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It’s unusual, however I water my group roots not on the Mumbai font, however at a tiny stream a subcontinent’s breadth away. Perhaps not so unusual. In spite of everything, Calcutta was the place I used to be born as a Parsi, and ‘navjoted’ as a Zoroastrian. The gongs of the fireplace temple adjoining our 100-year-old home had been my unconscious metronome, and the perfume of sandalwood intertwining with our mundane kitchen aromas the double helix of my DNA.
As necessary, we had been a part of the rainbow coalition of minorities which made Calcutta such a pot of cultural gold. This too wasn’t some tutorial ethnograph, however a lived expertise. The Jewish synagogue and Armenian church had been a chant away. China City segued into our each day moist market, Tiretta Bazaar. Anglo-Indians gave us ball curry and ballroom dancing, our schoolteachers and the mounted police who scattered rival membership supporters who ran amok each time Mohun Bagan or East Bengal misplaced.
Final Tuesday, a spirited session at The Kolkata Literary Meet tucked into this minorities stew, Jael Silliman representing the Jews and Barry O’Brien the Anglo Indians. All or any of this ‘eentaallectual’ metropolis’s three literature festivals facilitate my annual return to my twin dwelling, that of metropolis and group.
Once I left in 1969, Calcutta Parsees numbered 1,200, at the moment this has whittled all the way down to 380, 200 of them seniors. However whereas the bigger Mumbai base is fissioned with schisms, smaller qaums are an exemplary kutumb. Right here, elders are by no means wanting in consideration, a rush to the hospital – or a experience to the common outings organised by the various binding establishments which nonetheless impressively thrive. The Calcutta Parsi Membership, spawner of champs and romances; an Beginner Dramatic Membership which places up only one (free) present each Parsi new 12 months; Scouts and Guides; the motherly Stree Mandal … There’s now even a devoted venue for bigger occasions: Olpadvala Memorial Corridor, bequeathed by the ‘Byron Drinks’ baron who himself died in masked penury.
Sure, this shrinking patch stays probably the most vibrant of ‘Cal’s’ now-faded ethnic quilt. In spirit at the very least, Qaum rahega CroreParsi.
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Alec Good mentioned: “Chest thumping day or ‘The Embattled Hymn of the Republic’?”
Disclaimer
This text is meant to convey a smile to your face. Any connection to occasions and characters in actual life is coincidental.
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