We had expected some pushback when we said we would have to close Parsiana by end October this year. Old age and infirmity were taking their toll and there was a dearth of new entrants. But the rebuff came from the most unexpected quarter: Our loyal, traditionalist columnists, Alamai, Aflatoon and Letap! "What about the payment for our columns? Does that also stop on account of your mismanagement and inability to get editorial staff or keep them in good health?” they audaciously inquired. We explained that when Parsiana ceased publication, so would their columns, and hence all future payments.
"It was thanks to our columns that your liberal, yellow rag lasted all these years,” they proclaimed. "Have you any idea how many lucrative offers to write for others and to star in movies about our lives we forsook to contribute to your communal, semi-monthly periodical?”
But as they were not on our payroll — being only bothersome freelancers — we owed them nothing. However, fear of having our fingers or heads banged by one of Alamai’s black leather sapats while busy proofing/editing articles, persuaded us to make some token acknowledgement of their traditionalist contribution. We contemplated drafting a statement like: "The magazine will miss the wit, repartee and deep insights into the Parsi psyche of our three highly regarded columnists.” When we suggested this, Alamai indicated more than just the magazine would die if we tried to fob them off with honeyed words. It was not an idle threat. We had heard of her removing her mathabanoo and throttling people with the white cotton hairpiece. As soon as her hand ventured to her neck we immediately retreated. "We’ll speak to our accounts department and see if we can pay you some severance amount,” we ventured.
"Some! What do mean some?!!” She ranted. "Specifically how many crores?”
We nearly fell off our chairs. (Many of our staff sit on stools because they are cheaper and easier to escape from whenever creditors enter the office. We even have an emergency exit.) Most of us are not even aware of how many zeros there were in a crore (it’s seven we are told).
Leave aside seven zeroes we struggled to pay even two zero amounts. We referred to our negotiators’ guidebook, Trump: The Art of the Deal, which advocates showing no weakness to your opponents, and hence boldfaced countered, "We can give you Rs 500 (six dollars) and a dal ni pori if you accept the compensation right away.” We wisely took a step back as advised by the book while proffering the proposal.
"One crore or we go legal and, if need be extra constitutional,” countered Alamai, a hardened negotiator and Putin-trained enforcer who had successfully settled numerous neighborhood disputes in her favor with her verbal abuses, appeals to Parsipanu and knuckles hardened by kneading flour for rotlis. Aflatoon wrote the crore number in figures in case we had any doubts about the number of zeroes. To make his presence felt, Letap inquired if in all these years we had "even once ever said thank you to the three of us for all the columns we’ve written for your left, lunatic, tacky journal.” We were aghast. Thank them?!! They should be the ones thanking us for providing a journalistic platform for their bigoted mix of racism, sexism and Parsi supremacy. This in contrast to our unbiased coverage of community developments, monitoring of institutions and airing varying points of view! But in our hearts we knew readers subscribed to Parsiana largely due to the trio’s promise to Make All Parsis Great Again (MAPGA).
In a world where everything is transactional, talking of our journalistic commitment to the community, flaunting our services to humanity and referring to the sage advice and guidance we offered floundering Zoroastrian institutions while upholding democratic values and civil rights, was pointless. So we returned to the basics: "Five thousand rupees (USD 58) and a dish of papri malido is our final offer,” we stated, taking up our pencils pretending we were editing copy and feigning indifference.
"Fifty lakhs (USD 58,437) and three glasses of falooda,” countered Alamai resolutely, while untying her mathabanoo. The talks had entered a critical phase. Falooda had never featured in the negotiations till now. The stakes were being unjustifiably raised. With Navroz two months past where could one procure the greatly prized concoction? In lieu of paying the 50 lakh rupees we could offer IOUs (our favorite form of payment as banks never had the courtesy to honor our cheques despite us repeatedly explaining our chronic, cash flow predicaments to them).
"Your ‘I Owe Yous’ are as worthless as the paper you print your distorted news on,” Aflatoon blurted out, cautiously standing behind Alamai. "We want cash. In Rs 100 notes, not all those Rs 500 and Rs 1,000 demonetized currency you tried to pay us in the past for our columns.” We explained that any mix up was entirely unintentional and through oversight by our accounts department. "You won’t have any sight left except hindsight if you try and shortchange us again,” threatened Alamai.
We now courageously put forward our final offer: "Rs 5,000 in 100 rupee notes plus a plate of dhansak.” The three went into a huddle. It was an offer no Parsi could refuse. The dhansak as a clincher was the suggestion of our marketing department that had wooed many an unsuspecting advertiser’s palate with the aroma of pungent dal and fried onions on brown rice. "Would the offer include kebabs and kachumber?” they inquired. "And second helpings?” We readily agreed to the kebabs and kachumber, said no to seconds but threw in a sweetener: lagan nu custard, one by three. To make the offer even more enticing we promised to pay for any tariffs should they be applicable. They took the bait.
That roz (we think it was Shahrevar) we learned an important lesson: Never underestimate the power of Parsi food. It can serve as a great deal clincher. Parsis didn’t establish gahanbars merely to satiate collective hunger but also to gather and keep the community together.