Heartiest congratulations on a brilliant tongue-in-cheek editorial "From Pipon to Parsipoly” (Parsiana, August 7-20, 2022), gently infringing Monopoly’s copyright! It should be read by all Parsis everywhere, though all Zoroastrians who are not Parsis may not appreciate the "Parsipanu.” This reminds me of a story my father had narrated.
In 1930 (a year after I was born), my father Sam Nariman, branch manager of the New India Assurance Company in Rangoon, had been deputed by his head office in Bombay to travel to various parts of what was then British East Africa (as well as apartheid South Africa) to open and establish the company’s branch offices. When he landed in Zanzibar (now part of Tanzania) while taking an evening stroll in the city he came across a shopkeeper dressed in a baddian (Parsi shirt-like garment) with the sacred shirt (sudreh) showing, and with a Parsi prayer cap on his head. My father, who was a convivial person, was delighted. He greeted the gentleman and was invited into his shop where they chatted for a while. When my father left and walked further up the same street he was pleased to see yet another Parsi, also a retail merchant. My father greeted him warmly with the traditional "Kèm chhèo sahib (How are you doing, Sir)?” but got no response. The man turned his back and refused to acknowledge the greeting. "Tamé éné tya péhlé kèm gaya (how come you went to the other fellow first?”) was what he wanted to know. And he happened to be the only other Parsi living in Zanzibar! This self observed attitude, hu-panoo, as my father used to call it, persists to this day and exhibits itself in many odd ways wherever there is a sprinkling of Parsis.
Your editorial also reminds me of another anecdote about one P. D. Patel of Rangoon who had written his autobiography. In June last year legal historian Mitra Sharafi from the US sent me a PDF of the book P. D. Patel — my Fifty years in Burma. She wrote, "If you haven’t read this you are in for a treat.” Indeed, it is a treat. I wrote back in July 2021 to say:
"The PDF of P. D. Patel’s autobiography (Uncle PD as we all used to call him) is a sheer delight — although the picture on the frontispiece of the book does not do adequate credit to his bulbous protuberance! To all of us youngsters in pre-war Rangoon he was the ‘red-nosed reindeer!’
"But he was a stickler for good manners and quite fastidious. His wife ‘Tu-tu’ was much older than my mother who addressed her as ‘Auntie Tu-tu’ and was honored once in a while by being invited to their fancy home in Insein (a suburb of Rangoon). I once accompanied her and was told to behave myself; but on that precise occasion I spilt the afternoon tea on the carpet! Thank God Uncle PD wasn’t present. But read on.
"In pre-war Rangoon when I was 10 or 11 my mother and I went up to the hill station of Kalaw along with some cousins and aunts. There was no electricity on the roads. Uncle PD (then in Kalaw) visited us every evening and my mother’s aunt, Peroch Burjorjee, a sprightly spinster, used to cajole him into playing Monopoly. I recall Aunt Peroch quite cruelly telling him one evening, when he could not pass ‘Go’ because he was in ‘Jail’: ‘Now PD you must remain in jail for three turns.’ My mother kicked her under the table because unfortunately Uncle PD had been in Rangoon jail for some tax offence! But the old boy wasn’t at all embarrassed — he took the comment in his stride!
"Patel remained behind in Burma and did not trek out to India during World War II (as my parents and I did) because he had a large number of artefacts at his homes both in Insein and in Kalaw — precious crockery and pictures. He reportedly buried them in his garden so that the Japanese could not get at them! But, to the Japanese, Uncle PD was a suspect; since he had an extremely fair complexion they were certain he was a British spy. And (again according to legend) they once hung him upside down from the branch of a tree out in the sun for an entire day to make him confess! But the old boy was made of sterner stuff.
"And thereby hangs a tale. Pre-war, it was well known that Uncle PD had a weak heart and could not (and would not) climb stairs, but post-war, when my parents went back and I used to visit Rangoon during my college holidays, the same Uncle PD would effortlessly trip up to and down from his office which was located on the second floor of a building without a lift somewhere on Mogul Street! Cured!” FALI S. NARIMAN
New Delhi
falinariman@gmail.com