Govt-Funded Jiyo Parsi Ads Urge The Dwindling Community To Procreate
Yesterday , though it began chiming to the tune of Chaiye Hame Zarthosti (the community’s de facto anthem). And not a moment too soon. I’m already a much-maligned Parsi stereotype -educated, ambitious, single and -until now -unwilling to settle for a virile Parsi male with a high sperm count. By all accounts, I’m the reason why the community’s numbers have dipped to a measly 69,000 in the last 60 years. All it took, though, for me to stray back to the righteous path of `Hum Do Hamare Sau“ were a few insightful Jiyo Parsi print ads launched yesterday at the KR Cama Oriental Institute. Quaking in fear at the thought of Hindu hordes taking over Dadar Parsi Colony and staking claim to my father’s “1982 Gold Rolex Oyster“-both of which the ads forewarned me about -I began typing up a matrimonial curriculum vitae thumping the keys to the tune of Geri Halliwell’s 2001 hit, It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men! Amen! But the upbeat song rang hollow in my ears. Inevitably, I began pondering the rarity of the species I was hunting -a Parsi man of marriageable age with common interests, a similar mindset, perhaps even a journalist or a writer? But this time my mind skidded to a halt. The key to success, I recalled, was removing compatibility from the equation. Who am I to judge if it takes him 40 years to -as one ad so deli cately put it -“break up with his mom“?
After all, as the campaign bluntly pointed out, I’m certainly no “Nicole Kidman“.
Now, if only I had her milky-white complexion, I mused. I’d be well on my way to being a Parsi baby incubator. Sadly , my skin tone can only be described in polite company as “sun-tanned“. Not that the Oscar-winning actress can really compete with my centuries-old, racially-pristine genetic stock. The propagation of which -I have come to grudgingly accept -is my life’s sole purpose. Note to self: I must ensure that my panting eagerness to brood an “heir, spare and carrom foursome“ -all charming catchphrases from the ad campaign -is adequately highlighted in my resume.
After cranking out a detailed bio data with all pertinent details -age, genetic kundali, “snob quotient“ and fertility test results I hit send forwarding the matrimonial message to every “superior, educated, cultured“ person on my contact list. The advertising tagline, “It takes a lifetime to raise a snob,“ ringing in my ears.
But it still didn’t seem like I was doing enough to prevent our beloved Parsi caterer, Tanaz Godiwala, from going out of business. So, I began trawling Parsi youth websites muttering “panni jha“ -the ad campaign helpfully explained that it’s not a spell from Harry Potter but rather a marriage mantra -under my breath. Every time a cute non-Parsi boy on Facebook caught my eye, I squeezed the offending organ shut and imagined my unborn children being turned away from the community’s bosom.
My country , my community and Unesco’s tribe hunters are counting on me, I reminded myself. Ten crore rupees is riding on my ability to snare this elusive Parsi male, tear him from his mother’s arms, drag him to the altar and start procreating -pronto. With God and Rs 5 lakh worth of IVF treatment on my side, it’ll likely be a pair of twins.
P.S. To see the entire campaign click here
The original story by Nergish Sunavala, appeared here
Hilarious but poignant at the same time.
Loved reading it.