Preserving pure Parsipanu?

With the acute shortage of priests and the willingness to let lay people become paramobeds or behdin pasbaans, it was perhaps only natural that Parsiana’s favorite traditional columnists Alamai Maramari, Aflatoon Ghanchakkar and Letap Sipla would take up the challenge. They trooped into the office on Khordad Sal and after wishing everyone a happy Prophet’s birthday and partaking of some dar ni pori which the office staff managed to salvage from a gahanbar held a week earlier and squirreled away at the back of an office icebox (the refrigerator conked out years ago), they started their usual harangue: "Parsiana doesn’t pay us enough to make a living." "We haven’t had a vacation in three months." "Our cook wants an increment." "This New Year we couldn’t buy a fine kusti, leave aside a gara," and so on. They did not, however utter their usual ultimatum: "Pay more or we go to the competition!" Instead they said if we didn’t meet their exorbitant demands they would become paramobeds.

"But," we interjected, "no one pays even regular mobeds well, leave aside paramobeds. With your extravagant lifestyle (chicken twice a week, a natak on Jamshedi Navroz and new clothes every Shahenshahi New Year), mobedi is surely not an economically viable option."

"That’s the trouble with you armchair journalists," they chorused. "You don’t know the ground realities. At the West Zone B meet of the Federation of the Parsi Zoroastrian Anjumans of India the representatives said agiaries were offering Rs 80,000 and one lakh rupees per month to priests. As paramobeds we would surely earn at least half that amount. Plus our children’s schooling (disclosure: two of them are not married and the third is childless — editors), medical treatment and lodging will be free. What do we get from Parsiana? Khasras (slippers)! And no appreciation. All your liberal, pseudo Parsi Zoroastrian readers make fun of us, call us fruit cakes and loonies. We don’t get respect. The Bombay Parsi Punchayet (BPP) chairman said everyone wants to become a BPP trustee because they get respect!"

"But, he said that in the context of no one wanting to become priests because they get no respect. How will the situation change for you especially as half priests? And as for Alamai, you’ll have to go to Iran or North America. The locals don’t want women priests. You may be an osti but you’ll never be an osta."

We noticed a gleam in Ala’s eyes so we immediately added, "Sex change operations are very expensive and it is condemned in the Vendidad." ("Women must remain in the kitchen but they can never be chefs," chapter 4.) The trio don’t believe in the Gathas saying it’s all liberal poppycock.

Alamai for once appeared crestfallen. She was on the verge of taking off her sapat and assaulting the editors until we pacified her with the remains of some malido saved from the muktad prayers.

"Don’t worry," we reassured her as she finished the plate full we had saved to distribute to the office staff on Khordad Sal — everyone is allotted 200 grams. "When the situation is desperate enough women will be accepted in place of chasniwallas. Parsi women are used to picking things up after the family has eaten or changed clothes and they can learn sweeping and swabbing from their domestic bais (house help)."

But instead of our comments pacifying Alamai they further infuriated her.

"Are you saying that Parsi women are only suitable for domestic chores? Do you really think we are incapable of reciting prayers or feeding a fire, or ringing bells or managing an agiary? I’m going to report you to the National Mahila Mandal."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand us," we explained. "Sure you can do all those things. Even children can recite prayers and ring bells. It’s just that the community will not accept women in any role other than as homemakers or cooks (not chefs), seamstresses, cleaning ladies, and all. Ours is a patriarchal society. Women adopt their husband’s surnames on marriage, not vice versa. Women have to be kept in their place. Once they are given any responsibility or made mobedyars, they’ll be asking for equal rights! The traditionalist movement would collapse."

Aflatoon and Letap listened attentively. "We mustn’t do anything that may harm the orthodox cause," they counseled Alamai. "What will become of true Parsipanu if women start to assert their rights? They have to be kept in check. In Iran they can’t even go to a football match. Here they play the game! Enough is enough. Making women paramobeds is the thin edge of the wedge."

"All right," Ala agreed. "But as a chasniwalli I must get to keep all the chasni. And no sharing of tips."

Aflatoon and Letap looked perturbed. "But we also want part of the chasni and sharing of the gratuity. In return we’ll let you keep 10% of the money earned from divas."

"Ten percent. That means on Rs 10, I get Rs 2?"

"No. That’s 20%. You get Re 1."

"Okay. Who pays for the purchase of the oil and divas, then? The trustees?"

Knowing the ground realities we noted that trustees of many agiaries were either dead, bedridden, deranged, uninterested or abroad. "You’re mostly on your own," we cautioned.

"And what about worshippers? Will there be enough?"

"Sadly in some agiaries there won’t be any. You see the agiaries have strict rules on who can enter. You have to be properly dressed, you have to wear your sudreh and kusti, your head must be covered, you must untie your shoelaces, wash your hands, recite your kusti prayers; remove your footwear prior to going before the fire. Parjats are not allowed; neither are women in their menses; children of Parsi women married to non-Parsis are a no-no; in some places the out-married Parsi women are barred entry to fire temples; non-Parsi spouses can’t enter; dark skinned Parsis have to show some proof they are pure Parsis; and so on."

"That’s all very good from the religious point of view," the trio noted. "But then how can we make ends meet?"

"Keep in mind," we informed them, "This is a calling, not commerce."