Navroj is the name of a Parsi festival but it is the best
example of Indian diversity. Nav means new and roj in Urdu means a day.
Literally it means the new day. Reading Bachhi Karkaria this Sunday about the
shell-locked Parsis in terms of endogamy marriages and nit reaching out
approach to other communities is self-defeating to the detriment of this highly
successful minority community of India, I was reminded of a sweet Parsi lady Coomi
Warden who hosted me as a paying guest when I was editing Super film magazine
in Bombay in 1979, The word Parsi is a
derivative of Persia, loosely referred to Iran. Parsis took shelter primarily
in Bombay and some parts of Kerala.
It was my first experience as a paying guest. Though I had
one Parsi class fellow in my government school Kersi Mistry. But we met only in
school. Coomi's household was a ful-blooded exposure which I often revisit in
my memories.
It meant, I was a part of the family. Given a separate
bedroom, met at the breakfast table for a delicious plate of Akuri, and
Dhansak. I was also given a copy of the oldest newspaper of India Jame Jamshed
in Gujarati. Yes Parsis are Gujarat speaking because they had landed in the
western coast of India. Our second reunion used to be at the dinner table. It
was a total family scene. We shared old memories and built new relationship.
Coomi, unfortunately was a widow of an Airforce pilot who
died in an accident but was leading a respectable life with a brave face. She
was an integral part of her extended family who visted her regularly. It
continues to be a close-knit community. There was no television in my life in
those days but she had a rick library of books.
She used to visit her temple called synagogue every Sunday
to pray and meet her friends and relatives. She never asked me to accompany and
I didn't suggest. I realized that they kept their religion close to their
heart. This house on Perry Cross Road in Bandra West. In a lighter vein speaking
next to Rajesh Khanna's sprawling bun glow. I was told that he comes to his
balcony whenever a crowd of his fans gathered outside his house. I never
ventured to be a spectator because I was a self-respecting editor of a film
magazine.
The famous dating joint Band Strand was also round the
corner where every evening young couples would converge and spend house looking
into each other's eyes. It was an up market area where most of the film stars
lived. The Bandra railways station to catch a local train was nearby but one
had to take a cab or walk down in those days. My office was on Nariman point
and I had to leave at 9 every morning to catch a crowded compartment. Even the
first class was overloaded. But on the days, when I had some surplus money, I
would take a cab.
Soon, I got a colleague in Feroza in Coomi's house. Her
distant relative. A vibrant Parsi girl, deeply in love with a fellow Parsi boy.
But she was a good company and a hardworking colleague. My staff thought, that
I had crush on her. But I knew my place and limits and never tried to cross
them. I was learning the role of Bollywood. I got my elder son in the Beach
Candy hospital with the media support of Dr Soonawala, another Parsi.
I feels ad on the
circumstances, I shifted from her house in a huff. I was working with the noted
theatre and serial director Ranjeet Kapoor. He visited me in Coomi house. She
offered tea and Ranjeet kept the cup on her beautiful teak-wood side table. He
should have used a base. She came with a disapproving look and placed the base.
I felt so angry that decided to move out in a couple of days. Coomi's household
was a full-blooded exposure which I often revisit in my memories. later, in my
next visit to Bombay, I paid a courtesy call. But she hadn't forgotten, the way
I had moved out.
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