Community history is a mixture of myth and materiality. Imagination shapes the narration. The story of the Parsis landing in Sanjan and dissolving sugar in a vessel of milk to demonstrate how the migrants would sweeten their new environs, is related ad nauseam. Yet there is no mention of the incident in the Qisse-i-Sanjan which itself is largely — if not totally — a figment of the imagination.
Still the Qisse provides us with a basis to foresee how 500 years from today the Parsis in the West will narrate the story of their arrival in the New World. It could go something like this:
We caught a Boeing 747 leaving Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport (not to be confused with Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus or Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya and the like) somewhere near the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st century. We were desperate to leave because following the slaughter of Sikhs in Delhi in 1984, the 1992-3
riots and bomb blasts in Bombay where police stood by as Muslims were slaughtered and the 2002 massacre of Muslims in Godhra, we felt insecure. Not that we are partial to Muslims but three Parsis died in those riots. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984 and some said this was because she was married to a Parsi.
Then there was talk of the non-Parsi government in Maharashtra taking over our Doongerwadi lands to make shopping malls. While we love to shop we were concerned this might put paid to our aviary project, something very dear to our hearts. Plus we were told there are many vultures in the US and Canada. Also, due to the economic recession, high inflation, scarcity of foreign liquor, etc we found life in India intolerable. Even movie tickets on a Saturday night cost upward of Rs 300 (US $ 5.45).
We wanted to fly first class or at least business so the immigration authorities in New York would be impressed and not lump us with wetbacks, Burmese or East European immigrants. Our fair complexions would distinguish us from Africans, Bangladeshis and Sri Lankans. But all the best seats were booked because some non-Parsi was having a theme wedding at our stopover destination. (Why can’t we have Parsi-only flights?)
Now you’ll ask why didn’t we take a direct flight? Well half the airlines were on strike or had gone bankrupt. And with so many of us being diabetic or suffering from high blood pressure or spinal problems, we felt stretching our legs a bit may be a good idea. Also, the fare worked out cheaper.
While flying over the Caspian Sea or some ocean or the other (we’re not professional navigators to know all the geographic details), we encountered air turbulence. The pilot instructed us all to remain seated. This meant we could not perform our kusti prayers which is the standard practice amongst migrant Parsis encountering inclement weather. So instead we held hands with our co-religionists and sang Chhaiyé Hamé Zarthoshti. Shortly thereafter the turbulence ceased. But instead of appreciating our efforts, the stewardess berated us for singing off-key and frightening the non-Parsi passengers.
At the New York immigration counter we placed a kilogram of sugar on the counter assuming the immigration officer would present us with a bowl of milk indicating the country was full and to return home. Instead she looked at the sugar, assumed it was heroin and ordered our arrest!
We explained that while we once trafficked in opium what we had presented her was sugar.
We told her we would sweeten the multi-cultural diversity of America. She was deliberating whether to admit us or send us back to Sanjan when the Homeland Security department said they had just received word from the Indian government that under no circumstances did they want us back. For once we were grateful to our government for coming to our rescue and sent a thank you message to Sonia (Gandhi)!
Now we were in the Promised Land. Our relatives and friends had come to fetch us but the buses in which we were to depart for Hoboken, New Jersey were not available as their drivers who were all illegal immigrants had been arrested and were waiting at the airport departure terminal for deportation to Algiers. Fortunately we all had strollies and the younger members (those between 50 and 70) helped us reach the subway station.
Anyway when the train was crossing the Hudson River (or some stretch of muddy water) we threw some flowers into the flowing waters as a gesture of our gratitude to the new land. But instead of receiving bouquets for offering thanksgiving, we were arrested for littering, polluting water and opening the emergency exit window of the train (all the other windows were sealed).
We explained to the magistrate that our religion believed in not polluting the environment and when we died we offered our corpses to scavengers. Also we intended to build a dakhma in New Jersey. He released us on grounds of insanity; we thanked him profusely.
Finally we reached our new quarters in the motel run by juddins. To our utter amazement there are no Parsi dharamshalas in the north eastern states of America. Anyway we decided to perform a jashan in the dining room after lunch.
The next thing we knew, alarms went off, sprinklers rained water on us and all our sandalwood and loban became damp. The fire brigade and police arrived.
Once again we were before a magistrate. But he denied us bail saying we were habitual offenders and sent us to Alcatraz in California. But shortly thereafter the facility was closed after we complained about the food, lack of privacy and non-availability of good laundry service (we Parsis being very particular about our personal hygiene as we explained to the prison authorities). As no other facility would accept us, we were set free.
So after undergoing an arduous journey, suffering hardships, humiliation and incarceration we finally celebrated Jamshedi Navroz in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
(The narrator of this tale is a respected and learned behdin Alamai Fekumaster who subsequently became high priestess of Zoroastrians in North America. In the interim 500-year period, issues of Parsiana were sent back and forth from North America to India, accessed on the net, and became the modern day Rivayats and contributed to the writing of this narration.)