Wednesday, December 09, 2015

GALL IN THE FAMILY

We fight our relatives with vigor and venom

By Berjis Desai

If we may be pardoned an unscientific generalization, Parsis fight with their relatives — spouses and siblings, parents and progeny, aunts, uncles and cousins — more than members of other communities. While money and marriage are the major reasons, allergy, eccentricity and simple dislike also lead to courts and police stations. The orphan Mako, who lost both his parents when the state transport bus to Valsad overturned, was brought up by his spinster maasi (maternal aunt) who doted on her rather healthy ward. Maasi was secretly overjoyed at his resolve never to contemplate matrimony until she discovered him with the maid in their tiny bathroom. His decent wages, as a booking clerk with Air India those days, bankrolled maasi’s house and put him in a commanding position. Mako did not permit maasi to terminate the domestic’s services thereby threatening maasi’s dominance.

Great affection was soon replaced by great hostility as aunt and nephew declared war. The dining table was agreed to be divided into two equal parts demarcated by a rope. Maasi would send Mako’s doodh ni tapeli (utensil holding milk) flying off the table if it dared to trespass upon her section. In retaliation, the nephew would lock her in the bathroom, the original battle ground, and leave the house. They routinely filed criminal complaints against each other, and one Friday night the harassed sub inspector locked both up for two nights until Mako, who had a phobia about lizards, fainted in the lock-up.

In the very early days of our impoverished legal practice we foolishly agreed to mediate between two middle-aged sisters staying together in Cusrow Baug, both spinsters of course, and both working for the same bank. Their exotically wild allegations and counter allegations would have made Harold Robbins blush, and even 35 years later, publication of the charges would be deemed obscene. Neither would let us recuse from the mediation and taught us the virtue of infinite patience. Years later, one of them sent us half-a-dozen Lookmanji’s malai na khaja (a fresh cream filled philo sweetmeat), with a note saying that our services as the mediator were no longer required as her sister had died the previous evening!

Like Westerners, Parsis believe that divorce at any age is acceptable. After decades of unpeaceful coexistence, Parsis sue their spouses for divorce before the matrimonial division of the Bombay High Court aided by the so-called delegates of the “jury system.” Most of these geriatric delegates cut a sorry picture before an audience of regulars who come armed with a bhona no dabbo (tiffin box) to be devoured in the recess after enjoying the salacious details of matrimonial lives made public. The Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act does not recognize irretrievable breakdown as a ground for divorce. Many cussedly do not agree to divorce by mutual consent to prevent the spouse from remarrying, which results in contested cases lasting for years. Those who have been married long, take longer to divorce. Often the non-Parsi judge hides his exasperation with the litigants, exacerbated by inane comments from the delegates, behind a polite countenance, out of deference to the collective goodwill for our eccentric community.

Shapurji, a gentleman at large, who spent his life between the courts and Ripon Club, refused to settle a dispute with his cousins regarding some old furniture worth Rs 17,000, and thought it very unsporting of his cousins who refused to appear in court, thereby denying Shapurji the pleasure of a contest. He gladly paid his solicitor’s bill for Rs 70,000. We recall his quaint little solicitor, in his late 1980s, taking a goodly 30 minutes to finish the arduous journey from his easy chair at the Ripon to the washroom, and ambling back.

We were also privy to an acrimonious dispute between three Parsi Irani brothers in the bakery business. Every morning, they baked fresh bread and also fresh disputes, mostly banal. The eldest, who suffered from Parkinson’s disease, insisted that we reduce our fees and that he would soon “please” us. Our doorbell rang at 5.30 in the morning, and there was our client with a huge walnut cake, for our gustatory pleasure. His middle brother, who had an uncanny resemblance to the hero of Taras Bulba, would apply ginger paste on his sweating bald pate to keep it cool and saunter into the High Court, setting a hundred noses twitching. The youngest brother complained to us that our client’s wife was so jealous of his wife that when the latter had her hysterectomy performed by a noted obstetrician, the former too went to the good doctor with a request that he do her hysterectomy.
In the Parsi DNA, there is an as yet unidentified litigation gene which is transmitted from one generation to the next. For these families, filing a suit is as common as having breakfast. Consent terms are for cowards; settlements are for sissies. Parsi ladies and gentlemen of leisure litigate for sheer pleasure. In their unending quest for justice they care not if their opponents are of their own blood. Mako died prematurely before his maasi who honored her errant nephew’s memory by refusing to untie the rope which divided their dining table.

Berjis M. Desai, managing partner of J. Sagar Associates, advocates and solicitors, is a writer and community activist.

Monday, September 07, 2015

LEMON AND CHILLI ARE NOT THAT SILLY

Tale of the Superstitious Parsis


By Berjis Desai

Until the late 1980s, when there were no mobile phones or email, and crank calls were untraceable, warring Parsis in baugs would arrange to send the Doongerwadi hearse first thing in the morning on some saaro saparmo divas (auspicious day) to their enemy’s home. Just as Behramji would be savoring sev and dahi, the khandhias (pallbearers) would ring the doorbell and crudely ask: where is the body? A classic case of sagan ma vaghan (bad omen on an auspicious day) would convince Behramji’s family that the coming year would be an annus horribilis (not to be confused with a bad attack of piles).

Apart from the path-crossing black cat, walking under a ladder, spilling salt and other international superstitions, Parsis have their own unique collection. Seeing a hearse at crack of dawn on Parsi New Year day, a dog suddenly wailing or moaning without cause, a crow depositing a dead rat on the window sill and meeting a punchayet trustee in the morning are the milder superstitions. The hard core ones are a mixture of Iranian and Indian beliefs. That pregnant women must sleep out a lunar eclipse is extensively followed. In the villages of Gujarat, it is widely believed that at such a time a pregnant woman should not even open her eyes: If she were to spot an owl, the child would be born with owl-like features. Some anecdotal evidence witnessed by this columnist: The rooster is much respected as the angel of dawn and almost never knowingly eaten. In the backyard of Gujarat Parsi homes, poultry would be reared for eggs and for sali ma murghi but the rooster would be spared and die either of excessive exertions with his fast diminishing harem or being heartbroken at seeing his mate end up on a plate. To complete the bird superstitions, Parsis reacted with horror to a vulture sitting on the roof of a house. It was taken as a sign of an earthly sojourn about to end. Considering that Parsis managed to outlive the vultures, this superstition has proved to be baseless.

Even in Persia, they believed in the evil eye. Shah Faridoon, a wise king, was a great white magician who conquered the evil Zohak and whose nirang prayer is even today faithfully recited by community members to ward off black magic. This nirang lists more than a hundred different types of nazars or chashma (evil eye) to be purged. The healer holds the thumb of the right hand of the victim and recites this nirang with the oft repeated intonation of the mantra, “Fé naaméyazad, farmaané yazad, banamé nik Faridoon é dāāv gayé,” which has very potent vibrations. Some Parsis wear an amulet containing a miniature version of the nirang.

Fixing a horse shoe above the entrance door (more often than not, the shoe was from cattle, and not a horse) to prevent malevolent influences from entering within, tying lemon and chillies and avoiding stepping on those lying on the ground, purging hepatitis (only of the ‘A’ variety) and sunstroke by performing certain rituals ultimately do have their origin in some superstition or the other. The rational ones quip that superstition brings bad luck, while the believers retort that superstition is nature’s way of preparing one for bad news. The glass shade of a divo (oil lamp) or a mirror cracking are considered terrible omens (as Tennyson put it: “The mirror crack’d from side to side, ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott”).

Notwithstanding the Parsi love for food, dhansak is never to be prepared on a birthday; since post the dawn uthamna ceremony for the deceased, the temporarily vegetarian relatives would eat mutton dhansak, cutely called the charam nu botu (charam being the fourth day after death and botu meaning a succulent piece of meat). However, one may gladly consume mora dar chawal on a happy occasion. Fortunately, there are no superstitions attached to drinking though one may certainly consider it a bad omen if that carefully preserved Merlot turns out to be vinegarish.

Devout Parsis do believe that day and night are divided into sub-periods of 90 minutes each (beneficial, inimical, excellent, auspicious, chaotic, bad, disease) prominently printed for the month in every good Parsi calendar (like those produced by the almost defunct Karani Brothers or Union Press). Rolled up into a cylinder, the calendars were handy to swat mosquitoes before flattening them under a heavy mattress in time for Parsi New Year. These sub-periods or chogadiyas were faithfully consulted and journeys and events planned accordingly. If one was not careful about what one said during a particular chogadiyu, the consequences could be horrendous if some malevolent entity was listening in then. Similarly, it was taboo to wallow in bed at dusk. Anyone uttering messages of gloom and doom was sarcastically dubbed “Sagan no ganthiyo” (virtually impossible to translate) and to be avoided.

The most sinister superstition was that, other than the khandhias, no one must come out alive from the dakhma. Decades ago, when medical standards were poor, an old lady consigned to the Navsari dakhma showed signs of life and was promptly beaten to death in the belief that once the geh saran ceremony had been performed, one simply cannot come alive again. This is not a figment of our imagination, though obviously we cannot adduce any evidence.

Finally, it is not good to die during the five Gatha days preceding the new year, since one will not then have a masiso, bumsie or chhumsie (after death prayear for the first month, two months and six months). Something like being born on February 29. So be careful during the Gathas.

Berjis M. Desai, managing partner of J. Sagar Associates, advocates and solicitors, is a writer and community activist.

This piece was published in Parsiana edition dated August 21, 2015


PUNCHAYET TALES

BPP Trustees have always been interesting human material


By Berjis Desai

They say that Muncherjee Khareghat was the best ever trustee of the Bombay Parsi Panchayet (BPP). Few will dispute his impeccable record of service. We know exactly the thought passing in your mind. No, we are not in a position to name the worst ever. Like Lord Byron and the Queen, not that we won’t, but we can’t. So many vie for this position that it would be unfair to disappoint. Almost everyone has a tale to tell about their favorite candidate. Even Solomon would be hard pressed to decide. We will, however, narrate a few of these tales without naming those who are living [considering the countless ‘mari jai muo’ (die, wretch) uttered by the beneficiaries, they must be truly blessed to be insulated from these curses], for the dead cannot be defamed.

When this columnist was 14, he impulsively shot off a letter to the Kaiser-e-Hind about how the youth ought to replace the blue blooded geriatric trustees clinging to the rusty throne of power (in Gujarati, the letter sounded even more melodramatic). That very evening, BPP trustee Erach Nadirshah and his wife arrived at our tiny flat unannounced. Father gave us an irritated look not about our penning the letter but because he had to endure their presence on a Sunday evening. Even on that sultry May evening, Nadirshah was dressed immaculately in a three piece suit. His wife, after spurning the offer to have tea, imperiously announced how disturbed her Erach had been since morning. Whereupon Nadirshah fished out the newspaper cutting of the letter and held it up like a rat he had caught for the municipality (he retired as the chief hydraulic engineer from the BMC and that is another story but of no direct relevance) and asked our father whether his son had indeed penned the offending letter. We smilingly nodded, which incensed the trusteesaheb no end. He launched into a diatribe about the lack of respect for our akabars and how our father ought to have prevented the publication of the letter. Our father simply said that he had no control over Kaiser-e-Hind or his son (he was then editor of The Bombay Samachar). After the couple departed, we innocently asked why out of the seven trustees only one had protested. Our father said something which is unprintable.

The trustee was equally incensed with his brother-in-law, Minoo Nariman, who wrote several Parsi comedies including a hilarious one about his old aunt who met Hitler and introduced kera pur eedu (eggs on bananas) to the dictator and how that spurred him to gobble up Poland. Nariman invited Nadirsha to be the chief guest at a Parsi New Year play which he had written. Nadirsha discovered to his utter horror that the play titled Houdaas Choudaas (corrupt) was a satire on the BPP. He and his wife had to endure the catcalls of the audience. A few years later, the BPP honored the then about to be deposed Shah of Iran at the Taj, when the Shah told Eruch that he was a ‘Shah’ too. The Nadirshahs were delirious with joy, as if the purpose of their incarnation had been achieved.

The trustee stayed in the same building as B. K. Boman Behram (BKB), his co-trustee. BKB was a cool cat and perhaps the most controversial trustee of his times. If the Nadirshas had pretensions of being aristocratic, BKB was a people’s man, polite, diplomatic and suave. As an independent municipal corporator, he managed to get himself elected as mayor of Bombay with the help of 40 Shiv Sena corporators. Somehow, after this election, his popularity in the community dramatically dipped. Allegations flew fast and furious, with that doyen of Parsi solicitors of the yesteryears, Rustom Gagrat, calling him all sorts of names in the Press. BKB wrote in the Evening News that he was not bothered by the rantings of “some Tamarind Lane solicitor;” to which Gagrat retaliated by calling his bête noir a Meadows Street lawyer. Rarely though did BKB’s veneer come off. He was a liberal at heart and truly secular, though, like many today, he projected himself as orthodox, particularly after he allied himself with Dr Nelie Noble in the BPP boardroom. He was extremely popular with the Kannadiga community and chose to unwind in their religious festivals by donning traditional attire, dancing and playing the violin. Apart from those merry jousts, he was keen to adopt an orphan boy called Chinappa. BKB never married.

Murmurs about all not being kosher with housing allotments started when BKB was at the helm. In the late seventies, under the editorship of Jehan Daruwalla, the Mumbai Samachar ran a long campaign against BKB’s acts of omission and commission in the BPP, and just stopped short of alleging lack of probity. This was the catalyst for the CER (Committee for Electoral Rights) movement when the very thin cucumber sandwich eating elite took to the streets and won all but one seat in the electoral college. BKB and Noble naturally did not recontest and Jamsheed Kanga of the CER was elected unopposed. BKB, slightly bitter, faded away from municipal and Parsi politics.

Noble, a spinster, was known for her sternness even while a student at the Grant Medical College. Her integrity was never in doubt even during those BKB-Nadirsha years. A diehard fanatic in religious matters, she believed in Minocher Pundole, a self-proclaimed Ilm-e-Khshnoomist scholar, and his many miracles including conjuring up the exact number of mutton cutlets from the refrigerator of an Udvada hotel for his hungry disciples, even though he preached vegetarianism. To make sense of the last sentence, you require akuri with masala logic, which Noble amply possessed. She was instrumental in the creation of an additional agiary at Udvada, causing consternation to the non-Pundolite traditionalists who detested her. At BPP elections (those days, elections were a very tame affair), she managed to capture some registers in the then electoral college with sponsored voters and a mild display of some muscle by one of her brothers until 1980 when Dinshaw Mehta made her realize what a rank amateur she was.

Just imagine Nadirsha, Noble and BKB in the present BPP boardroom. Noble would have wilted like a daisy upon learning that MC does not mean master of ceremonies. Eruch would have fainted in his three piece suit upon seeing chairs being flung. Perhaps even BKB, a veteran of many a fight in the legislatures and the courts, would have felt a trifle embarrassed. Hope you got your answer.

Berjis M. Desai, managing partner of J. Sagar Associates, advocates and solicitors, is a writer and community activist.

This piece was published in Parsiana edition dated August 7, 2015



Friday, January 09, 2015

Of Parsis, Faith, Healing and Alternative Medicine

The orthopedic specialist has grimly pronounced that you must lie flat in bed for three weeks, not bend down or lift weights for the rest of your life. The disc has truly slipped. As you lie forlorn, staring at your false ceiling, ruing the postures you can no longer adopt, a Good Samaritan promises a magical, instantaneous cure. Groaning in pain, you stand before a large, mustachioed Parsi gingerly eyeing you. 

In the style of security guards at the airport, he frisks your fragile spine with his farmhand fingers and locates the source of your woes while his two helpers hold you back to keep you from running away should you have a last minute change of mind. The healer taps your back lightly with his foot twice or thrice before nonchalantly delivering a hard kick on the offending vertebra with laser precision. Momentarily, you are unable even to cry and then the man commands you to get up. Hesitatingly, you do and discover that your pain and stiffness have disappeared, instantly. You walk away smiling. The healer charges no money and you go home happily, thinking of the alternative employment the orthopedic doctor will soon have to find.

The legendary founder of this kick school was Manchersha Madhivala, a rough diamond. He cured thousands and never took a penny. Visitors to his simple home in Madhi village, a few miles from Navsari, were not allowed to leave without partaking of a spartan meal of coarse rice, dal and dried Bombay duck. It was believed that he had been given this magic touch by a sadhu (Indian ascetic). Madhivala imparted his method to Jal Amaria, Keki Kotwal of OK Wafers and Eruch Avari of Colaba, all of whom served selflessly and all now deceased. Kayomarz Patel continues the tradition. There were no horror stories of a kick landing wrongly or puncturing a kidney or lung.

Parsis suffering from back and neck problems also visit a Gujarati businessman at his modest residence in one of Bombay’s western suburbs. He does not kick but manipulates vigorously. In the Jain tradition, his sadhana (discipline undertaken in pursuit of a goal) has resulted in a siddhi (a power) from Mataji, a female deity, enabling him to deal with the muscular skeletal system for the last 35 years.

Allopathy provides relief but no cure for common hepatitis or jaundice. This columnist, when 12, suffered a bad attack of jaundice and the doctor was concerned with the rising bilirubin level. An old chasniwalla (fire temple worker) was approached, bargained hard for his fees, concluded the arrangement, took a bowl of water, mumbled a prayer, blew on the water and dipped the patient’s finger in the water which slowly turned yellow. Later that evening, the blood test showed normal bilirubin and the coffee colored urine turned pale yellow. The utter revulsion for food or even its aroma was soon replaced by a gargantuan appetite. The doctor just shrugged his shoulders.

A century ago, in the state of Baroda ruled by Sayajirao Gaekwad III, a granduncle working as an engineer during day would cure scorpion bites after nightfall. The villagers would bring the writhing victim, suffering from excruciating abdominal cramps, to him in a cart. The Parsi would say a short prayer and the victim would gratefully get up and walk away, blessing the healer. Nothing was taken in cash or kind. Having been taught some spell by a roaming dervish, the Parsi had to stand in chest deep water in the river at midnight on one particular day in the year, virtually like a refresher course in toxicology! The Parsi did not pass on his powers to anyone.

Migraine cured by eating a piece of sweetmeat at dawn; sunstroke cured by passing a stainless steel thali (plate) filled with water, stones and a few other things, all over the body; piles cured by consuming a cup of mild black tea blessed by a Khoja gentleman residing in a bungalow at Bandra — these are cures that have been witnessed by this columnist over the years.

For those trusting only in Zoroastrian prayers, the powerful Ardibesht Ameshaspanda Nirang followed by the equally potent nirang of the legendary king of yore, Shah-e-Faridoon, a great white magician and healer, destroyer of all evil, have been found to be miraculous not only in curing ailments but for exorcising evil and mental disorders. The healer holds the right thumb of the patient while sonorously uttering the intonation: “Fénaamé yazad ba farmaané yazad, banaménik Faridoon é daavgayé (Faridoon commands evil to be frozen).”

Not all Parsis take kindly to alternative healers. Decades ago, one Sunday evening, we remember seeing a resident medical officer of a community hospital throwing out a Parsi healer reciting prayers before a young lad afflicted with a brain tumor. The doctor bellowed in a stentorian voice across the lobby that he would summon “the Gamdevi” (police). Strangely, himself an expert on forensic science and toxicology he was reportedly often found sitting in his cabin trying to hypnotize a rooster trying its damnedest to escape the iron grip of the good doctor.

Editors’ note: Nothing contained in this article should be taken as an endorsement, by this columnist or this publication, of any of the alternative methods of cure.

Berjis M. Desai, managing partner of J. Sagar Associates, advocates and solicitors, is a writer and community activist.