The house in the new orchard was almost complete when he had brought Shirin, his bride, home. But that was the past the new trees that he was raising would yield the homeliest brown fruit that now symbolised his life here in this new land. The pomegranate orchards on his farm in Yazd would now be heavy with the jewel-like fruit, he reminisced. On such a piece of land he planted the first batch of chikoo trees in long, neat rows, each numbered and recorded in his book. He saved every paisa he earned for one purpose-to buy land and build a house. For some years he bought eggs at wholesale rates and resold them at a small profit. When Jamshid made his first 1,000 rupees, he hid the crumpled notes and coins behind a loose stone in the wall behind the string cot he slept on. Tears filled his eyes when he heard the news, but he willed them not to roll down he must be a man, his father would have wanted that. His sister died in Bombay, he was told, and had left a book for him. His mother had died soon after they left, when, still weakened by an illness, she succumbed after a sandstorm. Jamshid was 12 when he left and nearly 14 when he reached Udvada, but his mother and sister were not waiting there, as he had expected. Their history is entwined with that of the indigenous Warli tribes, who claimed the land as their own centuries before the arrival of the Iranis. Jamshid’s story depicts the journey of more recent migrants, the Iranis who fled persecution under the Qajar rulers, from Yazd in Persia to a tiny village in western India, in the 20th century. They brought their farming skills to the new homeland, adapting and adjusting to new ways, while preserving the traditions and rituals of their ancestors. Once agriculturists in the Yazd province of Iran, they were the last of the Zoroastrians to land on the shores of Udvada, where the sacred fire brought by their predecessors centuries before still burns. In the coastal towns of Dahanu and Gholvad in Maharashtra, a community of Irani families celebrate Navroz with a traditional harvest feast symbolised by the haft-seen table, much like their ancestors did. Once agriculturists in the Yazd province of Iran, they brought their skills to the new homeland. “We will disturb no one,” was the message sent back with the glass of milk, “We will enhance the surroundings of our new homeland, but change nothing.” “There is no place here,” was the cryptic message, “we are full.” The glass was returned, seemingly untouched, but it had been sweetened with sugar, which blended with the rich milk. As the legend goes, in the 7th century, when the first wave of Zoroastrians landed on the shores of western India, the local ruler Jadav Rana sent the leader of the group a glass of milk filled to the brim.
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