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Navroz has always been special, though extravagance was never part of the standard celebration in my family. It has always been about the beauty and simplicity that pervaded the deep corners of our home. Every year was the same, calling for a little celebration in our own style.
On Navroz this year I did not wake up to the sound of my mother talking to friends wishing her a happy new year. I did not wake up to my dad bringing flower garlands to place on the picture frames of Zarathushtra. Instead, I woke up to an emptiness and silence so deep that the distant sounds of cars honking at the nearest traffic signal had to make do for the harmonious notes of a new dawn.
There were no fights at the breakfast table over why my mom decided to make ravo when she knew I always vetoed it (sev, dahi is supreme, always). There were no meaningful glances at the clock by my father to indicate how late we were for our visit to the fire temple, located at least 100 km from where we lived. Our new year started with a day trip to Ahmednagar’s agiary. We would leave in a rush, hands filled with snacks, our domestic helper waving us goodbye after being given clear instructions on how the mutton, to be prepared for lunch, should be cooked to perfection.
We would travel for two hours with my parents’ mobile phones ringing constantly. The number of people sending good wishes and thoughts always amazed me for I was wished by a mere two friends who knew or remembered the occasion — probably the result of my being the only Parsi in school.

 

 

 

 

We would pray and return to the house sharing a comfortable silence in the car until a certain matter came up for discussion. My father would broach the subject by asking, "Aajé saanjhna kaah javuch jamva (Where should we dine tonight”)? Snapping out of drowsiness, my brother and I would straighten our spines and indulge in a verbal fight, never arriving at a similar conclusion.
No decision would be taken until my mother whispered those few words that sounded sweeter than honey: "Taj javuch (Should we go to the Taj)?” Our spines would slouch back into our seats at the thought of fine dining. We would slip into silence once again, listening to waltzes and watching the fields go by. Country singer Kenny Rogers lightened up the mood while jazz legend Ella Fitzgerald saw me weave a perfect story of a future New Year spent with someone special.
However, this year I won’t have to travel for more than 10 minutes on foot to go to the nearest fire temple. I won’t have to worry about being singled out. I finally share a common community background with a few others in college and elsewhere. The essence of talking in a similar language, apart from with those at home, has always made me feel close to people in a different city. This year, I won’t have to feel any less Parsi as I had done earlier.
 Living in a new city teaches one to embrace culture in ways one has always wished to, on one’s own terms. I certainly have. While I may not be able to listen to waltzes or get to greet my favorite priest, I still can plug into some music and walk the beautiful lanes of Colaba before reaching the fire temple. I may not have had a perfect Navroz morning away from home, but I still managed to give it a good start by writing this.
Navroz mubarak to everybody reading this.