The prodigal returns

I was born a Parsi Zoroastrian, and my parents, staunch, proud followers of the faith, hailed from Pardi and Bombay. Being in the Army Medical Corps, my father was posted as the Commanding Officer of military hospitals in hill stations like Darjeeling and Wellington. We three sisters grew up in that magic world of old sprawling bungalows, pretty gardens with bricks painted red and white bordering the flower beds, open spaces and clean mountain air, beautiful views of sunsets behind the hills. I think our religion was taught in a simple way — just good thoughts, good words and good deeds. We saw the Parsi culture only when we visited our grandparents in Dadar Parsi Colony or during a few trips to Pardi and Udvada.
Religion was never an issue. We accepted all, and readily made friends with the Hindus, Sikhs or Christians in the Army settlements. People did follow their own customs in their own homes, and I am sure the value systems of the families were different too. Yet there was no sense of diversity or strife. We all knew there is a God, and I think it was okay to see Him differently and call him by different names.
Life was simple, quiet and peaceful. I always wanted to be a doctor, like my father, and was fortunate to get admission in medical college. There I met a young boy who said he loved me very much and I thought it would be wise to marry him because if he loved me he would never ill-treat me. As long as he is a good man, I did not imagine there would be anything amiss in this marriage. Of course my parents tried to tell me that I should marry a Parsi, that a mixed marriage would give rise to many complications. But I had on my rose colored spectacles, and could not see why anything should go wrong.
I was the perfect Hindi-movie bahu (daughter-in-law) and wife. I followed all their customs diligently, wore bindis and saris and salwars, and brought up my children as Hindus. In our home we had a prayer room where all the Gods were welcome — Jesus and Sai Baba, Krishna and Guru Gobind Singh, Ma Kali and Lakshmi, Zarathushtra and Ram-Sita. We celebrated Christmas, Holi, Dussehra and Diwali with equal gusto. But there was nobody to celebrate Navroz with.
However, life slowly became difficult. I kept fasts, visited temples and mosques and churches, all to no avail. The decision to hold on to the semblance of a family, versus breaking up the home, was such a difficult one that it took us years to get to a divorce.
Through this difficult period, all my Gods were there beside me — Jesus, they said, loves me no matter what. Sai Baba welcomed me in my dreams and in Shirdi. I bowed to every temple and dargah I passed. But the one to have forsaken me was my own Zarathushtra. When I needed Him the most in my life, I was not allowed to enter an agiary. I did sit for hours with my prayer book, the Khordeh Avesta, chanting the prayers softly, but I could not understand what I was saying. I longed to go into a fire temple and bow my head in the deep silence in front of the bright fire, and it was only then that the enormity of being outcast from my community, struck me. It was then that I cried and remonstrated with myself. I knew in my heart and my soul that Zarathushtra had not turned away from me. Why would he do that? I was a part of his flock, and he would not leave me alone in my hour of need.
I did not go to an agiary for many years after my divorce. When my father died, I accompanied my mother and sisters to the bungli, but when the priests came someone told them I was there and they refused to say the prayers unless I left the room. I left without a word and sat outside watching through a window. I had said my goodbyes to my father, but it was then that I understood why Daddy had told me not to marry outside the community.
I was told that while you are living with a husband of a different faith your being is polluted and your presence disturbs the sanctity and holy vibrations of the agiary or atash behram. I never went to an agiary because I did not want to pollute the atmosphere there. More than 10 years after being divorced, I was told that now it is okay to go inside.
I want readers to know how blessed I felt that first day that I re-entered an agiary after so many years. At last I felt peace within my soul. The smell of sandalwood and incense filled my heart and my lungs and stirred the old feelings when, as a small child, I had entered the place so innocently, trusting, unknowing that not God, but man, would sit in judgment on me one day and prevent me from entering.
I am sure of one thing — my Zarathushtra did not leave me during those years of sorrow and pain. He was beside me through it all. Why then, did man close the doors of His dwelling on me?
When I was getting married, I thought love would last forever. But the winds of non-acceptance and strife took their toll. I want to share my story with other young girls who marry in haste, not comprehending of the difficulties that could crop up later. If someone had told me this story when I was 20, maybe I would have stopped to think. Dr KHURSHID BHALLA
Poona
khurshidbhalla@gmail.com