Editorial Viewpoint
Fact and fiction
The Parsis may be losing visibility owing to their shrinking numbers but the impact of their presence in the world of fiction appears to be undergoing a renaissance. Last year they shot to international prominence when the protagonist of noted novelist Amitav Ghosh’s bestseller River of Smoke was a major Parsi opium dealer, Bahram Modi. Then this year Cyrus Mistry’s novel chronicle of a Corpse bearer was published to critical acclaim. Two Bollywood box office hits, Ferrari ki Sawari and Shirin Farhad ki toh nikal padi were both released this year, one in June and the other in August.
Both revolved around Parsi characters with community members playing prominent roles, especially in the latter movie. The repeat performances of the nostalgic, entertaining skits with Parsi stage actors of yesteryear, Laughter in the House, demonstrated that the community audiences still long for days of old.
Though Ghosh’s novel deals with the opium trade between India and China and the prominent role that Modi played, the author weaves in the cultural and religious aspects of the Parsis and Zoroastrianism. In one chapter, a trader, Charles King who opposes violating the Chinese Emperor’s edict against the import of opium, asks, “Who will you chose Mr Modi? Will you chose the light or the darkness, Ahura Mazda or Ahriman?” Modi ruefully opts for the latter.
Firdaus Gandavia, who reviews fiction for Parsiana, when told the great Parsi novel is still to be written, commented that River of Smoke fits the description.
At his book launch Cyrus Mistry stated his book was “not a Parsi novel,” but one that used the community milieu. When he initially brings in details of priestly rituals, the purpose is to explain to the uninitiated the religious customs of the community. In the latter half of the novel he is able to skillfully weave this material into the story. There are, however, a few glaring errors in the text. Mistry states a bitch is brought to view the corpse during the paidust ceremony. Only dogs are permitted. He refers to the three-day death ceremonies. These are normally referred to as four. But allowing for the fact that Mistry resides largely in Kodaikanal and keeps indifferent health, these errors should not detract from the merits of his work.
Mistry’s best work probably still remains the moving play Doongaji House he wrote near the beginning of his writing career. His play and Gieve Patel’s Savaksa must rank as the most outstanding Parsi dramas of the time. Playwright Adi Marzban would confess that he had been reduced to being a “hack” writer, churning out plays and programs to cater to audiences that flocked to Parsi dramas. But the dramas, often based on racial stereotypes, sexism and bedroom humor that once enthralled audiences, failed to keep pace with the changing audience tastes. Producers found it difficult to fill the seats even on auspicious occasion like the two New Years.
Laughter in the House is a collection of skits, jokes, songs, dances most of which had already been performed at various occasions by Marzban and possibly others on stage in times gone by. The audience loves the shows and instead of one performance originally scheduled three were lined up. For theatergoers it was a welcome opportunity to take a step into an era which apparently was not so complicated and playwrights didn’t have to worry about being socially and politically correct. With a surfeit of able actors, capable directors, willing producers, the only thing Parsi theater lacks today is competent writers — people who can tell a story well. And there are endless tales that need telling.
This was ably demonstrated by writer/producer Vikram Kapadia in his collection of short, one-act monologs, titled Bombay Talkies. The play provided an insight into the rich literary material the city provides for meaningful, humorous and entertaining theater. Amongst the actors, Viraf Patel, a former Grasim Mr India (2007) sympathetically portrayed a young man narrating a childhood incident where he is threatened with a police complaint for stealing mangoes and escapes the ignominy by unwittingly consenting to be sodomized by the would-be accuser.
By caricaturing the community’s foibles and eccentricities, Marzban created the image of the scruffily attired, hen-pecked, skirt chasing, slow thinking Parsi that has persevered amongst the general populace and dominated the portrayal of Parsis in movies and commercials. The women were often portrayed as dominating, sapaat (slipper) wielding mothers or insecure wives fending off competition for their husbands from voluptuous females of easy virtue.
This image pervaded several Bollywood films and television commercials. Thus it was a pleasant change to view Ferrari and Shirin Farhad. Both portrayed the community with all its foibles but with sensitivity, humility and tenderness. In Ferrari the story is general but happens to be set in a Parsi environ. The plot, if you can call it that, revolves around borrowing — without permission — batsman Sachin Tendulkar’s Ferrari (a gift to him in real life for which the millionaire cricketer requested the Bombay Municipal Corporation to waive the octroi charges which they did) for a wedding barat (procession). The money earned was to pay for his son’s cricket training at Lord’s in London.
The father is portrayed as an honest, earnest but not very bright man while the grandfather, a one-time cricketer — superbly portrayed by Boman Irani — is more practical, hard-nosed and bitter. The sympathetic community at Khareghat Colony, where the family resides, rallies around to support the trio in their cricketing aspirations.
Shirin Farhad deals more with the anguish of single, middle aged Parsis who are badgered by their family and friends to marry. Shirin, a professional career woman who works in a Parsi trust (read Bombay Parsi Punchayet) and who dotes on her comatose father, is sympathetically portrayed by Farah Khan (whose mother is a Parsi in real life). Farhad, who is played by the versatile Boman Irani, works in a women’s undergarments shop, a position that many potential spouses find unacceptable.
Bela Bhansali Sehgal directs the film with great sensitivity. The fine line between parody and farce is not crossed. Both films attempted to change the earlier perception of the community. After Percy in 1990 by the late Parvez Merwanjee adapted from a short story by Cyrus Mistry, Shirin Farhad produced two decades later must rank as the second best movie on the Parsis. Pestonji also would come a close second.
Perhaps this new, creative vigor displayed in films, theater and novels is indicative of Parsi creativity coming of age. In the recent past Keki Daruwala wrote his first novel, Salt and Pepper, Patel published a collection of his poems and plays. Sooni Taraporevala directed and Dinaz Stafford produced Little Zizou (2009). This year Adil Jussawalla published a collection of his poetry, much of it penned before but not printed. And all this is largely Bombay based. In other parts of the country and the world similar developments take place. Youtube features the work of talented but lesser known individuals.
If politically the community appears to be regressing (though recent developments in some matters point to a more level-headed, less aggressive stance being taken) a section of the creative arts is certainly leading the way forward.
Both revolved around Parsi characters with community members playing prominent roles, especially in the latter movie. The repeat performances of the nostalgic, entertaining skits with Parsi stage actors of yesteryear, Laughter in the House, demonstrated that the community audiences still long for days of old.
Though Ghosh’s novel deals with the opium trade between India and China and the prominent role that Modi played, the author weaves in the cultural and religious aspects of the Parsis and Zoroastrianism. In one chapter, a trader, Charles King who opposes violating the Chinese Emperor’s edict against the import of opium, asks, “Who will you chose Mr Modi? Will you chose the light or the darkness, Ahura Mazda or Ahriman?” Modi ruefully opts for the latter.
Firdaus Gandavia, who reviews fiction for Parsiana, when told the great Parsi novel is still to be written, commented that River of Smoke fits the description.
At his book launch Cyrus Mistry stated his book was “not a Parsi novel,” but one that used the community milieu. When he initially brings in details of priestly rituals, the purpose is to explain to the uninitiated the religious customs of the community. In the latter half of the novel he is able to skillfully weave this material into the story. There are, however, a few glaring errors in the text. Mistry states a bitch is brought to view the corpse during the paidust ceremony. Only dogs are permitted. He refers to the three-day death ceremonies. These are normally referred to as four. But allowing for the fact that Mistry resides largely in Kodaikanal and keeps indifferent health, these errors should not detract from the merits of his work.
Mistry’s best work probably still remains the moving play Doongaji House he wrote near the beginning of his writing career. His play and Gieve Patel’s Savaksa must rank as the most outstanding Parsi dramas of the time. Playwright Adi Marzban would confess that he had been reduced to being a “hack” writer, churning out plays and programs to cater to audiences that flocked to Parsi dramas. But the dramas, often based on racial stereotypes, sexism and bedroom humor that once enthralled audiences, failed to keep pace with the changing audience tastes. Producers found it difficult to fill the seats even on auspicious occasion like the two New Years.
Laughter in the House is a collection of skits, jokes, songs, dances most of which had already been performed at various occasions by Marzban and possibly others on stage in times gone by. The audience loves the shows and instead of one performance originally scheduled three were lined up. For theatergoers it was a welcome opportunity to take a step into an era which apparently was not so complicated and playwrights didn’t have to worry about being socially and politically correct. With a surfeit of able actors, capable directors, willing producers, the only thing Parsi theater lacks today is competent writers — people who can tell a story well. And there are endless tales that need telling.
This was ably demonstrated by writer/producer Vikram Kapadia in his collection of short, one-act monologs, titled Bombay Talkies. The play provided an insight into the rich literary material the city provides for meaningful, humorous and entertaining theater. Amongst the actors, Viraf Patel, a former Grasim Mr India (2007) sympathetically portrayed a young man narrating a childhood incident where he is threatened with a police complaint for stealing mangoes and escapes the ignominy by unwittingly consenting to be sodomized by the would-be accuser.
By caricaturing the community’s foibles and eccentricities, Marzban created the image of the scruffily attired, hen-pecked, skirt chasing, slow thinking Parsi that has persevered amongst the general populace and dominated the portrayal of Parsis in movies and commercials. The women were often portrayed as dominating, sapaat (slipper) wielding mothers or insecure wives fending off competition for their husbands from voluptuous females of easy virtue.
This image pervaded several Bollywood films and television commercials. Thus it was a pleasant change to view Ferrari and Shirin Farhad. Both portrayed the community with all its foibles but with sensitivity, humility and tenderness. In Ferrari the story is general but happens to be set in a Parsi environ. The plot, if you can call it that, revolves around borrowing — without permission — batsman Sachin Tendulkar’s Ferrari (a gift to him in real life for which the millionaire cricketer requested the Bombay Municipal Corporation to waive the octroi charges which they did) for a wedding barat (procession). The money earned was to pay for his son’s cricket training at Lord’s in London.
The father is portrayed as an honest, earnest but not very bright man while the grandfather, a one-time cricketer — superbly portrayed by Boman Irani — is more practical, hard-nosed and bitter. The sympathetic community at Khareghat Colony, where the family resides, rallies around to support the trio in their cricketing aspirations.
Shirin Farhad deals more with the anguish of single, middle aged Parsis who are badgered by their family and friends to marry. Shirin, a professional career woman who works in a Parsi trust (read Bombay Parsi Punchayet) and who dotes on her comatose father, is sympathetically portrayed by Farah Khan (whose mother is a Parsi in real life). Farhad, who is played by the versatile Boman Irani, works in a women’s undergarments shop, a position that many potential spouses find unacceptable.
Bela Bhansali Sehgal directs the film with great sensitivity. The fine line between parody and farce is not crossed. Both films attempted to change the earlier perception of the community. After Percy in 1990 by the late Parvez Merwanjee adapted from a short story by Cyrus Mistry, Shirin Farhad produced two decades later must rank as the second best movie on the Parsis. Pestonji also would come a close second.
Perhaps this new, creative vigor displayed in films, theater and novels is indicative of Parsi creativity coming of age. In the recent past Keki Daruwala wrote his first novel, Salt and Pepper, Patel published a collection of his poems and plays. Sooni Taraporevala directed and Dinaz Stafford produced Little Zizou (2009). This year Adil Jussawalla published a collection of his poetry, much of it penned before but not printed. And all this is largely Bombay based. In other parts of the country and the world similar developments take place. Youtube features the work of talented but lesser known individuals.
If politically the community appears to be regressing (though recent developments in some matters point to a more level-headed, less aggressive stance being taken) a section of the creative arts is certainly leading the way forward.
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