada in Gujarat, the Mecca of the Parsis, where the Holy “Iranshah Fire”, was consecrated when the Parsis first landed in India some 1,300 year ago. It was predicted by the high priests that Modi would return to the holy site as Prime Minister of India. True to his word, Modi returned to Udvada in December 2015 as the Prime Minister. It was thanks to Modi that Udvada was declared a “National Heritage” site.

After the BJP came to power at New Delhi following the 2014 General Elections, the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) which falls under the Ministry of Culture has shown keen interest in the said fire temple. ASI regional director (east), Dr P K Mishra stated that he would recommend to the government to turn the fire temple into a monument of “National Importance”. Dr Mishra was further of the opinion that urgent restoration work is required to protect the temple from complete destruction.

The So Called Liberals

(Photo courtesy: Brian Paul Bach)

Why the Left Front and the so called Liberals didn’t speak when this fire temple was being plundered? The paradox is that the left, liberals and the media houses do not want to raise this issue. When they can’t stop speaking for Dadri incident and Beef controversy, why then do they not have the courage to speak against Mamata Banerjee’s Government for not doing anything to save the temple.

When authors and historians have been intentionally targeting the Modi Government for increasing alleged incidents of religious intolerance in the country, why don’t they come out and protest the desecration of the fire temple.

Indeed, the Dadri incident was appalling and law must take its own course but a prudent heart always speaks against injustice anywhere in the society. They don’t differentiate between prejudices against minorities.

Only time will tell, if the illegal squatters will be evicted and the temple be restored to its original grandeur or would a part of our rich “Bengali History” which we all are so ever proud of SUCCUMB to unscrupulous land sharks.

As aptly stated by Martin Luther King, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere”. How come such liberals never come forward to give up their awards for what has been done to the fire temple? The answer is that they would not get the desired media publicity which they crave for; since 50 thousand Parsis in a population of billions don’t matter.

If this is not shocking enough let the so called left and liberals be succulently reminded that amongst the encroachers at the fire temple is the Communist Party of India who have their office in the fire temple as a name plate suggests.

Mamata Banerjee Government

(Photo courtesy: Brian Paul Bach)

The genius of the apathy of the State Government towards the Parsis is twofold.

Firstly, a mere Rs 500 in Kolkata don’t politically matter and secondly, the Tata Nano Singur controversy, the issue generated by land acquisition of the proposed Nano factory of Tata Motors at Singur in Hooghly District, West Bengal, which has been continuously opposed by the present government.

In fact Amit Mitra the finance minster of West Bengal once stated that “Tata (Ratan) is getting old and suffering from delusion. I do not know why he cannot understand about what is happening,” regarding a recent controversy about industrialization in Bengal. Since the Tata Empire is controlled by Parsis, the present government has decided to give the Parsis a “Royal Ignore”. It seems that only one minority is present in West Bengal when it comes to government schemes and initiatives.

Hello! Ms. Mamata Banerjee we do exist. Till Parsis are seen in museums across the country allow them to live with dignity.

Subsequently, when Parsis are only found in museums do protect the Parsis temples (there is another fire temple at Metcalfe Street, Kolkata) as heritage structures for it would be impossible for you to ever recreate one in West Bengal again.

If only the Government had followed the advice of Mahatma Gandhi, the father of our great Indian Nation when he said, “I am proud of my country, India, for having produced the splendid Zoroastrian stock, in numbers beneath contempt, but in charity and  philanthropy perhaps unequalled and certainly unsurpassed”.

Only time will tell, if the illegal squatters will be evicted and the temple be restored to its original grandeur or would a part of our rich “Bengali History” which we all are so ever proud of SUCCUMB to unscrupulous land sharks.

(Phiroze Edulji is a lawyer by profession and is Managing Partner of Edulji&Edulji. He can be contacted on phiroze@edulji.com. The views expressed here solely belongs to the writer and does not in any way reflect the views and opinions of News World India)

The post Banajee Agiary in Calcutta is now an Electrical Market appeared on Parsi Khabar.

There are certain incidents and memories that are forever imprinted in your mind’s eye. It just needs a trigger to awaken those memories and then you remember as though that incident took place just yesterday even though it would have taken place 5 or 50 years ago. A forgotten smell, a piece of music, familiar surroundings, a scene from a movie would elicit laughter or sadness or even an adrenalin rush depending on the incident and the memory associated with it. There are some such incidents I wish to share with you.

From time to time we invite readers to contribute. This article is by Havovi Govadia.

When I was 3 years old, I had a three-wheeled scooter which I used to ply in the colony compound. An older friend had one with only 2 wheels, which I got to ride sometime. The increase in speed and the breeze stinging my face used to thrill me. I would pester my friend, give him my slow scooter and go at breakneck speed from one end to another on the two wheels. One day while racing with another little speed fiend, we lost balance, collided and came crashing on the ground. I lost one milk tooth, grazed my elbows and knees very badly. My co-speeder was no better off. Both of us were lifted and taken to our respective homes for first-aid. My love for speed thrills slackened a bit till I graduated to bicycle and rediscovered the thrill of a speeding bicycle and the breeze stinging my face again. Years later when I watch bicycle or motorcycle races on TV and a crash taking place, I remember a little girl, her two plaits flying in the air as she went careening down on her two-wheeled scooter.

The first electrically operated tram-car appeared on Bombay’s roads in 1907. The passing years aggravated the problem of rush-hour traffic and to ease the situation, double decker trams were introduced in September 1920. The various tram rides I had with my parents still bring happy memories. There was no hurry or pushing and jostling to get in. The driver and conductor seemed to have plenty of time and patiently waited for everyone to get in at leisure. There were double trams being pulled together and if by chance we had got in the second tram car, in spite of our parents’ protests, we would run the length and enter the first one to be as close to the tram driver as possible. To go up on the double decker was also a treat. The panoramic view as it unfolded when the tram moved ahead would be mesmerizing. We loved the ‘ting ting’ of the bell when the driver spied someone crossing the tracks or when the tram stopped and started to take in passengers at the stops. The tramway system had been running at a loss when the BEST took it over. The losses kept on mounting year after year. In 1953, it started closing down the uneconomic routes due to high operational costs and poor public support. In 1964 BEST’s long-running tram services terminated. The last journey of the tram was to be really special.

All the neighbors had decided to go together in the evening to see the last ride of the tram. The day coincided with my younger brother’s birthday. As was the custom, my mother made my brother who was wearing his new birthday clothes stand on a little platform decorated with rangoli. She made a mark of kumkum on his forehead; put some rice on it and a garland around his neck. Adults and children all set out together to bid adieu to a beloved mode of transport. My brother refused to remove his garland or the kumkum mark on his forehead. On the road we got curious looks, even amused glances and also birthday wishes from both friends and strangers. I was really embarrassed and kept on urging my brother to remove his garland, without any success. A landmark of Bombay was soon to be history and people came out in droves to watch that history being made. We patiently waited. And there it was. The whole tram resplendent with colorful lights and decorated with garlands slowly made its way the last time on those tracks in the middle of the Bombay roads. I will always remember that last journey since the trams as well as my brother were both decked up. Alas for one it was the end of the journey and for another a whole life stretched ahead and many more birthdays to celebrate.

In the 1960s radio still ruled the roost and I could hear the dulcet voice of Amin Sayani and realized that ‘Binaca Geet Mala’ was on. Every Wednesday at 8 p.m. all the radios in our vicinity had the same program blaring. Every week, Binaca Geet Mala played the popular Bollywood movie songs and was a very popular program on All India Radio. At the end of the year, songs were short listed and then the annual countdown would begin, the most popular song of the year topping the chart. This program was akin to ‘Chitrahar’ which was aired when ‘Door Darshan’ first started broadcasting on TV. My favorite radio programs were the Western music, instrumental as well as vocals which were played on Radio Ceylon every morning. People requested for various songs, even dedicating them to a loved one on his birthday or any other special occasion. So the music numbers were played with the names of people who had requested them. As soon as I would get up in the morning, the radio would be switched on and I would go about my tasks listening not only to the music but the various names, some becoming familiar since they probably sent a request every day. Saturdays, I got permission from my Dad to listen to the radio till 11 in the night since ‘Saturday night’ a program which broadcast popular and latest rock & roll and other English songs after 10 p.m. was also my favorite.

The Parsis had their own popular radio show. Unfortunately, it was broadcasted only in Bombay. As soon as Adi Marzban the doyen of Parsi Gujerati theatre came on air, all of us would crowd around the radio. His typical Parsi plays which were broadcasted were popular with all Gujerati speaking people. The plays revolved around his domineering wife who argued incessantly since she thought she was always right, the neighbors who got him into all sorts of troublesome situations, the pesky over smart neighbors’ children who irritated him. Week after week, the situations were so hilarious that we would all double up with laughter. Mr. Adi Marzban himself played the main character of “Ada” and his wife in real life played his domineering wife “Jer” in the radio show. There was also the “bije marno Dinshaw” or “Dinshaw staying on the second floor” and some other characters. We could not see the actors performing but they were so good at emoting that we imagined the whole situation unfolding as though it was acted out before us. We would feel all emotions as depicted by the characters, the discomfort of being in various difficult situations, the jubilation of getting the better of the dominating wife, the relief of getting out of an uncomfortable situation, or the irritation when “Nusli” the pesky neighbor’s kid entered his house. Sitting in our homes, we were entertained for years with funny episodes. With the advent of TV and then computers and satellite broadcasts of hundreds of programs where one is spoilt for choice, the smart phones where one can see anything on the net on the go has changed the face of entertainment. But whenever I hear FM music being played in the car or at home, I go back to the days when a simple radio occupied the pride of place in most middle class homes.

This particular episode brings back painful memories and even today I wish the whole thing to go away. Sherry was an old school friend but did not stay in our housing colony. She would attend many of our club functions with me which made her friendly with my club friends. She fell in love with Peruz and slowly the couple started drifting from our group and going out alone. Sherry’s parents were aware and approved of the liaison. In fact they made it official by having a ring ceremony which some of us attended. I slowly lost contact with Sherry and we would meet infrequently whenever we bumped into each other when she visited Peruz. Soon, I started hearing rumors of physical violence that Sherry was subjected to and the fights that

took place between the couple. Whenever they came home from somewhere, many had seen her crying and sometimes being dragged by Peruz. One day she paid me a visit and related all the ugly details. She was in a dilemma. She loved Peruz but could not cope with the violence any more. I told her to take her parents into confidence, naively hoping that their interference would instill a little sense in Peruz and stop the violence she was being subjected to.

One day I get message from Peruz to meet him at his home. Wondering why he wanted to meet me, I paid him a visit. As soon as I entered his house, he started abusing me loudly for interfering in his love life. My explanations that it was his girl friend who had initially come to me asking for advice, did not cut any ice with him. He kept on getting more belligerent and abusive. Never having faced such violent and abusive behavior before, I started crying, still arguing about my role in this sordid episode. Fortunately for me, my good friend Pesi who lived next door heard all the commotion and came out to check. When he saw me being ill treated, in true Bollywood hero style, he came and caught Peruz by his collar, threatening him with dire consequence if he insisted on carrying on with his obnoxious behavior. He also fired me for interacting with a coward. I rushed home, all the while weeping and wondering how Sherry could even think she loved such a gutless man. I realized that nothing would stop Peruz from abusing women and hoped that Sherry would have sense enough not to marry him. Alas, she did not have sense. She married him and moved to England.

Years later when I visited London, my cousin started telling me about Peruz. It seems he was still violent not only with his wife but also his children. My cousin took up for the abused children and also had to face a barrage of abuse and hostility! Memories of that day when I first experienced and faced violence came rushing back. When I related my exact same interaction with him so many years ago, we both started laughing. It was our bravado that we laughed off our distasteful experience. I had a silent prayer for my long lost friend and thanksgiving for the fact that we had to face something so demeaning only once in our lifetime, when there were countless women, who had faced and were facing physical and mental violence through the ages.

All the girlfriends decided to pay a visit to the pilgrim villages of Navsari and Udvada to pay obeisance to the holy fires. We first landed at Navsari and stayed with my aunt. After the customary visit to the ‘Atash behram’ there, we caught a train to Udvada. We were 7 of us and had to spread out

some sitting inside, where ever place was available on the train seats and 2 of us sitting on the door of the compartment. We were all busy talking when suddenly the girls sitting on the door realized that our train was chugging into Udvada station. They let out a huge scream all the while shouting ‘Udvada has come’. There was panic among us and all of us ran helter-skelter, trying to remember where we had kept our bags and rushing towards the door since the train only halted at the station for 2 minutes. Our co-passengers were laughing and helping us to get our things. It was fortunate that we were traveling light. We were literally pushed out of the train compartment, some kind travelers even throwing our bags out on the platform. When the train chugged out, we gathered our wits together and after taking count that all of us had managed to get down we burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Though it was to be a spiritual trip, we had a good time bonding together, ribbing each other, paying our respects at the Fire Temples and enjoying the rural experience. I have visited these places countless times but always remember how we almost missed getting down from the train at the Udvada station.

Talking of journeys, one more came to mind, also on the same route from Gujarat to Bombay. On this 3 hour journey, there are 2 kinds of passengers traveling – ones who daily go up and down for their jobs to Bombay and back to their villages in the evening and the others who are traveling just that one time. My cousin who traveled every day from our village to Bombay for job, made me get into an unreserved compartment, where the ‘up-downs’ as they were called did not mind other co-passengers. I was with my two young children and got a seat next to an old lady with a huge cane basket. She was getting down after 2 stops and I had told my children to shift in after she left. On the next station, a huge burly man got in and came and stood near the window of my seat. As soon as the old lady got up to leave and I put my hand on the seat so that my children could come and sit there, he sat down on my hand. I politely asked him to get up since I had reserved the seats and he was sitting on my hand. Very arrogantly he told me that this was his seat and that every day he travelled sitting on that particular seat. By this time my hand had got pins and needles, and no amount of pushing

helped to budge him. My 12 year old young daughter tried to drag him but of course to no avail. My hand was going numb with his bulky pressure and I was feeling revulsion for this uncouth and unmannered man who refused to see any reason. The other passengers intervened but he again rudely shut them up. My arguments made not an iota of difference. By now I was in physical pain with my hand pinned under his bum, when one of his friends sitting a little further away and hearing the commotion came and managed to drag him. I wanted to punch him but could not feel my right hand at all. I was so obsessed by this unpleasant incident that I kept on relating it to all and sundry and still remember it vividly whenever I travel by train to the villages of Gujarat.

Havovi Govadia is a 65 years old grandmother of 3.  She was born and brought up in Mumbai and shifted to Nagpur after marriage.  Was working in Empress Mills (first Tata enterprise) till it shut shop in 1987.  Working now as an independent financial adivsor. 

Havovi wrote scripts, directed and staged plays and various tableaux on Zarthushtra, Parsi fashions through the ages etc. mostly to acquaint the younger generation of their rich heritage from 1980 till about 2000 for the Nagpur Parsi Gymkhana. 

Havovi started writing these little anecdotal stories at the insistence of her niece who is now 10 years old and living in USA and who was keen to know about her grand parents whom she would never meet and those days when “you and my Dad were little”.

The post Nostalgia appeared on Parsi Khabar.

How safe is Mumbai’s heritage from wrecking?

How safe is Mumbai’s heritage from wrecking? A theft at Fort’s century-old BH Wadia clock tower throws up uncomfortable questions

Mumbai isn’t free from greed or irony. In an incident that occurred nearly six months ago, vandals have stolen the hands of a clock that sits within the BH Wadia clock tower at the bustling junction of Bazaar Gate Road and Nariman Perin Street in Fort. And they were able to access it, say observers, because of a scaffolding built around it for a much-need facelift meant to kick off next month.

By Apoorva Puranik |Mid-Day

The BH Clock tower, erected in 1882 to honour former sheriff and philanthropist Bomanjee Hormusjee Wadia, is a heritage structure with a magnificent façade that’s now crumbling. Years of neglect had left little of the clock except a stub at the centre and Roman numbering around a shattered clock face. The vandals took away a large chunk of the glass pane and the clock’s hands. “A few days ago, I had discovered an old gas light inside the tower, which I thought would make for a great piece of history. That too has disappeared,” said Kayomi Engineer, administrative director of the Kala Ghoda Association (KGA), a non-profit that works to maintain and preserve the heritage and art district of South Mumbai.

It is impossible, says conservation architect Vikas Dilawari, to replace these, but suitable substitutes will be made during the restoration which he will helm with backing from KGA.

When mid-day visited the site on Wednesday, the tower was sheathed in tin sheets to keep vandals out. “The stone structure needs a lot of work,” said Engineer, adding that Dilawari’s team will kick off in February in an effort that is expected to cost R65 lakh and be completed by early next year.

“The top portion of the tower is in terrible condition. Cracks have developed due to vegetation growth. The slab of the structure is susceptible to collapse. Strengthening it is going to be difficult since the wooden joist on which the slab rests has been destroyed due to rain and neglect,” Dilawari explained.

One of the objects that he is going to have to turn his attention to is a fading, marble plaque that stands at the entrance of the tower, carrying engraved inscriptions in the Pahlavi script, the written form of middle Iranian languages.]

Meherangiz Parvarish, 70, is a resident of the neighbourhood and member of the Zoroastrian community to which Wadia belonged. She claimed she wrote umpteen letters and made phone calls to officials in the heritage department of the BMC, drawing attention to the tower’s neglect. Part of a commemorative fountain, it incorporates elements of the Zoroastrian faith, including the flames that sit atop its pinnacle, considered holy by the community that believes fire is sacred.

“This structure is a landmark and a magnificent one. After incessant follow ups, all the corporation did was paint the tower a horrible yellow and orange,” she said, referring to a common gaffe that the civic department is known to make as previously seen in Fort landmark, Flora Fountain. Stone, conservationists say, needs to breathe. Painting it over, chokes it, reducing the life of the structure by years.

History

Bomanjee Hormusjee Wadia was the sheriff of Mumbai in 1859. He was also a philanthropist. Wadia died on July 3, 1862. The clock tower was a commemorative fountain erected in his honour in 1882, after his death. The structure has been built keeping in mind Wadia’s Zoroastrian roots. The tower is topped with a structure shaped like flames of fire, which Zoroastrians consider holy.

The post BH Wadia Clock Tower in Mumbai Vandalized appeared on Parsi Khabar.