The forbidden city?

It was sunset time and our small disciplined group had religiously moved on to its second round of Old Monk (OM).

The meeting had been called by Daruwala who had always displayed leadership qualities, even as far back as school when he was the first, as always, to be expelled.

"Before we start on the third round, let me set the agenda,” he announced. "It is the opportune moment for Parsis to stake their claim to statehood. Since every Tom, Reddy and Gurkha is demanding a state of their own, we Parsis must seize this historic moment.”

Mistry, with a mouth full of chivda, asked, "But who will listen to us?” Sodawaterwalla concurred and I dutifully nodded in agreement.

"And where,” continued Mistry, "do we want to carve out our state?”

"First things first. Everyone will listen if we go on a hunger strike. We must take the cue from the recent struggles, especially for Telangana in Andhra Pradesh,” said Daruwala. There was a fanatical gleam in his eyes, partly helped by the OM, the level of which had now dropped considerably in his glass.

"Hunger strike?” Three voices in unison. Equally concerned, agitated.

"You are serious?” inquired Soda-waterwalla with a nervous quaver in the voice.

"Hunger strike first. Then everybody will listen and give us Bombay, our natural heritage,” said Daruwala.

There was silence. Minds were furiously whirring at the implications. Could this be our moment in history? Or could it be…

The thoughts were uncomfortable. In a democratic spirit, matched by a topping up of the other spirit, questions poured out fast and strong.

Asked Sodawaterwalla, "What do we have to miss? Breakfast or lunch or dinner?”

"All!” roared a possessed Daruwala.

"Arré we should avoid dhansakh days if we expect to get the community support,” added Mistry. There were concurring murmurs. Followed by a multitude of suggestions.

"Total fast may not be possible,” said Sodawaterwalla. "Even seasoned politician ‘fasters’ take juice or coconut water or fruit.”

"I propose,” I meekly suggested, "we exclude toast-par-akuri (spicy scrambled eggs on toast) and fried boomlas (Bombay ducks) from the fast.”

Little did I realize that I had struck oil that gushed forth from the others.

"We must permit eedaa-par-eedoo (egg on eggs). And fried pomfrets.”

"It would be self defeating if we do not recognize dhan daar né (and) patio. It is our community’s sagan nu bhonu (auspicious meal).”

"If we want community support and action, we must permit bataasa and khaari biscot with tea. That exemption would be the least our fellow Parsis would expect.”

As suggestions were multiplying fast, Daruwala held up his hand for silence.

"No pain, no gain,” he admonished us all. "First we must demand Union Territory status for all our Parsi baugs. And then back it up with threats to abstain totally from OM, chips and chivda at least. That will show the government we are serious and uncompromising.”

I could hear the whirr of intelligent minds at work. Each looked at the other. Was this to be the ultimate sacrifice that would bring the government to its knees? If the baugs come, can Bombay be far behind?

"I agree totally,” bravely I volunteered, carefully tightening my hold on the glass of OM. "But a small adjustment: perhaps we should restrict this sacrifice to between sunrise and sunset.”

The support was overwhelming. Our struggle, I could see, was about to take off.

Daruwala, leader that he was, accepted this suggestion with grace. "Let us all drink to that.” Glasses were refilled for the sixth time, fresh chivda and chips were emptied from the packets as the geh changed, and at that auspicious time I knew that this brave fight was on its way. Victory would surely be ours with the support of every blue-blooded Parsi. I looked heavenward and asked for blessings of uninterrupted OM.

Farrokh Mehta is a corporate advisor, management trainer and some time writer.