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Once in a while a person or persons touch our lives or the community with words or deeds so special that they change us forever. These are people who extend our vision and inspire us to higher levels of community service. I see them as heroes committed to life’s noble values. With today’s creeping cynicism and irreverence, the model of the hero becomes more important than ever. I know of three Parsi heroes of Delhi whom the community has inadvertently forgotten — Faramroze Patel, Phiroze Vania and my father Ruttonshaw Sorabji. 

Whenever a Parsi passed away, these three were the first to go there, console the family and help them out with the preparations, arranging for a priest, transporting the remains to the cemetery, preparing the body in accordance with the religious requirements and helping in the funeral rituals until the casket was lowered into the grave. They would also be amongst the few people who would turn up for the uthamna. Sometimes they sat beside the body throughout the night, reciting prayers in the absence of a priest, or until the funeral on the following day. Sometimes they went without a meal or even a cup of tea. More often than not, they were at risk of exposure to infection and disease.

Many a times, and especially at the height of summer, a message would be received that the body of a tourist or upcountry resident was being brought to Delhi by train or by bus. The trio of good Samaritans would be waiting at the railway station to receive the remains, obtain police clearance, arrange for slabs of ice to preserve the body and transport it to the aramgah at Prithviraj Road. 

I remember when Noshir Bankwalla was murdered while in school in Mussoorie my father rushed there and did not return until two days later. He did this not because the boy’s father, Edul, was his colleague in the North Western Railway and both hailed from Karachi, but because there was no one more experienced in such matters.  

On another occasion, when Bombay’s famous politician Veer Khurshed Nariman suddenly passed away in Delhi immediately after the country’s independence, Ruttonshaw was ready to escort the body to Bombay on a specially chartered Dakota airplane.

While the spirit of volunteering, of sharing and being good neighbors is not uncommon in our community, and though the lending of a helping hand is understood to be the trait of most Parsis, the extraordinary dedication of these three Parsis of Delhi in providing social services for several decades has never been officially recognized. I have heard residents of old praising their volunteering zeal while recalling their unique services to the community from the 1920s to 1950s or even later but have not known of any official recognition being bestowed on them.

These people lived in an age when bicycles, horse drawn tongas and one’s own feet were the main modes of transportation. The nearest telephone was probably a mile or two away and messages were relayed through people who had often to walk to the nearest point of contact. Public transport, apart from the few irregular electric trams and three trolley buses during daytime, was non-existent.

What made these three people get involved in this way? I found the answer late one summer night when I was woken up from sleep and requested to cycle down to the tonga stand or the tonga stable to find a vehicle to go to the railway station while my father got dressed. He was to make arrangements to receive the mortal remains of a Zarathushti from Bombay who had died somewhere in the Punjab. I was 11 or 12 years old at that time. Annoyed, and probably scared about the late night assignment, I asked my father, "Why do you have to go every time?” His reply was, "We are such a small community that all Zarathushtis are like family to us.” 

Nearly 35 years later, I posed a similar question to Phiroze "Uncle” Vania. His reply was: "It is a Zarathushti’s duty.”

Nothing is as potent as the silent influence of a good example.