Current Issue - Observation

When a community publication comes to an end, it feels like more than just the closing of a magazine. It is as if a familiar voice at the table has gone quiet. For me, the voice of Parsiana has been steady, curious and comforting for as long as I can remember.

For a Parsi living in Rawalpindi, Pakistan, whose childhood memories include the clatter of brewery machines and the warm scent of malt and barley, Parsiana has been a window, a mirror, and sometimes a source of introspection. It has chronicled our rituals and humor, triumphs and conflicts; for me, it has served as a reminder that we are never truly alone.

Over the years, the editor and his team have brought out a magazine with the rare ability to be both kind and candid: to celebrate and to question, while ensuring that the community’s stories remain accessible. They transformed a niche publication into a shared public square for Parsis and Zoroastrians around the world. I have always admired the steadiness of that voice.

My own interactions with Parsiana have been quiet and personal, but they matter to me. I have written for its pages several times: sometimes to congratulate, sometimes to remember, and sometimes simply to say hello across seas. A note about the generosity of my uncle, Feroze Bhandara’s contribution to Houston’s first Atash Kadeh remains one of those special moments where family and faith were gently placed within the magazine’s broader embrace. Writing about that experience made me proud not only as a relative but also as a Zoroastrian who believes in giving back.

  and the Bhandara Atash Kadeh in Houston

I also remember the sorrow I felt when reading about the passing of elders, and how Parsiana allowed readers like me to share memories of those who have shaped us. I still think of Keki Cooper and the wonderful time I spent at his home with his family in Bombay. Writing a short tribute in Parsiana was a way to express the gratitude I carry privately. Those pages have served as more than just a bulletin board; they have been an archive of tenderness.

Reading the editorial "Winding down” (Parsiana, July 21-August 6, 2025), which explained why October 21, 2025 will be the magazine’s final issue, brought a complicated sorrow. While there are practical reasons anyone can list — dwindling subscribers, funding difficulties and the scarcity of younger individuals taking up community journalism — what struck me more profoundly was the sense of losing a craft and a habit. The habit of discussing ourselves in public and recording our small civic life for future generations. Parsiana was not merely a publication. It was a teacher.

People sometimes ask me, "Is print that important?” To me, the answer is not merely sentimental. For minorities spread across borders and oceans, a printed magazine arriving through the mail carries a powerful affirmation: you exist, you are counted, and your births, marriages, disputes and celebrations are acknowledged. Parsiana performed that work with an elegance that suited our community’s love of clarity and conversation. The archives it built over six decades serve as a public memory; I rejoice that so much has been digitized for posterity, even as we lament the end of this semimonthly ritual.

On a personal note, running a business in Pakistan as a Parsi has meant walking a path that is both ordinary and extraordinary. People often find it novel to meet a Zarathushti from Rawalpindi. They express particular curiosity and respect when I introduce myself. Parsiana’s pages, and the conversations they hosted, helped transform that curiosity into genuine dialog rather than an oddity. Parsiana wrote about the contributions Parsis have made across the subcontinent, allowing us to hold our heads a little higher.

I have always believed that institutions live on through the people they touch, not merely through their masthead. Yet it is only fair to acknowledge the stewards: the editors, reporters, designers and anonymous postal clerks who made Parsiana possible, issue after issue. To everyone at the magazine, please accept my heartfelt gratitude. You made difficult conversations possible without rancor, recorded joy without trivializing it and held up a mirror that was often honest and occasionally kind. Bravo team Parsiana!

What now? I hope the spirit of Parsiana, with its curiosity, refusal to accept complacency, and delight in small civic acts, finds new channels. Perhaps younger writers will rediscover the joy of community reporting; some archives may be transformed into books or digital exhibits; old contributors and new readers might come together in other ways. But for now, in this farewell note, I can only say thank you for the interviews and essays, the obituaries and felicitations; for correcting errors and for the occasional sharp rebuke that made us better. Thank you for being a companion.

If I may share a final, somewhat selfish wish, it is that the last printed copies — the October issue — serve as both a remembrance of what has been thoughtfully documented over the past 60+ years and an invitation for the younger generation to carry on the legacy in whichever way resonates with them. The Parsi community has always exemplified stewardship: of fires, families, and public spaces. Parsiana has been one of those cherished public spaces. It is now our duty to ensure that the conversations it sparked do not fade away.

I will miss receiving the magazine, but I will keep exploring the archives and discussing the important work you have done. With affection and gratitude I wish that the final issue may stand as a testament, and may the conversations continue in new forms and with new voices.