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A little over a hundred years ago, somewhere in central Iran, eight Zoroastrians began the journey of a lifetime. My father Hormazd and seven of his colleagues mounted their donkeys and fled their home country. They were bound for India, a land filled with promise, a land of freedom. The eight trekked across high mountains and walked rugged plains. On reaching Karachi they boarded a train which finally brought them to their destination, the city of Bombay. Stepping into this new world, Papa thought his journey had finally ended. But this was not to be, for the young Irani felt lost in the big city! He belonged to the fields and that was where he wanted to be. Six months later, my father moved 120 kilometers north of Bombay to a town called Dahanu. It was here that he and others of his ilk built their homes, far away from their own.

In those days, Dahanu was in the midst of an economic revolution. People of this once sleepy village were busy cultivating chikoos. Sir Dinshaw Petit and his manager Ardeshir Irani were the first to introduce this new Brazilian plant to the region. Little did they know that their humble act would attract hundreds of Zarathoshti migrants like my father to settle in Dahanu and till its soil.

I was born in Mission Hospital, an institution run by American Missionaries, in early 1929. It was in this hospital that most other Zoroastrians of my era in Dahanu were born. I was the third son of my parents Hormazd and Moti. My mother passed away when I was only one-and-a-half years of age due to malnutrition. Our area had few doctors and death at an early age was common. Those days, our village had neither proper roads nor electricity. Lack of schools forced parents to send their children to be educated elsewhere. Like my elder brothers, I too studied at St Joseph’s School and College, Coonoor. We would return home only during the vacations. 

Holidays were a time when we cousins would flock by the dozens to our uncle’s house, Baug-e-Pehlavi where we would play together, swim and have picnics practically every evening. Rifle shooting was a passion we boys shared. Once dinner was over by 8 p.m., all of us were made to sit and listen to stories from the Shah Nameh. Our elders also shared with us memories of Iran. Finally, tired but fascinated, we would fall asleep by 9 p.m. This was how most of Dahanu’s children spent their youth, ferrying between school and home. We returned home only when we were adults, ready to help our fathers in farming.

Life for a young Irani in Dahanu was not easy. We had to wake up early in the morning and leave for the fields. In those days very few of us owned motorized vehicles and we would commute mostly on horseback or in tongas. After managing our chikoo and rose gardens during the day, we would return home after sundown. Things we did to pass time were different from what people do today. Hunting in the woods, swimming in wells and having family get-togethers in the evenings were our way of life. Meeting up with friends during afternoon work, breaks for a glass of toddy or making alcohol out of chikoos were ways in which we amused ourselves!

Our fathers who had fled Iran only to save Zoroastrianism were determined not to let their children stray away. So in 1940, our town’s Zoroastrians, under the leadership of Hormusjee Kaikashsh­roo, laid the foundation stone of Daha­nu’s fire-temple.

After marriage our wives too helped us with our work. Even today my wife Kiyandokt, despite being in her late 60s, ­assists me in managing our farms. The loss of our infant son Farrokh brought tears to our eyes, but we were happy to see heart-warming changes in the lives of others’ children. Post World War II, Dahanu saw the birth of two schools — one in Gujarati medium and the other, in English. Now children no longer had to leave town for their studies. They could spend their childhood with their parents. Both these schools were started by Zarathoshtis, one of them being my maternal uncle Merwan Khodadad. Besides being a philanthropist, ‘Merwan Mama’ was a pioneer who constructed Dahanu’s Power House in 1952, electrifying the town even before Andheri or Borivali got power. It was he who built dams on our rivers and helped stop express trains at our station. He never entered politics nor did he want any monument or road to be named in his memory after his death in 1984. The Zoroastrians of Dahanu were so respected back                   then that on the day when a Zarathoshti passed away every single shop or place of activity in Dahanu would remain closed.

On account of the hard work that our fathers put in the orchards all we had to do was maintain them. We Iranis grew rich and prosperous and idle, with most of the men wanting only ‘women and wine.’ The few who remained hard-working turned self-centered. The spirit of togetherness had long gone and jealousy took over. This trend continued up to the turn of the century, until disaster struck...

During the late 90s, farm income began to plummet. The cause of this downfall lay in simple economics for the agriculturists never bothered to market their goods, nor  improve the quality of their fruit or experiment with new crops and techniques. This economic slowdown was accelerated by rising wage rates and pollution caused by the Reliance Thermal Power Station. The Zoroastrians never succeeded in uniting and fighting BSES (Bombay Suburban Electric Supply) from bringing the 500 mw coal based power plant to the area in 1994. Today Dahanu gets no power or any jobs from the Power Station. All we do get is haze in winters and a sharp decline in chikoo production coupled with asthma and other respiratory diseases. On the social front, Zoroastrians have lost their once strong position in the region.

Nergish Irani and Katy Rustom were the only two women who fought the power project head on. "They might have won the battle but we will win the war!” exclaims 70-year-old Nergish! Most Zoroastrians though chose not to fight the problem but to find a way around it. Some migrated out of India while others chose to give up farming and opt for other occupations. Those who still practice farming are either rich landlords or those who have some alternate occupation to supplement their income.

On the plus side, the Zarathoshtis in Dahanu have woken up and started working. They have succeeded in improving the quality of their produce and have also established a market place where they can sell their fruits collectively. This fruit market has saved the chikoo era from ending.

Geographically, we have succeeded in turning Dahanu into one of the country’s greenest areas. In spite of environmental deterioration, Dahanu still remains pure and is known as the "lungs of Maharashtra.”

Today I am 78 years old and almost retired. It was my good fortune to have lived through Dahanu’s most important years in Zoroastrian history. Over the years our community flourished in this land and with it has evolved its own unique culture. The earlier form of this culture consisted of people speaking in Dari (a Persian dialect) and following many Iranian customs. However, with the passing away of our fathers, some of these attributes have been lost. In spite of this, the Zoroastrians here are slightly different from mainstream Zarathoshtis. Like in the old days, we still welcome Jamshedi Navroz by firing gunshots into the sky. Our way of speaking Gujarati is also different and so is our attitude. Basically, it is a culture which cannot be expressed, only experienced!

We have a population of around 700 of which about 100 are still under the age of 20. One may feel that ours is a dying community, but I believe things can change. If we look back into our own past, we will discover that it was only a 100 brave Zarathoshtis who first settled in Dahanu and gave rise to this micro-civilization. The obstacles they faced in their times were far more harsh than what we face today. Only if we change the way we see our world, the way in which we perceive globalization, will we be successful in saving our community and our culture from vanishing forever.

(As told to Farzan Mazda)