Zoroastrianism: End of Empire and Refuge in India

Skipping fifth, sixth in a series on the TISS-PARZOR Academic Programme in Culture & Civilisations: A Zoroastrian Perspective. Guest lecture by Filmmaker and Photographer Divya Cowasji.

The class was divided into two sections. Prof. Shernaz Cama talked about finding refuge in India after the Arab Muslim Conquest, and Divya Cowasji discussed her book in progress, due out in October 2026. One of her films was required watching before class, which I’ve embedded at the end of this post.

I recently learned that Zoroastrians were known as Parsas in the time of the Achaemenid Empire. Both Cyrus the Great and Darius I said of themselves, “I am a Parsa.” So the latest interpretation is that Parsis apply to all Zoroastrians. I shall use the two terms interchangeably from now on for both those who still live in Bombay or Mumbai and the diaspora, including me and my family here in Canada.

Shipbuilders Became Ship Owners

Parsis were known for their shipbuilding, agricultural, and weaving prowess. They were the ones who, through inter-marriage with China, learned the art of silkworm culture and silkweaving. They were known for their silks, second only to the Chinese who’d invented it. Because of their shipbuilding skills, they sailed down the coast and first landed at Sanjaan. Later, as they moved along the coast and inland to escape attacks from the locals, they developed enough wealth to become ship owners and traders as far east as China. Naturally, though we’re supposed to think about the context and not be judgy, they traded opium. One of my Aunts used to tease my Uncle Homi with this, calling him a drug pusher because his ancestors traded opium. Reason why I rejected the context argument is that one of my ancestors figured out a way to get around paying the British salt tax. Parsis may be honest and “never lie,” as Prof. Cama taught us, but they sure knew how to rationalize illegal and injurious trading practices in the 19th and earlier centuries!

When the British came and demanded they adopt surnames, they took the names of the towns they lived in or the names of their jobs. That’s why you’ll see Parsi last names ranging from Tarapore to Engineer.

Seeking Refuge from Neighbours

Now it’s important to note that prior to fleeing south, the Persian Empire and the rulers in India already knew of each other. These neighbours had traded goods and had had marriage alliances. So when the Parsis landed at Sanjaan, Jani Rana would not have been ignorant of these fleeing folk. But he wasn’t best pleased.

Milk and Sugar or Gold Ring and Milk

Since the King of the Persian Empire was in exile and then no more, priests became the authority figures. (To this day, Parsis have no central figure like the Pope for Catholics.) The high priest asked Rana for a bowl of milk, sugar, and a teaspoon. He took the bowl of milk and spooned sugar into it and stirred it in. He said that the Parsis would be like the sugar in the milk of India. They would blend and sweeten India.

My father taught me a variation of this tale. The priest put a gold ring in the milk (not sugar) and said that the Parsis would disappear into India like the ring in the milk. The locals wouldn’t even know they were there. Perhaps both tales apply.

The Five Rules

Rana agreed to welcome the refugees on five conditions.

1. They must explain their religion.

2. They must no longer use their language (cultural genocide, anyone?).

3. Women must give up their Parsi clothing styles and wear Gujarati saris (cultural genocide rule 2).

4. They must put away their weapons. The Parsis had arrived carrying swords.

5. Weddings must be after sunset so that they would stay under the radar and the populace not notice that they had been given land.

Until recently, probably with the launch of UNESCO’s memory project, Zoroastrians abided by these rules. Their fire temples were hidden at the end of narrow lanes, their fires placed deep inside the structure, which was designed to look like just another house.

It’s rare to find someone who speaks Avestan as their conversational language. Hence, the class later on this year on learning Avestan. I don’t even know what Parsi clothing looks like even though my grandmother taught me how to wrap a sari in the Parsi tradition. She’d first taught me the Gujarati style; I found it much, much easier than the Parsi style. How do we find out what our ancestral clothing looked like beyond old embroidery and rock carvings? Is it easy for you?

Adaptation

Adaptation became the watchword for Parsis. To survive, one must adapt. I’ve certainly called on that heritage in my adjusting to life with brain injury, but I also sought solutions and wasn’t content with the “rules” of recovery that standard medical care and society had laid down. Not for me a denial of who I am and the catastrophic nature of my injury so that others can be comfortable.

Whereas I endured abandonment with health care and legal professionals condescending to me in a bid to disenfranchise me of my rights, the Parsis in the centuries up to the 20th century endured attacks by mobs. I mean, “mob” is the only way to call a bunch of men riled up by religious bigotry, physically violent against a non-violent people solely on the basis of their religion and ethnicity and culture.

I’m reminded of the First Nations here in Canada when the Truth and Reconciliation Commission declared cultural genocide. The younger generations didn’t know their ancestral language. They wore western-style clothes. And their women had been disenfranchised when they married out. I wrote a bit on what we can learn in my previous post:

Marrying Out: Who Is Zoroastrian?

The readings for this week included a film that talked about marrying out. Divya Cowasji’s Qissa-e-Parsi showed a conflict between those who decried marrying out — that is, marrying a non-Zoroastrian — and those who talked about adaptation.

Personally, I think the argument is moot. My father’s mother had dark skin; his father waxy white. Skin colour is how you know whose lineage never included marrying out. My grandfather’s skin being white meant that if any of his ancestors had married out, it was probably a onetime thing. But he was considered “priest class” and so probably no one had in a millennium. My grandmother, having darker skin, meant that not long in the past someone had married an Indian, probably a Gujarati, and had genetically added their brown skin colour to the mix.

So when one of the men in the film talks about ethnicity and Zoroastrians must not marry out to preserve it, it’s like closing the barn door after the horses have fled.

I also noticed that determining who is Zoroastrian is strictly through the father. If a woman marries a non-Zoroastrian, she’s stripped of her Zoroastrianism (such a weird idea stripping someone of their ethnicity when it’s in their DNA — what do they do, change all their cells’ DNA? — hardly!). This is as patriarchal and abhorrent as Canada’s Indian Act stripping First Nations women of their status when they married out. Canada has rectified this gender discrimination. In the film, a man defends it while ignoring the irony of a religion whose defining feature is gender equality and the physical, genetic fact that the only certain parentage is through the mother. I have so much to say about the current hypocrisy, but I’ll leave that for now.

The Rules Today

Through UNESCO and Parzor Foundation, we are once again abiding by rule number 1 by explaining this dying religion, culture, and civilization to the world. And I suppose I’m doing my part by writing these posts.

I’ve also included Zoroastrians and our central tenets in almost every one of my novels. And I specifically discussed my father’s faith in Lifeliner: The Judy Taylor Story.

Rules 2 and 3 have to be reversed, for language is culture, and clothing reflects geography, attitude, climatic considerations, gender relations, and so on.

Prof. Cama indicated that Parsis still hold weddings after sunset. But I have a distinct memory of attending a wedding in Bombay where it was as bright as daylight. I have a memory because I got in trouble for helping myself from the feast laid out on silver, banana (palm?) leaves, and white tablecloths.

On a personal note, Prof. Cama showed us photographs of seminal Parsis, one of whom was Dr. Homi Bhabha, a polymath. Dr. Bhabha recruited my father, Dr. Khursheed Nowrojee Jeejeebhoy, to work with him in Bombay. My father looked up to him as a mentor and enjoyed working with him very much. And so when a plane crash took Dr. Bhabha’s life, he was at a loss.

The Chief of Medicine at a Toronto, Canada hospital heard about my father through a doctor working for the World Health Organization and recruited him to join the gastroenterology department at Toronto General Hospital. The Chief wanted the department to become something and knew, in my father, he had the man to turn the department around and make it a hub for clinical research. That’s how we ended up in Canada. A tragedy led to Dr. Khursheed Jeejeebhoy becoming the “Father of TPN” because he met Judy Taylor, a Canadian woman who had the personality and grit to live for 20 years without eating. Read all about it in my biography, Lifeliner: The Judy Taylor Story.

Divya Cowasji

Filmmaker and photographer, she read out excerpts from her forthcoming book and showed us some of the photographs she took. She’s lucky in that she lives in her ancestral home, surrounded by physical memories of past generations. Her grandfather is still alive, and the two of them have been mining the past for stories. They’re of her family history yet reflect all our histories about survival and adaptation. Her writing is lyrical, and her film was captivating. Please watch.