Flying High -A Parsi Life of Gratitude

By Noshir N Sanjana

At the age of five, Noshir Sanjana's childhood in Shimla was enveloped in his huge blue toy cupboard. Leaving it behind and fleeing Shimla in 1947 with his parents, brother Rusi and sister Lily, in The Burning Blue Cupboard, to marrying the love of his life in Married Six Times to the Same Woman, (hear that, Liz Taylor?) Noshir Sanjana takes his readers on a fun-filled adventure through several decades of his life. Climb aboard his magic carpet in Flying High and meet Mother Teresa in the sky at 30,000 feet in Mother Teresa's Miracle; take a layover in Hotel Marriott in Jeddah and run into Idi Amin, the butcher of Uganda, in the swimming pool changing room in your Speedos in JAMBO! Come, Let's Jacuzzi Together; fly back to Bombay confront the then, reigning world wrestling champion in a road rage encounter (yours, not his) in An Encounter with Dara Singh. Travel with Noshir Sanjana on his multi-faceted career in Air India, his stranger than fiction adventures, his deep attachment to family and friends in a life well lived in harmony with all. Tucked into these 37 nuggets is the somber realization of a here- today gone-tomorrow life with two Air India airplane crashes covered in touching and grief-stricken detail. This masterpiece of contemporary writings, written entirely on a Samsung Galaxy A 71 mobile phone by Noshir Sanjana, is a must read for all Parsis, past and current employees of Air India, and everyone who enjoys the art of good story telling in short captivating beats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9789356106413

Noshir N Sanjana

Noshir Sanjana has several loves in his life: love for family, love for Air India (version 1.0), love for the city of Bombay (Mumbai). But the love of writing came late in life; during the pandemic when the world was forced into social isolation and Noshir was able to look at a life well lived in the rear-view mirror. His constant companion, Samsung Galaxy A 71, became the recipient of his stories, which metamorphosed into his first novel in stories – Flying High.Noshir lives in Mumbai, India, but his heart travels to New York and Toronto, to share his love for family with his siblings.

Book preview

1

The Burning Blue Cupboard

We lived on the top floor of the Grand Hotel, a four-star hotel in Shimla. As grand as its name, it was a magnificent brown-and-gold wood and stone building that stood on a snowcapped mountain.

My father was a junior partner and also the General Manager of the hotel. His senior investment partner was a Sikh gentleman. He was the main investor and the sleeping partner.

From the first stone laid to the last wooden beam posited the construction of the hotel was my father's dream project. After it was built, he knew every staff member that he recruited; from the maali (gardener) all the way up to the Senior Commercial Manager. He trained everyone: the Accounts Manager, the Head Chef, the Chief Security Officer, and was responsible for the smooth functioning of the hotel.

We lived in perfect harmony from the early 1940s through the Second World War, and into 1947, up to the days leading to the partition. But before our very eyes, Shimla, slowly but surely, turned into an ongoing battlefield.

I was five years old and spent my days in idyllic childhood play. My sister Lily was eight, and my brother Rusi was fourteen.

My world was enveloped in my huge blue toy cupboard. In it, I could get lost in board games like Snakes & Ladders, and Ludo. I also had a carrom-board, a chess set, a jar of multicoloured and shiny glass marbles, a plastic cricket bat, a tennis ball, and a tiny pair of boxing gloves. I knew nothing of what was happening to my half-asleep, half-awake town. This beautiful, very icy and wintery, frosty, and snowy, Shimla. This town that looked like a huge, white canvas oil painting.

Being on the border of what was to be partitioned as ‘India and Pakistan', Shimla became a war disaster zone. The inherent religious and cultural differences between the Hindus and the Muslims broke out into a hostile, maddening, unholy, Godless all-out war. With the imminent Hindu-Muslim dislodgement and the expulsions of the population due to the partition looming ahead, a trail of blazing fires lit up the skies. Shimla was burning, like Rome in the days of Emperor Nero.

The rioters, looters, marauders, and plunderers left behind a trail of burning buildings, burned down hotels, over-turned cars, flaming buses, scorched carcasses, and corpses, turning into charcoal, in humongous flames and wildfires.

Brutality and cruelty were on a rampage and crimson-red blood flowed in my Shimla. The mob had turned slayers and butchers, arsonists and pyromaniacs. Men armed with swords, knives, and flaming torches were running amok. There was rage and fury, everywhere. Bodies were hacked, tossed, strewn, and scattered everywhere. There was slaughter, annihilation, and massacre, wherever you looked.

Muslims killing Hindus!

Hindus killing Muslims!!

Men killed men.

Men killed women.

Men killed children.

In sheer madness and frenzy.

The most common outbursts and outcry heard were:

Kitney Hindu maaray, saalay? (How many bloody Hindus did you kill?)

Saaray Musalman ko kaat dalo (Chop and kill all the Muslims!!)

No five-year-old should witness the carnage I saw.

Heads chopped off.

Bodies cut in half.

Our lovely home in Grand Hotel perished when the hotel was completely burned down to the ground. The flames devoured all our family belongings: my mom's jewellery, cash, bank accounts, various ownership documents, and all our valuables.

We fled.

My father strapped his 12-bore rifle, made in England, over his shoulder, and carried me and my sister in his arms. My mother, in a night gown, grasped my brother's hand and tried to keep up with my father. Where were we going? I did not know. To my five-year-old mind, the burning of my blue toy cupboard was more devastating than the headless bodies and the screaming mob.

We were accosted, halted, and challenged by the mob with flaming torches and other weapons in hand, to find out if we were Hindus or Muslims.

Parsis, my father shouted above the din, as if we were aliens from another planet.

They had never heard of Parsis. Hindu-Parsi or Muslim-Parsi? they shouted, in their ignorance.

My dad changed his answer after quickly identifying the religion of his accosters, won them over using every trickery and ploy he knew, to convince and satisfy the opposing gangs.

We took refuge for a few days with the family of a very close Sikh friend of my father, living in the basement shelter hideaway. Our two families subsisted on a bag of rice, atta (flour) for chapatis, ghee, and goat milk from their pet goats.

When all the elders thought it was safe, we made our way to the railway station and were soon on a train to Bombay. Like us, refugees from the violence were packed into every nook & corner of the train, including hanging outside, on the roof of the compartments. I had never seen such crowds in Shimla. Where did they all come from? Had they all lived in Shimla?

We were not completely safe because, the killing and dousing victims with gasoline and setting them on fire continued on the train, until we were far, far away, and closer to Bombay. My mother and father tried to shield us from these horrific acts, but we were too young and our curiosity got the better of us.

A few panic-filled days and nights later, our bedraggled family of five castaways and hobos, looking down-and-out, homeless and vagrant, reached Bombay Central Station.

I do not know how my father had managed to contact them, but my mother's two favourite brothers, Vicoo and Nusli maama, and my dad's brother, Naval kaka, were at the station to welcome us.

My mom broke down into loud sobs in the arms of her brothers, and they held her in a tight embrace as if they would never let her go. My mom's pent-up anxiety, suppressed, stored, and stockpiled with fear and pain over the weeks, was released on the railway platform.

Later, she said they were tears of joy and newfound happiness.

Witnessing a few hundred brutal killings, mass destruction, loss of property and valuables, vicious violence and catastrophic disaster did not break my mom and dad's spirit. To survive this hell, this living nightmare and horror, my dad needed a heart of steel, a mind, with the sharpness of a Samurai sword, and muscles of bronze.

All of which, he showed us in his actions to save us.

My mom needed to match that. She had held on for the past few weeks to remain in tune with my father, to show him and us, that she too was made of strong metal.

For all of us, it was like being born again.

The biggest horror movie of my young life had come to an end with a very happy ending.

On my part, I missed my whole world in the big, blue cupboard.

On some nights, I had nightmares of a burning blue cupboard, and my toys helping each other to escape from the orange flames of destruction.

2

Back to Bombay at Grandma Motamai's Cottage

We arrived in Bombay, homeless and penniless. With middle-age looming on the horizon, my parents found that they had lost everything they had, everything they owned. All gone in a jiffy in the blazing inferno that was once the snow-white town of Shimla.

At the age of 38 my father had to build a life from scratch for himself, his wife, and his three children. In the midst of all the turmoil in the country, he had to get a new job or set up a new business to start his life all over again. But he had no time to brood and worry about the future. His biggest asset was the love and the warm welcome extended with open arms by both his and my mother's side of the family. They were settled in Vakola, Santacruz East, and also Dadar.

We were urged to settle down in my grandmother's six-bedroom joint family home in Vakola, Santacruz East. The other side of the family, not to be outdone, our eldest uncle and aunt, Vicajee mama and Goola maami invited us to live with them in Parsi Colony, Dadar. So many choices when people in other parts of the country were still trying to decipher the meaning of home and where they belonged.

After much discussion, my parents decided to stay in the beautiful countryside home, Motamai Cottage in Vakola.

The cottage was surrounded by more than two acres of green land - green grass and canopies of greener trees. I was fascinated by the coconut trees - tall and arched, my eyes they looked like sinewy serpents reaching to the sky. There were drumstick trees with twelve to twenty-four inches of hanging green drumsticks. We also had many imli (tamarind), sitaphal (custard apple) and chikoo (sapodilla) trees.

But, the prized possession was a giant Alfonso mango tree. The mangoes were not allowed to ripen. My aunts plucked the mangoes before their time to make mango pickles. If a few extra ones were left, we would eat them katcha (raw). They were also very khatta (sour) which caused our teeth to tingle and one eye to close when we bit down on them. For years later, I always thought that it was a requirement to shut one eye while eating raw green mangoes.

Among the trees were big, very sharp, and thorny bushes of sweet and sour khatta 'bore' (purple berries). I never thought of the thorns when I crawled through those bushes to pluck berries, but I would spend painstaking hours pulling out the many razor-sharp thorns that would pinch, poke, and get lodged in my arms and legs.

When you plunge into the bushes for berries, do you forget there are thorns? my mother asked, when I went to her whining about thorns and showing her the scratches. She soothed my scratches with calamine lotion.

They should make bushes without thorns, I complained.

My mother walked me to the farm animals to distract my mind from the painful scratches.

Our little farm was a home to a few billy goats with beards, some female goats, a flock of native chickens, and some very beautiful and graceful roosters. We depended on the goats for their milk and the chickens for their protein- rich brown -shelled eggs.

We had a deep, clear water well, with steps made from rocks going around the inner wall. My brother Rusi, my favourite cousins Sohrab and Maneck, and one daring uncle Noshir mama, often dived in and paddled around in the crystalclear water in the summer heat. Where does the water come from? I asked. They told me that the bottom of our well was interlinked with underwater streams and tributaries, connecting to the Mithi river close by.

Motamai Cottage in Vakola was a paradise in every way except one. The toilets. There were no indoor toilets. We had to use one of the two outdoor toilets. At my age, it was scary and very worrisome each time I had to answer nature's call. The toilets were at the end of a long grassy path that had been made walkable by placing broken and uneven tiles. This path was quite tricky to negotiate in the dark. During the rains, the path became slushy and slippery. It seemed like we were walking to the end of the world.

The outdoor tin-roofed toilet cabins were built on a raised platform. There were no flush tanks and no automatic flush mechanisms, and definitely no gleaming white ceramic commodes of today. We had to squat on a flat platform over a large oval hole between our two feet. This was known as the Indian style. The toilets had very large heavy duty plastic barrels placed underneath to collect the daily human waste.

My uncle, Dhunjishaw mama, employed workers known as mehters, or binmen, to clear the daily garbage and dry refuse. They would come every day around noon from behind the toilet cabins to take away the day's refuse and leave an empty barrel in place.

In my anxiety to spend as little time as possible Indian style, I raced through my business and ran out of the cabin every day. But one unfortunate morning, the same haste caused my foot to slip on the platform, and before I knew it, I was in deep doo-doo - five years old and up to my chest in the offerings of my larger-than-life family. Luckily, in spite of all the stench threatening to suffocate me, I was able to open my mouth and scream.

If my elder sister, Lily, was not my darling till then, that day she became my darlingest elder sister. She was next in line, waiting outside the toilet cabin. She rushed inside and used all her eight-year-old strength to pull me out. Lily to the rescue! Both of us were a blubbering mess - me, bawling that if she did not get me out, I would have to wait till the mehters came at noon to remove the barrel, and Lily terrified that she, too, would be sucked into the barrel while trying to pop me out.

Somehow she managed to walk me back to the cottage mori (bathing room). She sprayed and washed me with a long hose pipe as if I was a car that had rolled into a swampy ditch. The water was cold, and I howled and shivered. She bathed me with buckets and buckets and buckets of warm water. With each bucket, she soaped me down with a bright red bar of Lifebuoy soap. By the time she was done, the soap had become a small sliver. She told me to wait in the bathroom and ran into the main house. She returned with my mother's talcum powder box - something that was sparingly used and dusted on lightly only for special occasions. I was not happy until Lily had emptied close to half the box on my little-but-not-so-stinking body, after which I stepped back into the house and entered the living room, exuding the pleasant fragrance of my mother's talcum powder - a far cry from smelling of the collective excrement of the entire family.

My Indian style disappearance became a joke in the family. For days, wherever I went, everyone pinched their nose and ran out of the room. None of my uncles and aunts would let me come within ten feet of them! I got no hugs, no lap time, no fondling, no kisses from anyone except my darlingest Lily. She alone knew the transformation she had achieved. To the others, it was a joke; to a five-year-old, it was sad and hurtful.

I never ventured alone to the toilet cabin for a very long time. I would only go if my sister Lily accompanied me.

Till today, I do not know if Lily pulled me back up through the hole or raced behind the cabin and pulled me out from the barrel. In my terror, I blanked out what happened, and it remains one of the mysteries of my life.

3

A Gullible Boy

In our blissful life at Motamai cottage, two things brought the outside world to us. The radio and the newspaper.

We had not yet entered the world of miniatures. The radio was the size of a small suitcase, except that it did not travel anywhere. It sat in a corner of the living room on a wall-bracket six feet high. This was strange in a household where most people were less than six feet tall.

We listened to the radio for an hour or two in the evenings. This was a group activity, as if the cost of using electricity for the radio was best served if the news and programs reached more ears. Like trying to get maximum return on investment.

First a call would go around the house summoning everyone to the radio. Shouts would come from remote corners of the house: Wait, wait, don't start, or Don't switch it on. I don't want to miss anything. This made me think that there was someone hiding behind the radio who was performing