The Travelling Parsi

By Kamal F Sunavala

This anthology of short humorous stories about the Zoroastrian Parsi community is narrated through the satirical voice of a Parsi girl. 'The Travelling Parsi' talks of the commonalities, peculiarities and prejudices of this unique community that lives all across the world, but is bound by the inimitable Parsiness of things. A joyous discovery through the various worlds and time periods that dot a Parsi existence, it shines a light into what being Parsi really means. From its adopted native shores of old Bombay, to London, Paris, Prague and New York, this is a community that is small, but only in numbers. In deeds, they've given the whole world something to smile about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kamal F Sunavala
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311431905

Kamal F Sunavala

Kamal F. Sunavala is a writer based physically in Singapore and Dubai but mentally in Prague, Bombay, London or any aesthetic book cafe with good coffee. She lives with her partner (business and personal; isn’t that convenient), his perfume collection and her book collection. She began as a writer and hopefully, will end as one. In between she’s been a lawyer, teacher, actress, director, content strategist (whatever that pretentious nonsense means), traveller and coffee connoisseur. At one time, she held the prestigious position of being the only Parsi living in Prague. The Travelling Parsi is her third book.

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THE TRAVELLING PARSI

Copyright © 2014

Published by Kamal F Sunavala

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely co-incidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied and attributed in critical articles and reviews.

For further details: thetravellingparsi.com

Cover illustration by Sharukh Bilimoria

Cover design and eBook conversion by 27iD

Sunavala, Kamal F

The Travelling Parsi

First edition 2014

Contents

AUTHOR’S RANT

PROLOGUE

AN ESSENTIAL GLOSSARY

THE GOOD

The Costume Party a.k.a. Navjote

The Round Table Conference

The Travelling Parsi

The Holiday Earthquake

Homai And Homi’s House Parties

The Posh Engagement

The Interview

A Dog, A Raven And A Funeral

Three Pilgrims Visit The Holy Land

The Ballet-Dancing Rooster

A Woman Of Substance

The British Are Coming

Getting Together, Irani Style

The Fabulous Four

The Theatrewallas

Till The Fat Lady Sings

One Of Our Own

In Tata We Trust

Two Parsis In Prague

Germans Are Not Berliners, Zarine

The Merry Hypochondriac

Being Parsi, Lesson One.

THE BAD

The Evil Eye

The Three-Legged Race

The Kissing Parsi

All In A Day’s Work

Sobo Versus Nobo

Doctors Versus Lawyers

Baa Baa White Sheep

THE UGLY

The Spanish Inquisition

To The Manner Born

Guess Who’s Staying For Dinner?

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me A Match

New York, New York

Who’s Afraid Of An Agiary?

IN CONCLUSION

DEDICATION

In memory of my wonderful, erudite father, Firoz A. Sunavala.

For my amazing mum, and my god-children Kyle and Kyra, with love.

AUTHOR’S RANT

Dear Reader,

I have a pet peeve; the casual massacre of words. I can’t stand it when people think it’s perfectly okay to substitute one word for another. Much like when they add ketchup instead of butter to French food. I realise of course, that worrying about such things is solely the occupation of old school teachers and Parsis. But then, it happened to me.

I was having a wonderfully civilised cup of tea with a friend, at an old haunt in Bombay (if you know any Parsis who say Mumbai, please don’t let me know, thank you) when she remarked, ‘I think Parsis and Muslims are the two most misunderstood religions in the world.’ I asked, ‘Don’t you mean Zoroastrianism and Islam?’ She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Same difference, babe.’ Now, being exceedingly fond of my friend, I refrained from maiming her with the butter knife. Instead, I launched into a litany of definitions but the only thing I managed to do, was upset the teapot, the waiter and her. And then she put ketchup on her croissant. It’s safe to say our friendship is over.

What I did realise later is that people do confuse the two. Take the Parsi community for instance. Their religion is Zoroastrianism, which they protected from Muslim persecution in Persia, by rowing frantically to India in leaky boats. But today, can we honestly say that being Zoroastrian and being Parsi is absolutely one and the same thing? Now, I don’t practise any religion whatsoever. Does that disqualify me from being a Parsi? I can see a lot of furrowed brows. Let me warn you, doubting reader, I won’t change my stance. You have a better chance of a turkey flying through your window, with a key to a new Porsche in its beak.

Against your better judgement, leaf through the Oxford English dictionary. (Yes, I said leaf, not surf. Oh all right, I give up. Surf if you must, you awful modern git.) You’ll see that the words religion and community have completely different meanings. In reality, for many Zoroastrians and Parsis, there’s a similar feeling. We’re part of a community and descend from an ancient religion but:

Some of us are quite content to eat ‘dhansak’ and take piano lessons and leave it at just that.

Some of us do screw our noses in distaste at the thought of chanting formulaic prayer that won’t make sense to even Harry Potter.

Some of us do understand the umbilical attachment to the glorious Persian empire while watching the History Channel and chomping on a vada pav.

But this book isn’t about to enter into a debate over religious history. Not because I can’t, but mainly because Dr. Zarir Udwadia (my doctor, of course and probably yours too) informs me that doing so will give me hypertension and urticaria. So, in the interest of preserving my health, this book shall talk of simpler things. It talks of community. The everyday craziness, joys, wisdom, customs and prejudices that make up the Parsi and Irani communities, wherever they may reside in the world.

It’s a common belief that being a dying minority, we may cease to exist entirely, one day. Maybe so. Death has its uses but never before its time. And I don’t think it’s time.

Thank you for indulging my rant. You may read on.

PROLOGUE

Frank Sinatra, that loveable old rascal, said: When lip service to some mysterious deity permits bestiality on Wednesday and absolution on Sunday, cash me out.

Like old Blue Eyes, I’m terribly impressed with myself sometimes. I have a good reason but it’s not my singing voice. When you belong to a community, where, outside of it, you’re met with zero comprehension of the word ‘Parsi,’ it’s hard to hold on to your self-esteem or sense of identity. Hindus and Muslims and Christians loveable have similar issues, do they? Everybody in the world knows who a Hindu is thanks to the Beatles, Muslims are the soup du jour for political discussion and Christianity penetrated into every aboriginal jungle and colonial school it could find. But Zoroastrianism had its heyday in Iran many many blue moons ago. What’s left now is a watered down, dishonest, much-convoluted version of what might have possibly once been the truth. And Parsis are part of that unrecognisable past. (You do have the odd cracker who says he’s got it all figured and it’s the gospel. If I ever meet him or her, it’s safe to say, knuckle shall meet face.)

Parsis are odd creatures. They have been carrying the burden of the entire holier-than-thou Persian civilisation on their frail shoulders, ever since they were old enough to speak and read. At the same time, they’re semi-integrated into a very ethnic Indian society which constantly battles them on account of their obvious Western affinities. Instead of rowing in the opposite direction, on to the Mother Ship (England. I challenge you to find a Parsi who will refute it with any conviction.) the fleeing refugee boats somehow stopped at a port in Gujarat, India. As a result, fitting into a culture, a country and an idea all at the same time has always been a lot of spaghetti for Parsis to twirl around their fork. While multiple identities is a beautiful global concept, harmonising them is harder than finding a good Parsi doctor on weekends. This, I promise you.

I’ve lived in different countries at different stages of my life, including India. Wherever I’ve been, this particular question mark has followed me around like an allergy. And then suddenly, one small spark of recognition, when the name Zubin Mehta is mentioned.

-Oh, but isn’t he Israeli?

-No, he used to conduct their orchestra.

-Are you sure he isn’t Jewish?

-Yes I’m sure. He’s a Parsi. Okay, how about Freddie Mercury?

-But he was an atheist, wasn’t he? And he was gay!

-But he was also a Parsi.

-Is that like a special gay thing?

Long frustrated pause while I contemplate murder, before answering.

-Yes, yes, indeed. That’s exactly what it means.

You know, when you right-click a word and the dictionary options don’t give you Parsi but Paris instead? You’re definitely a minority. When Indians think of Parsis, a caricature instantly springs to mind. A man in white clothes with a funny, brimless top-hat perched on his head, speaking old-fashioned proper Queen’s English - and I mean Queen Victoria - using words like ‘heretofore.’ The other image is of a Falstaffian character, the court jester, in Indian films or plays or books. A genteel bumbling sort of fellow, who really can’t do much besides comedy, while flinging about foul language in English or Gujarati. I don’t discount any of this, for all of it is absolutely true. But there’s also another slightly less base side to the Parsis. Why always the fool? Why never the erudite educator, the ethical nation-builder, the efficient doctor, the artistic genius or the judicious advocate? Almost always, the bumbling, pathetic fool. This, I resent. After I finish laughing.

Depending on physical appearance, language and choice of dress, the travelling Parsi has few or many questions to answer. Add to that, the semi-British accents, quick and frequent references to England, Shakespeare and Mozart and you’ve got yourself a fine riddle. I mean, would you look at Zubin Mehta and Freddie Mercury and think they’d have anything in common besides music?

Now, I’m well aware that my argument won’t go down well with a great many people, including members of my family I know and don’t know. But I’ve always been allergic to the concept of fear. So I’ve written about the things that made me consciously think about this community, disengage from the bullshit and engage with the goodness of it. If you can appreciate that this book isn’t an attack on any religion or community, I’ll be impressed. If you don’t like what you read, feel free to give me a piece of your mind.

I encourage argument.

If you can speak three languages you’re trilingual. If you can speak two languages you’re bilingual. If you can speak only one language you’re an American.

-Author Unknown

AN ESSENTIAL GLOSSARY

The glory of brevity is in the four-letter word, especially when the hammer hits your thumb.

Never before has this concept been raised to such a fine art that it forms an integral part of a community’s language, than when the Parsis gave up their native Persian and started to speak English and Gujarati. Now, I’ve always wondered why authors didn’t put the glossary at the beginning. I mean you don’t learn the language before the A, B, C, do you? I’ve remedied it here and I’m sure you’ll thank me when you’re mid-dialogue between ‘Faaltu Fali’ and ‘Maaderchod Marzban.’

We’ll begin with the common words. Now this is purely for those freakishly unaware Indians who aren’t familiar with English or Gujarati and for my Parsi friends and family abroad, whose pronunciations increase my consumption of addictive painkillers. The uncommon words will be explained in brackets, as you progress through the book.

Dikra: Pronounced Dick-raa, meaning son but also refers to daughter. More generically, it’s like saying child. Also convenient for any child whose name you’ve forgotten.

Arre: Pronounced A-ray. Roll the ‘R’ like the Italians do. An exclamatory sound; ranging from shock to happiness. Much like the English ‘oh’ and not to be confused with ‘Arre-re’, or ‘Mare-re’ which is usually reserved for sad, unhappy or troubled contexts.

Maaderchod: Pronounced Maa-Dir (as in dirt) ‘chod’ (as in children and ode) A particular favourite, meaning motherfucker. Can also be used fondly, humorously and frequently.

Saalo/Saala/Saali: Pronounced Saa-low, Saa-laa and Saa-lee. Can mean anything between idiot, slob, stupid fool or bastard, depending on the context and the addressee. Literally it means brother-in-law or sister-in-law.

Benchod: Pronounced Bain-chod. Sisterfucker. Same explanation as 3 above. Also frequently prefixed or suffixed by 4 above.sister-in-law. Can often be a prefix or suffix to Maaderchod.

Kharaab: Pronounced ‘kh’ (try spitting out the word Khomeini) and Raab, like the car Saab. Means bad. Usually followed by the word girl or boy.

Vaaru: Pronounced vaa-roo. Means all right or okay or will do.

Nahi re Nahi: Pronounced Naee-ray-naee, as if it’s one word. Literally means no-oh-no, which is an emphatic denial. Often followed by the appropriate and sometimes violent shaking of the head from side to side and an effeminate flop of the wrist.

Chalo: Pronounced chaa (as in Chinese Tea) low. Means come on. Or oh dear.

Khodaiji: Pronounced Kho (as in Khomeini) and die-jee. God.

P.S. This glossary won’t make you any kind of linguistic expert on slang or Gujarati. What it will do hopefully, is make you laugh the next time you hear someone utter these words or fling a few of your own, right back at their maaderchod potty mouths.

THE GOOD

Catholics believe life begins at conception. Atheists believe that life begins at birth. Jews believe that life begins when the children leave home and the dog dies.

-Author Unknown

The Costume Party a.k.a. Navjote

The Jews will get the big deal about this. The Catholics too, perhaps, but the Jews definitely will.

When I was about seven, I remember my mother asking me to sit before her, hands joined in prayer, repeating words that sounded foreign. They were. I was a child whose mother-tongue was supposed to be Persian originally; at the very least, Gujarati, but was in fact, English. Confused, reader? Well, imagine how confused a seven year-old was. I was supposed to be a good Zoroastrian child but since I was educated in a Catholic convent, I desperately wanted to be Roman Catholic. I was a child who was supposed to know how to read the holy book for Zoroastrians, called the ‘Avesta’ but instead I preferred the Bible and thought ‘Silent Night’ was the best thing I’d ever heard. I loved hearing the story of the journey that the Magi undertook to see the Baby Jesus. I loved the wafer dipped in wine that was offered at the end of mass in school. On the other hand, I wasn’t so hot on the idea that a cow stood over baby Zarathushtra, and protected him, and hence Parsis weren’t supposed to eat beef. Now I would never know what an American burger tasted like or what was the rare part of a steak. How was this fair at all?

So you can see my how mother had a major problem on her hands. Please note, I said mother. Not parents. You’ll see why. Picture my mother now. Gool (pronounced gul as in bull) of the tiny, diminutive stature, always dressed in well-coordinated skirts and blouses, well-shod, soft-spoken, pitch-perfect, spoke grammatically correct English and always had graceful, well-manicured hands. On most days, she was fervent about upholding her religious values, except the days when I suffered violent asthmatic attacks and she probably cursed God in private. She tried to visit the fire-temple or the agiary, as Parsis call it, every single day. This is the hallowed temple with an eternal sandalwood-fed flame in it- and bugger the environmental carnage against sandalwood- and priests who walk about being self-important and talk in hushed lofty tones until the cell phone rings and they begin the conversation with Kem Maaderchod, long time. (Hey motherfucker, long time. All right in the old days it was the profanity minus the cell phone.) You dare challenge me on this and I’ll show you two priests I’ve actually caught speaking that kind of language, within the four walls of a fire-temple, when I was attending a family friend’s funeral.

The fire-temple is a place forbidden for entry to all non-Zoroastrians. No outsiders or ‘parjaat’ as they are called, most derogatorily, I might add. No matter what the constitution of India says about religious freedom, this rule still sticks in place and you’d better not be caught breaking it. I should know. I tried sneaking a Muslim friend into it once, when I was just eleven or so and received quite a thrashing.

Back to my Navjote. This is a religious initiation ceremony, like a baptism, the Hindu thread ceremony or the Jewish bar mitzvah; whatever you choose to understand. My mother’s horror at her child’s clearly un-Zoroastrian bent of mind was palpable. She wondered if she could blame her irreligious husband for it, or herself for not indoctrinating her stubborn child earlier. So, issuing threats of no telly, no playing with friends in the garden, no new clothes- and the worst of all- no new books, she got her sullen daughter to learn the prayers, in preparation of her Navjote.

I had an excellent memory and a knack for languages, so it wasn’t a huge problem to memorize the strange sounding words. I spat them out every night, to my mother’s delight and to the utter horror of my personal, now-compromised loyalties, and often yawned through her explanations of what they meant. And just before I fell asleep, I’d pray in English: Dear God, please make me win the elocution competition this year. And make me win the best actress award and make Ayesha get one mark less than I do, in English. Thank you. Good night. Then I’d cross myself like a good little convent-going Christian child and fall asleep, assured that God- who looked like Jesus in my head- would take care of my list of requests.

One day, I was happily informed by my parents that we were going shopping for two new dresses. The Really Expensive Stuff. I was suspicious because it wasn’t my birthday; it wasn’t Navroz which is the New Year in many countries and cultures- which, by the way, falls in March and is inexplicable to a child who follows the normal Gregorian calendar - and it wasn’t Christmas. It