Three navjotes and a wedding

December, January and February are expensive months for Parsis. Almost every cousin’s son is getting married, grandchildren being navjoted or friends are celebrating their wedding anniversary. Writing pehramni na parikas (cash gift envelopes) and digesting enormous meals is about the only exercise one gets. So it was for us. In our big, widely scattered but close-knit family there were three navjotes and a wedding.

The navjotes of our three grandchildren, residing in USA, were performed in Nagpur.

Family and friends from far and near converged on Nagpur, the geographic center of India. The city is at its best in early January. There is a pleasant chill in the air, flowers are in bloom and the famous Nagpur oranges are aplenty. It was four days of festivity and family togetherness, culminating in the sacred navjote ceremony where three earnest young children were initiated into the beautiful Zoroastrian religion. Every Zarthoshti heart was filled with silent gratitude for in these young initiates lay the seeds of the future of our religion. They said their prayers loud and clear and wore their sudreh and kusti with pride.

In less than a month the scene shifted to Bombay, for a wedding. Here again, the boy, the girl and many members of her family and friends came from the USA. It is nice to know that like homing pigeons, everyone comes back to their roots for the important events of life. For country-cousins from Nagpur like us, the pre-nuptial party at Joss rocked. The starters — boneless spare ribs, cheese and water-chestnut nuggets and crunchy coriander prawns were never before tasted delicacies, the cocktails mixed to perfection.

On the wedding evening while Bombayites were blasé about "three Godiwalla dinners in one week” we reveled in the chamna no saas (piquant white gravy with pomfrets), gorged on kid gosh (lamb cooked in a gravy made of coconuts and cashewnuts) and wondered how Russian roulette had turned full circle to become Russian cutlets! The perfect end to this gourmet meal was provided by dainty paans (betel leaf parcels). Once, the expected end to every heavy meal, the paan had been dropped from the menu for the past many years, probably because of the high cost of the betel leaf and the filling. I was delighted to find the nawabi paan back in fashion among the nabobs of Bombay.

(Above): Saliago Church; (right) Grand home of Jimmy Guzder; (top): Group of Iranian and Indian Zoroastrians in Goa

Parsis and food talk are inseparable. I plead guilty to the syndrome myself. It comes so naturally to us that I hadn’t been conscious about it till a newly married non-Parsi daughter-in-law in the family remarked: "You guys are talking about the next meal, even before you have finished this one!” Bombay Parsis, I discovered on this trip, have followed the trendy path of "specialization.” Their food talk is machi (fish) and machan (fisherwoman) specific. Whether on the Bandra promenade, the Five Gardens in Dadar or the Club House in Cusrow Baug, when four or more Parsis gather the conversation sooner than later drifts to fish. "What fresh pomfrets the Wadala market had today,” enthused one. "Firm to the touch and a fair price.” "At that price,” snorted another, "they must have been palm sized.” My head was spinning. Were they talking about PCs (personal computers) or pomfrets? "At Rs 750 a piece, I bought kafri chamnas (giant pomfrets),” she continued, pointing from her palm to her elbow to indicate the size. "Forget the machi,” guffawed the men. "What was the machan like?” The merits and demerits of the fish and the fisherwomen are discussed till the group breaks up at 7.45 p.m. I have never known Nagpurians to discuss oranges with the same passion!

From Bombay, six of us cousins made a four day getaway to Goa. With fun, food and feni, Goa was everything it promised to be. Our resort, Ronil’s was very pleasant and laid-back with friendly staff in red hibiscus-print shirts. The mornings began with a good buffet breakfast. The day ended with dinner at candle-lit tables around the pool, a band playing numbers from the 1960s, dancing and animated conversation with new friends. Of course scotch and rum, lobster and rawa-fried pomfrets added their own glow to an already luminescent night.

The mornings were spent on the beach and in seeing the sights. Walking the ramparts of 17th century Fort Aguada, paying homage at the Basilica of Bom Jesus wherein lies the miraculously preserved body of St Francis Xavier, the Se Cathedral and the Saliago Church with its uniquely beautiful architecture. The temples in contrast were neither outstanding in architecture nor spiritually inspiring. Our guide Terence informed us that Goa has 429 villages and each village has a temple and a church. Communal harmony between both religions is repeatedly stressed. The allure of Goa however lies in its beaches of pale golden sand, its friendly locals and the heady mix of German, European, American, Russian and Israeli tourists. Tourists from the Far East were conspicuous by their absence. Is Goa too frivolous for the serious, camera toting Japanese and Koreans? The recent, widely reported spate of crimes against women seem to have made no difference to the numbers who visit.

On two of our four mornings we took conducted tours of Goa. The coach, with a pleasant, well informed, English speaking guide would pick us up from our hotel, stopping at half a dozen other hotels for more pick-ups. On the very first morning our coach stopped at a resort from where we were joined by a group of nine. Two couples were seniors and there were five young adults. Nationality guessing was a favourite pastime amongst us. One of my cousins, a former tourist guide from Bombay, usually got it right. "Looks like they are from Turkey,” I ventured. "I don’t think so,” said the tourist guide cousin. They were handsome, well built and spoke a language we could not identify. But they seemed a fun and friendly lot. We decided to kill the suspense and asked them in s-l-o-w English accompanied by a lot of signs: "Where are you from? Which country?” When comprehension sank in, one of the older men replied: "From Iran.” "That is where we also came from!” I cried excitedly. "(One) thousand years ago,” added my pragmatic husband. But there was no stopping the rest of us now. "We are Parsis! We came from Persia many years ago. We are followers of Zoroaster. Have you heard of Zoroastrians in Iran?” Slowly but surely recognition dawned. "You Zarthushti! We also Zarthushti!” There was hugging and kissing and much joy on both sides at having discovered a shared identity. Conversation was slow and limited because they spoke Dari, and a bare smattering of English and Gujarati. Plus our interactions had to be interspersed with trying to see St Francis’ foot with the missing toe and offers of "Oil massage? Pay only if you like,” on the beaches.

By the end of the first day, the Irani Zarthushtis and the Indian Zarthoshtis had established a warm friendship. Commonality of names was the first link. We had a "Homai” in our group. They had two in theirs, except they had dropped the "i” and were called "Homa.” The patriarch of the Irani group was Kaikhushroo. He spoke no English or Gujarati but he had a warm smile that bespoke the affection he felt for us, his fellow co-religionists. The other senior in the group was Rustam. It was easy to communicate with him. He had come to India before and could make himself understood in English.

When asked if life was good for them in Iran or if they would prefer to live in India, Rustam said, "East is east, west is west but for me home is best. I like to visit India but I like to go back to Iran.” Rustam’s wife Goolcheher generously passed around dry fruits from Iran — pista, badams and mulberries. To carry back home she would buy Goa cashew­nuts at every stop. Goolcheher and Rustam’s last name was Meherbaba. I was intrigued by this and asked if it was a common surname among Irani Zarthushtis. "It is uncommon,” said Rustam. "In fact we are the only Meherbaba family.” Explaining how he came by this unusual name, Rustam said Meherbaba was an Irani (a fact unknown to us). Rustam’s father was deeply influenced by this spiritual man and lived with the Baba in Ahmednagar for some months when he came to India. "In the early days, people were only known by their first names,” elaborated Rustam. "It is only later that a person’s vocation or place of residence got appended for further identity. When asked by the authorities for a last name, my father said what was closest to his heart — ‘Meherbaba.’ And that is how our family is known to this day.”

The older people in the Irani group were from Yazd. A couple of the youngsters were working in Tehran. One of the younger men, a powerful, nice looking guy, spoke good Hindustani. When we expressed our surprise and admiration, he said he had studied in Bombay for some years before returning to Iran and had picked up Hindi from college friends. His last name was "Yekhtai.” "It means, one of a kind,” he said with pride.

In the evening, a boat cruise on the Mandovi River really brought the Iranian group to life. They met up with some more of their compatriots on the boat. Together, the youngsters danced to all the latest Bollywood hits and grooved to Goan music. I am sure they do not get to do this in Iran. At least, not in public. We felt privileged to be Indian, with so much freedom of expression, religion and more.

On the second day of our tour of North Goa, fate put us all on the same tourist coach again. We took up where we had left off, exchanging pleasantries, dry fruits, opinions and experiences, each group feeling enriched by the other.

The young boys in the Irani group were blown over by Indian beedis (tobacco leaf cigarets) and would light up every time the coach stopped.

A boat ride to see the dolphins took us past a grandiose house on the hills, skirting the coast. "It is valued at Rs 80 crore, the shooting of the film Haseena Maan Jayegi took place here and grand New Year parties are held,” informed our guide. "It belongs to a Mr Jimmy Guzder (not to be mistaken for Bombay Parsi Punchayet chairman emeritus Jamshed Guzder) of Bombay.” Our Parsi feathers puffed up in pride.

Discussing the growing trend among Indian Zoroastrians of marrying outside the community, I asked Rustam if that was a concern in Iran. "It is not as common as I hear it is in India,” Rustam replied, "but it is happening. That and divorce. Both unheard of before but happening now. Very unfortunate,” he lamented.

Rustam, however, was unhappy about the "Zoroastrians Only” notice outside the agiaries in India. "It is not right,” he said. "In Iran every atash kadeh is open to everybody. Whatever is noble and good must be shared and spread,” he said with courage born of conviction.

At the end of the second day’s tour we were sad to say goodbye to our new Irani Zarthushti friends. They were to fly back to Bombay the same evening. But our love affair with Goa had only just begun. We stayed on one additional day and decided we must come back every year.

Addendum: On our return to Nagpur, six weeks after the navjotes of our grandchildren, I was on the phone with my daughter in Phoenix. "Is Zain doing his kusti every day?” I asked. "He is not just doing it, he is proud and happy to do it,” she said. "Mom, you will crack up when you hear this! When I went to pick him up from school yesterday, an American classmate of his ran up to me and said: ‘Mrs Sidhwa, the next time you go to India, can I come and have a navjote?’

"Why would you want to do that Alex?” I asked him in surprise!

"Because Zain says it is cool to be a Zoroastrian. He wears a vest that will protect him from all harm. Plus he got a watch, a gold chain and thousands of dollars!”