The thing about stereotypes is that more often than not, they’re true. Take the Parsis, for instance. We know they’re, um, gently loopy. They love their cars and bikes (the older the better). If you had to air a conversation between two Parsi gentlemen in full vocal flight, you’d have to set off the bleeping machine every few seconds. They enjoy a hearty meal and a drink and make no apologies about it. They are, in short, almost everything people expect them to be.
It therefore came as a bit of a shock when Marespand Dadachanji, my genial companion on this trip to Udvada, politely refused to tuck into the steaming bowl of kheema at the breakfast table. ‘Most people think I’m mad, being a Parsi and a vegetarian at the same time. It’s almost unheard of,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink either, by the way,’ he added, shattering another illusion. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to hold myself back on his account, so I waded in with gusto. ‘Good stuff, eh?’ he said with a grin. ‘We believe that a proper breakfast is a must, if the rest of the day is to go off well’. ‘Don’t worry, my day is going to go like the blazes,’ I replied between mouthfuls of grub.
Although the food had come as a spectacular bonus, my intention hadn’t been to come to Udvada merely to carve another culinary notch on my arm. I had always wanted to go there because it’s near where the Parsis first landed in India – and I daresay the automotive history of this country wouldn’t be half as interesting without their invaluable (not to mention colourful) contributions. Of equal importance, however, was the fact that Udvada was probably the most important Zoroastrian spiritual centre in the world, due to the Iranshah Atash Behram being situated there. This is the holiest fire temple in the world, and every Parsi worth their salt has made a visit there. Naturally, I thought that a Parsi companion on a trip to Udvada would be just the ticket. I began racking my brains for possible candidates, until a blindingly obvious thought struck me. ‘If I’m going to Udvada with a Parsi person, it simply has to be in a vintage car.’ Nothing could be more appropriate.
A few phone calls, a couple of friendly introductions and soon enough I was ensconced in the back seat of a sprightly 1947 Morris 8, boinging along the highway with Marespand at the wheel. Apart from being a restorer of vintage and classic cars, he also happened to be a priest – a double bonus as far as I was concerned. ‘This car has been with my family for over 30 years and has literally seen the length and breadth of the country,’ he said as he dodged a herd of buffaloes and simultaneously accused them of impropriety with their sisters. ‘When my father bought it in Nasik, he didn’t even know how to drive and he was about to get married. After the wedding, he and my mother got in the car and drove off for a holiday.’ Either his dad had been a champion driver straight out of the cradle, or the Morris was a remarkably easy car to drive – either way, I couldn’t help but think that only a Parsi would hatch a bonkers plan like that. ‘It’s even been to Sri Lanka and back,’ he said with charming pride. ‘My father was stationed there for a while, and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it behind, so he packed us all into it and we drove all the way to the ferry-crossing in Rameswaram.’ As if to accentuate this considerable achievement, he reached out and blew his specially installed wolf-horn, cheerfully scaring ten years’ growth out of a passing motorcyclist. I grinned and settled deeper into the comfy seat, happy in the knowledge that this was going to be nothing if not an amusing journey.
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