While a Dwindling Community Struggles to Survive, Filmmaker

Article on Parsis of Delhi While a dwindling community struggles to survive, filmmaker Shernaz Italia documents the little-known lives of the Delhi Parsis who moved to the capital at the turn of the 19th century “Aavoji, aavo, aavo! Welcome to Delhi! Let me show you my beautiful city.” The booming voice of Nowrosji Kapadia could be heard across the length and breadth of the platform. It was Nowrosji’s favourite pastime: a walk to the Old Delhi railway station to greet the Frontier Mail as it chugged into Delhi from Mumbai to Peshawar. With this refrain, an eager Nowrosji would cajole Parsi visitors off the train and take them home for a meal and often persuade some to stay overnight or for a few days. He would use this opportunity to tell them about the advantages of shifting to Delhi. Though his wife Jer Bai would occasionally object to unknown visitors, she was always overruled. This was the beginning of the community of Parsis in Delhi. Nowrosji Kapadia was one of the oldest Parsi residents of Delhi. He was born in Bharuch, a small town in Gujarat. He opted out of his family’s failing cloth business and got a job as an agent with the European firm Ralli Brothers. They sent him to Delhi in 1880. Why did he not want to return to Bharuch, or Bombay, where our community still resides in large numbers? Was it business sense, apt foresight of Delhi’s growing importance, or was he just different? A few other Parsi families moved northwards to Delhi and beyond in the 1870s–80s. My mother’s grandfather, Nusserwanji Mehta, moved here at that time. My uncle, Rusi Sorabji, has amazing memories of the Delhi of his youth. Whatever the reasons for shifting, the Parsis who came to Delhi developed a liking for the city and decided to settle here. Memory is a strange thing. You think it is yours and then you realise it is not; it is actually dependent on other people. Writing about Parsis in the Delhi of old is not easy. There are memories of my grandparents and parents— a collective memory of generations past and people long gone, yet here in spirit. My earliest memory of trains and stations is associated with the same Frontier Mail that Nowrosji accosted years ago. It brought young, scared Parsis from their cocoon in familiar Parsi baugs (residential “Parsis only” colonies) of Bombay and Gujarat to the unfamiliar city of Delhi. My grandparents’ home, which became my parents’ home after they passed on, was an open house for family, friends and travellers passing through. It was full of hustle-bustle, and much food and laughter. I have never known my home—K-45 Connaught Place, or CP, as it is called—to be empty and it has never been locked. At any given time there were at least 10–15 people living with us. Generosity comes naturally to Parsis, as it did to my family—sometimes at a cost to themselves. My maternal grandparents and mother moved into the flat in 1936 while it was still being built. There was no electricity and water was hauled up three flights of stairs by a bhishti (water carrier). I have since seen CP through its many avatars. Built like a central plaza, its Georgian architecture is modelled after the Royal Crescent in Bath, England. Its two concentric circles are lined with broad white colonnades and there’s a garden in the centre. As a young child, when I looked down our road, the domes and minarets of Jama Masjid were visible and even the walled city; since old Delhi is due north, thankfully I can still see the domes and the minarets. From our rooftop, before the hideous high-rises came up, we had a clear view of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. Diagonally opposite us is Odeon Cinema. In 1964 I saw Raj Kapoor arrive at the theatre from our balcony before I went there to watch Sangam—my first movie ever. Childhood Memories: The writer, Shernaz Italia, with her parents outside her childhood home at K-45 Connaught Place. Italia’s maternal grandparents moved here in 1936. Photograph courtesy: Shernaz Italia Across the Outer Circle of CP is Minto Bridge, the last signal before New Delhi railway station. The day a lodger was expected, my grandfather and I would sit on the balcony. The minute we heard the whistle of the Frontier Mail—one long toot as it approached Minto Bridge, two short ones as it crossed the bridge and another long one while it crawled towards the platform—we would rush to the waiting tonga (a h0rse-drawn carriage) and head to the station. All Dressed Up: Parsi women draped in gara saris. These were usually worn for wedding ceremonies and Navjots. Early Days During the early years of the twentieth century, Delhi was still confined within the walls of Shahjahanabad, which included Jama Masjid, Chandni Chowk and Kashmere Gate. Most Parsis worked at offices and shops in Chandni Chowk. The Ghanta Ghar, with the statue of Queen Victoria keeping an eye on the clock, was a central meeting point. People travelled by electric trams that ran on either side of the clock tower with no schedule whatsoever! People got around Delhi on tongas, bicycles, bullock and camel carts, on horseback or afoot. One could cycle through the entire city in less than an hour. Parsi men were intrepid cyclists, pedalling furiously with solar topis on their heads and crisp white trousers neatly clipped above their ankles to protect them from getting caught in the bicycle chain. The best non-vegetarian food was to be had near the Jama Masjid; poori saag and parathas in Chandni Chowk; and mithai around Ghanta Ghar. There were hardly any restaurants until the 1930s. For the Parsis, however, the most important shops were the two famous liquor stores in Kashmere Gate: Carlton and Spencer & Co—both rivals, each claiming their beer was more chilled. A bottle of good Scotch cost 5 rupees, and a bottle of Stout or Solan two and a halfannas. At that time, the rupee had 16 annas; an anna was equal to 4 paise or 12 pies; and onepie was equal to 12 cowries (monetary seashells). Rusi Uncle told us that salaries were delivered on the heads of coolies in basket loads of cowries! When Delhi was declared the new capital in 1911, Kashmere Gate assumed magnified importance; it was the commercial and social hub. In fact, Kashmere Gate and Alipore Road came to be known as the “West-End” of Delhi because the British officials resided nearby in Civil Lines. By the early 20s, Nowrosji’s family and many other Parsis moved to sprawling bungalows in Chabigunj and spacious flats on Nicholson Road in Kashmere Gate. It retained this aura until the construction of CP. In some ways, the construction of New Delhi—the city planned by Edward Lutyens and Herbert Baker around Raisina Hill with its imperial sand-stone domed monuments, wide axial roads and landscaped roundabouts—coincided with the establishment of the Parsi community; they grew together. The Delhi Parsis were for some reason reluctant to buy property. Maybe somewhere at the back of their minds they felt their stay was transitory. So they invested in stocks and shares instead. My mother and almost all Parsis born in Delhi from 1905 onwards were born at the Victoria Zanana Hospital near Jama Masjid (now called Kasturba Gandhi Hospital). If they were not sent off to boarding schools, Parsi boys and girls went to Queen Mary’s School. In 1924, Presentation Convent started in Delhi. At least three generations of Parsis studied there. Later, three new educational institutions were built: the all-girls Convent of Jesus & Mary (CJM), the all-boys St Columba’s School and the co-ed Modern School. One for the Album: The writer’s parents photographe din 1952. The Parsis who came to Delhi developed a liking for the city and settled here. Photograph courtesy: Shernaz Italia Time was also measured differently then, and true to Parsi eccentricity, the Parsis of Delhi studiously stuck to Wellington Time, introduced by Lord Wellington when he was the viceroy. Whereas Bombay Parsis followed Bombay Time, and the rest of India followed Indian Standard Time. I honestly cannot imagine how it all worked with the limited formsnof communication. In 1930, Connaught Place had just one block under construction; it touched Queensway, now called Janpath. Construction of the New Delhi railway station also began around this time. The Delhi Parsis made their mark professionally and in business. For them, a job in the Indian Railways was even better than getting into the civil services. The Delhi power station, where my grandfather worked, was the largest employer of Parsis, after which came the Railways, followed by the Singer Sewing Machine Company and the textile mills. Dr SP Shroff was “the” ophthalmologist. The fourth generation of the family still practices in Delhi and their old home in Daryaganj is now a charitable hospital. Dinabai Jal Irani, owner of Empress Aerated Water Factory, was the first Parsi lady entrepreneur in Delhi. Munchersha Polishwalla was the manager of Elphinston Cinema. Devitreji owned the Apollo Hotel— the first Parsi hotel in Delhi. Faramroze Patel— fondly called Chasmawalla Patel—had a shop in Chandni Chowk, where most of the community went for their prescription eyeglasses. However much they identified with the British, the Delhi Parsis were far more in tune with the cultural traits of northern India than the Bombay Parsis. Most of them conversed in fluent Punjabi, Gujarati and Hindustani, a mix of Urdu and Hindi that was spoken in Delhi.

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