Prologue

“In the stories he’d read so far Father said that all the Parsi families were poor or middle-class, but that was okay; nor did he mind that the seeds for the stories were picked from the sufferings of their own lives; but there should also have been something positive about Parsis, there was so much to be proud of; the great Tatas and their contribution to the steel industry, or Sir Dinshaw Petit in the textile industry who made Bombay the Manchester of the East, or Dadabhai Naoroji in the freedom movement, where he was the first to use the word swaraj, and the first to be elected to the British Parliament where he carried on his campaign; he should have found some way to bring some of these wonderful facts into his stories, what would people reading these stories think, those who did not know about Parsis – that the whole community was full of cranky, bigoted people; and in reality it was the richest, most advanced and philanthropic community in India, and he did not need to tell his own son that Parsis had a reputation for being generous and family-oriented. And he could have written something also about the historic background, how Parsis came to India from Persia because of Islamic persecution in the seventh century, and were the descendants of Cyrus the Great and the magnificent Persian Empire. He could have made a story of all this, couldn’t he?”

- Rohinton Mistry, “Swimming Lessons and other stories from Firozsha Baag”

Beruj Irani uses a walker to move around his house in Khadki's Juna Bazaar

Us and Them

I tell a friend I’m making a documentary film on poor Parsis. He laughs. “Where will you find them? There aren’t any.” But there are. I have seen them while growing up in Bombay. I have seen them in their shabby houses and their shabby dresses, hiding away shamefully, as if aware that they are the community’s dirty laundry, not meant for public washing.

I have seen them lining up for aid. In hundreds. Like ants teeming out of cracks. I never knew there were so many of them. All surviving on charity. They lived in subsidised housing (so did we, but we had used education and opportunity to move ahead, but they had remained where they were). Parsi charities doled out old clothes and food-grain allowances. They lacked neither food, clothing nor shelter. And yet they were poor.

I have even seen them beg. But only from Parsis. They would stand outside the agiaries, especially on Navroz day, their hands outstretched but not a word from their lips. Standing there pitifully, helplessly.

My attitude towards them would be like most middle-class Parsis. I would turn away, shun them, ignore them. They weren’t the Parsis I was used to. Their children didn’t go to convent schools like we did, but to Parsi schools where they got free schooling, free uniforms and free lunches. They didn’t go to see English films or listen to English songs. And when they married non-Parsis, they didn’t marry white-skinned foreigners but lower-class Hindus and Christians. I used to think of them as “Grant Road Parsis,” where a lot of them used to stay in one-room tenements in dilapidated buildings. Them is the key word. There were Us. And there were Them.

Behroz Irani, the chasniwala at the Patel Agiary at Nana Peth, sits on the 'otla'.

Research

While researching this documentary, I encounter this attitude now and then. “Why do you want to reveal this facet of Parsi life to non-Parsis? Why don’t you focus on something positive instead? Why do you want to paint such a sorry picture of our community?” Like me, they too want to turn away their gaze from them.

But this time, I’m not turning away. I’m confronting my prejudices. And hopefully I will get my community to confront their prejudices too.

Surprisingly, others turn out to be encouraging. “Yes, there are a lot of poor in our community. And their story deserves to be told.”

Armed with a list of Parsis dependent on the Poona Parsi Panchayat for a meagre monthly dole, I begin knocking on doors. I do not know what to tell them. I am facing a dilemma. My reasons for making this film are selfish. I am not an activist fighting for their cause. I am making a film because I have to, and at the most, through it I might come to terms with myself. And yet this film could also help them. I decide to be honest with them. I do not know how they will react. Parsis, even the poor among them, have their pride.

Some did shut their doors to me. Their shame or their pride did not want to be photographed. But most others were matter-of-fact about their poverty and were more forthcoming.

Keki Irani in his house at Rasta Peth, Pune

Dinu Chhoga

Among the first people I meet is Dinu Chhoga. She is in her seventies, ridden with arthritis. She is lying down on the bed and is incapable of getting up herself. A servant has to help her up. Her fingers have all curled up and become completely useless. Her husband Noshir is well into his seventies too and again, not keeping well. The couple have no children. Their savings, nothing much to speak of anyway, have dwindled after retirement. Through charity, they manage to raise Rs.2500 each month, 1500 of which goes to the servant without whom they are helpless. The house is big, but bare for the most part, with a colour TV standing incongruously in one corner. It is probably a gift from a concerned relative so that the home-bound couple can have something to do, but the servant’s family watch it more than they do.

Dinu Chhoga sits and prays in her home on Dastur Meher Road, Pune

Banoo Thanawalla

I call on Banoo Thanawalla next. She is 86 and lives alone, her husband died 5 years ago. He used to be a store-salesman. He was only making Rs.200 a month when she married him in 1967. They had no children and she is dependent on nephews who leave her some money whenever they visit from abroad and other charities. Though arthritic she manages to do all the housework herself. Her house used to be part of a bakery once. Soot covers the peeling walls, and the roof leaks. Her home is cluttered with belongings, but it is mostly old stuff that once used to belong to her mother-in-law. There is no TV, no fridge, and she cooks on a kerosene stove.

The next two families I meet would rather not be photographed. The thought of convincing them that I could shoot them without revealing their identities crosses my mind, but I decide to respect their wishes and leave.

Banoo Thanawalla reads the newspaper in her home on Sachapir Street, Pune

Meheroo Karkaria

Meheroo Karkaria is next on my list. Talookdar Building where she stays was built at the turn of the last century to house needy Parsis. Today the building is in need itself. Most of the tenants have been shifted to a newly constructed complex at Lullanagar. Only the very poor like Meheroo remain. Meheroo is 56, but looks 10 years older. A hernia operation keeps her restricted to the house. She has no income and is dependent on charity. Her husband is dead and so is her daughter. Her son stays elsewhere and works as a TV mechanic. He contributes 50 rupees a week, which goes towards the upkeep of his son whom Meheroo looks after. Her two-room house is cluttered with broken-down appliances, remnants of her son’s work. One TV works though, and with this she passes her time.

Meheroo Karkaria in the kitchen of her home in the dilapidated Talookdar Building on MG Road

Mani Mistry

Mani Mistry is the only person who breaks down while telling me her tale. Hers is a riches-to-rags story. From a comfortable life, she has been reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence. In her sixties and plagued by health problems, she makes do by making things at home and selling them door-to-door. Her husband has been reduced to a shadow of his former self after a paralytic stroke. Her siblings who were supporting her family refused to do so after her son dropped out of school. Her married daughter just about manages to look after her family, and can’t contribute much. Her son earns 3000 a month and they just manage to get by. Their house deceives their hardships. A subsidised new flat in the Parsi housing complex at Lullanagar, a fridge, a phone, a geyser gifted by relatives. But a closer examination reveals badly-torn mattresses, old furniture and clothes stored in bags and suitcases.

Banoo Thanawalla stands on the balcony of her home on Sachapir Street

Beruj Irani

I make my way to Juna Bazaar, Khadki, a regular urban shanty-town. Tiny brick tenements with asbestos or tin roofing. Hardly the place I expected a Parsi to live. But walking down its narrow winding alleys I reached Nazareth Chawl, once a hospital and dispensary and now home to Beruj Irani. Beruj Irani is 77. He moves around on a walker, and is cared for by his Maharashtrian working-class neighbours. His house is big but mostly bare. His children are away, but a TV and fridge stand in for them. Beruj whiles away time playing solitaire. He was born in Nazareth Chawl and will probably die here too.

Beruj Irani sits outside his home in Khadki's Juna Bazar, almost an urban slum

Keki Irani

Rasta Peth is another working-class area where I wouldn’t expect a Parsi to be staying. But Keki Irani stays here in a dingy dilapidated building that used to belong to his mother. His home has just one tiny window for exhaust. The floor is pot-holed, and his house is literally a hole-in-the-wall. Everything in it used to belong to his mother, Keki hasn’t added a single thing except a table fan. He is 64, and gets 4000 a month from renting out space in the building, half of which goes to his brother in Bombay. He spends 6 rupees a day on moong and 3 on methi, which he cooks and eats three times a day, but 18 bucks on a quarter of santra. When he has a little more money he treats himself to chicken at Blue Nile. Keki has been unemployed for the last 20 years. He used to be a driver at Kirloskar Pneumatic, but took up voluntary retirement when his drinking habits came in the way of his work and promptly blew up the 45000 he got on women.

The broken tiling that serves as the floor in Keki Irani's home in Rasta Peth

A few others

I go meet a Parsi who drives a rickshaw for a living. He is hesitant to appear on camera. He says he will talk to his family about it. I meet them a few days later. They decide not to.

I see a small shop selling sandalwood and other Parsi religious items outside the Komra-ni-Agiary in Poona Camp. An elderly man waits patiently inside for customers. He is Eruch Irani, he works there for 2000 a month. He’s been doing small jobs like this all his life and continues to do even though he’s past 60. He has managed to give a comfortable life to his children, and though they are away, they support him with money regularly.

Noshir Chhoga, suffering from Alzheimer's, struggles to make his way to the toilet.

Behroz Irani

At the Patel Agiary in Nana Peth, I meet Behroz Irani. Behroz is employed at the Agiary as a menial. His job is to sweep and swab the premises for which he gets 2500 a month. He earns an additional 2000 a month by providing his services as a pall-bearer for the disposal of the dead, a work in which he says there is a lot of ‘barkat’. 2000 seem like 20,000. He lives in a one-room tenement with his wife and 2 daughters. Behroz is 42. Only an SSC pass, he used to work in a bakery for only 450 a month before he landed the job of pall-bearer, and subsequently menial. He tells me there are others too doing this work. I have to meet them next.

Behroz Irani swabs the floor of the Patel Agiary at Nana Peth

Summing up

I also have to crystallize all these experiences on 10 minutes of video-tape. How to do so is a problem I am currently grappling with.

Hoshang Gazder, the agiary cook, relaxes in his room at the Patel Agiary in Nana Peth