To:  Our fellow Parsis

Many of you may have read the article on the front page of the Mumbai Mirror dated July 9th 2010 (pasted below) describing the fight against the ultra-orthodox, conservative forces that seek to exclude children of mixed marriages from our community.

Mumbai Mirror Cover Story: http://tinyurl.com/2f93wu7

In the last hundred years, North America has played a dominant role in world political and financial affairs. Yet today it seems to be rethinking its strategy of leadership in the 21^st century.  It’s a continent abundant in natural resources – including the most fertile plains in the world, deserts, the Great Lakes, Rocky Mountains, Mississippi River; the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic oceans; and miles of coastlines. Wildlife, forests and woodlands, rich minerals deposits, reliable sunshine, and strong winds all contribute to our economy. In short, we are blessed with Ahura Mazda’s Creations. However, we have taken these Creations for granted.

By Arzan Sam Wadia

My earliest memories of going to a fire temple are of seeing a bearded man dressed in all white sitting all alone, greeting us when we entered. Feeling awed and scared at the same time, it took a while to understand why this man looked so similar to the ones in photographs on the wall. It took patience and effort on my late grandfather’s part to make me understand that this was “aapra dastoorji.” The man in question was the revered head priest Dasturji Hormazdji of the Batliwala Agiary in Tardeo all those years ago. Since then I have had numerous friends and relatives who are priests and that has led to a deeper understanding of what they stand for and what they mean to our ancient religion.

Note: This is an expanded version of the article that appeared in the Fall 2009 issue of FEZANA. It is available online for a limited time only. 

By Roy Wadia 

I clearly remember the day my brother Riyad, barely a week old, came home from Breach Candy Hospital on a hot and wet September day in Bombay.  The monsoon had lingered late in 1967, and the Arabian Sea waves still washed over the parapet on the Worli Sea Face promenade across from the bungalow that my grandfather the filmmaker Jamshed “JBH” Wadia had built in the 1940s. I had anticipated Riyad’s arrival for many months, from the time he protruded steadily from our mother Nargis’ once razor-thin waist to the tiny creature swaddled in white at the hospital nursery, wailing noiselessly behind the thick glass I stuck my face against in an attempt to fathom how it was that I had a new baby brother.  The miracle of birth made an impact even then on a five-year-old, and I viewed the new arrival at first with awe, and then, upon closer inspection, with a surge of protective love tinged with the realization that I no longer had the roost to myself, that a new chick had hatched, breaking the shell that I had constructed around my hitherto unchallenged dominion.