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Adi Shankaracharya, the great eighth century philosopher, maintained that for our Kaliyuga, reciting manthras and prayers (without understanding their meanings) would suffice for the spiritual upliftment of the common man. I think the majority of Parsis would heartily endorse that statement! It saves so much time if we race through the prayers without having to ponder over "the highest truths with illumined minds” (Yasna 30.2). One can wallow in virtue, eat, drink and be merry without having to exercise one’s brain. After all, isn’t it sufficient to lead a good life based on manashni, gavashni and kunashni? One has to admit that it is a very effective shortcut to salvation.
Looking back at my childhood I was rather peeved to find that I had been subjected to a much more vigorous course in Zoroastrianism. Not only did I have to learn my prayers by heart, but I was obliged to learn their meanings too! Though I must say, this did add to the drama when reciting them. I used to love to loudly and forcefully recite the Ahura Mazda Khodae, specially: "Devaan, drujaan, jaaduaan, darvandaan, kikaan karapaan saastaraan gunaahkaaraan, aashmogaan! Daravandaan, dush manaa pariyaan ZAT SHIKASTE BAD.” And with these words I would, with a smart flick of my kusti, send all evil thoughts words and deeds packing to be "totally crushed and annihilated in the regions of the north.”
The symbolism of the sudreh and kusti were explained to me in great detail and I used to love playing the game of stuffing the kisseh-kerfeh (the pocket of good deeds) with as many good deeds as I could muster during the day to impress Dadaji who gazed down at me from the ceiling of my bedroom every night, with sharp, penetrating eyes that would overflow with kindness when I had been "good,”  but would pin me with a stern look when I had been "naughty.”
Every Sunday morning, I accompanied my parents to dear Dastur Nowrooz Minochehr-Homji’s lectures on our religion, at Khareghat Colony. There, I effortlessly imbibed a lot of knowledge about the faith.
Minochehr-Homji was such an interesting teacher and had a fund of stories and examples to illustrate his points. He quoted so extensively from world literature and scholarly works that by the time I grew up I was very comfortable in the realm of ideas. But sometimes, my child’s mind confused quotations for the actual prayers. For years I was convinced that Harriet Beecher Stowe’s sublime hymn, Still, Still with Thee, was a translation of the Hoshbam prayers "when the soul waketh and life’s shadows flee.” And it was only years later that I realized my mistake. And now, whenever I attend the pre-dawn prayers for the departed I invariably find myself reciting: "So shall it be at last, in that bright morning/ When the soul waketh and life’s shadows flee,/ Oh in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,/ Shall rise the glorious thought I am with thee.”
Between my mother Pareen Lalkaka, and my aunt Piloo Jungalwalla, my religious education was quite thorough when it came to understanding the daily prayers and the five Gathas, the Songs of Zarathushtra, enhanced by Dr Irach Taraporewala’s beautiful translations as well as those of my aunt Piloo.
So it was quite a shock for me to learn that some orthodox Parsis considered it to be quite inauspicious to read the Gathas — except during the muktad ceremonies for the departed. I find it ironic that the Ahunavaiti Gatha, recited at the funeral ceremony, and meant more for the living than for the dead, is hardly ever perused by the devout. This is one Gatha that should regularly be read and pondered over deeply. But even if it was read regularly what good would it do to recite it without understanding a single word of it? Yet no one around me was the least bit perturbed. I began to feel I was the odd one out.
This feeling of "being different” would become very strong every time I attended a paidust. I would go to the Towers of Silence armed with Taraporewala’s Religion of Zarathushtra, determined to follow the text when the priests recited the Ahunavaiti Gatha. But often the verses were mumbled at such breakneck speed that I could barely stay abreast of them, and the years spent in reciting each word "slowly and clearly” got in the way of my speed reading so that I invariably had to give up and read at my own slow pace, never being able to complete the prayers.
But perhaps I’m being too hard on the priests, for I was being constantly distracted by gossiping mourners who barely concealed their indifference to the Avestan chants by chatting away behind the ubiquitous cardboard fans that effectively screened their faces. I could not help hearing snippets of conversation about "meeting at a party” and "the food was mediocre” and "look what she’s wearing!” My ears began to skip the words of the prayers as my mind got hooked to the gossip instead. And when the funeral ceremony ended I felt cheated of all elevating thoughts, and found myself wondering if I should buy a white chikankari kurti in anticipation of the next funeral!