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The Karani brothers, who published many editions of the Khordeh Avesta, also published a dhobi ni chopri (washerman’s book), mostly for the use of Parsi households. Those were the days when laundries were few and mostly unaffordable. The dhobi would pay a weekly or fortnightly visit to most Parsi homes. Like a Japanese tea ceremony, it was an interesting ritual. On the appointed day, the dhobi would walk straight into the bedroom and arrange the washed clothes neatly on the bed. He would then open a small cabinet, cutely called mèla kapraa nu pinjru (dirty clothes cabinet) and empty its contents on the floor. Thereafter, the lady of the house would walk in, armed with Karani’s dhobi ni chopri, and take an inventory of the washed as well as dirty clothes, after which the dhobi would carry away the latter. This prompted many a skit in Adi Marzban revues: "Jao dhobi, kapara nikalo, bai aata hai (Go, dhobi; remove clothes, Madam will soon be with you)!” Altercations with the dhobi were frequent (missing clothes, smelly clothes, soiled clothes, someone else’s clothes, over-starched clothes — the shirt sleeves would poke your armpits — and the dhobi’s two month vacation) in terrible Hindi. The dhobi ni chopri would list amongst other things — sudro (sudreh), mathabanoo (lady’s headscarf worn while praying), and of course, the ubiquitous légho (white pyjamas).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parsis are obsessed with the last mentioned item of apparel. There was a famous comedy called Dadi Lengho wherein the hero changed this garment about nine times in a day. It is not to be confused with the lengha which non-Parsi men and women wear. The Parsi légho ends much above the ankle; is never fitted with elastic but is tied with a cloth naroo (a drawstring of much fascination and double entendre: "Marhoom na léngha nu naroo dhiloo hatoo (the deceased was a womanizer).” Our uncle, a thespian with Adi Marzban’s troupe, introduced his fellow thespian, one Jiju (long deceased), to the Freemason order. During the initiation ceremony, the hapless man’s légha nu naroo would not unravel while putting on the Masonry regalia, despite concerted efforts of our uncle and fellow masons, causing much consternation to the grandmaster conducting the ceremony.
At the end of a tiring day, when you reach home and change into shorts or a so-called sleeping suit, you are not an authentic Parsi. Once in his sanctum, a true Parsi dons only his sudro né légho (of course, with the kusti tied). The feeling of utter liberation which the body feels after discarding the shirt and trousers and undergarments and wearing the muslin sudro with the légho made out of longcloth (we knew of a Parsi dandy who wore a silk légho), is akin to what oppressed peoples feel upon attaining independence from foreign rule. In the celebrated comedies staged by Parsi doctors, the famous radiologist Dr Jimmy Sidhwa, as Parsi Pavarotti, sang a hilarious piece on "mèlo légho (dirty pyjama).”
Only a micro minority now wears a dagli at Parsi weddings, navjotes, paidasts and uthamnas. Even fewer don traditional headgear like the conical pheto or the circular pugree — most families had a tradition of wearing one or the other headgear, but not both types. Of course the trustees of the Parsi Punchayet continue to wear traditional headgear at public jashans to signify that they are the honorable leaders of our community adhering to the great traditions and virtues of honesty, humility, simplicity, selflessness and service. The sheer image brings tears to our eyes.
Even the Chinese silk garo (richly embroidered sari with certain motifs), both the authentic and the artificial, seems to be losing its allure. Almost every Parsi household was once proud to possess at least one traditional garo, as a family heirloom. Most Parsi women are no longer fond of the sari and often appear ill at ease at navjotes, weddings and the Tower of Silence when it is customary to don it. A few decades ago, the coming of age of a Parsi girl was marked with a little ceremony of putting on her first ever sari.
However, the Parsi love affair with the frock continues unabated. Non-Parsis are often puzzled about why elderly Parsi women wear the frock in public as it is considered the prerogative of only young girls. In Parsi colonies and the corridors of the B. D. Petit Parsee General Hospital, frock clad ladies move about in gay abandon. Fifty years ago, eyebrows were raised if a Parsi woman wore the salwar kameez (popularly known as "Punjabi dress”) or draped the sari straight across the left shoulder instead of the usual drop over the right shoulder (appropriately termed "chatta haath no chhèro” as against the "oondha haath no chhèro.” The "chatto” coupled with a bindi stuck on the forehead would instantly classify a woman as more Hindu than Parsi — almost like extra-religious worship. In the pre-Independence era some Parsi women who were Gandhians or theosophists often dressed thus. Of course, affluent women shunned both the sari and the frock and preferred Western dress. In a strange sort of way, even today socioeconomic class is often evident from the attire of a Parsi lady.
In days gone by most men of substance seldom stepped out without wearing a velvet Parsi cap or even a pheto or pugree. The Anglicized ones put on a sola hat. We remember a senior French teacher at the Bharda New High School who would always wear a white daglo with a slightly upturned white hard hat. Generations of schoolboys christened him as Napoleon (from the front) and bumbawalo (fire brigade man) from the back. Now only the Ilm-e-Khshnoomists and assorted traditionalists (kindly appreciate our continually desisting from using any colorful terms) stride in the sunlight with a red (as Pundolites prefer) or even a dark blue velvet cap, preventing their khoreh (divine aura) from dissipating under juddin (non-believers) gaze. However, we must confess that we find it disgusting when Parsis enter an agiary or Doongerwadi with a handkerchief tied around the head. Very unParsi indeed. If you don’t have a cap, borrow one from the agiary counter; you can always shampoo away the dandruff later.
Parsis are no longer proud of our traditional attire though one of our avid horse racing friends recently entered the Royal Enclosure at Ascot wearing a dagli and pheto (to avoid looking silly in the mandatory black or grey top hat with a waistcoat and tie), relying on a rule which permits overseas visitors to wear their "formal national dress.” Our Parsis fancying themselves a "nation” now?