Gentle Excellence & Whispers of Wisdom: Farrokh Jijina (1959-2025)

Shernaz Cama & Freny Daruwalla

Farrokh was always a gentle, quiet presence at Parsiana, but WhatsApp messages at 6 am to confirm a quotation, a date, or an insignificant reference, as a Senior Editor showed an inborn desire for excellence in his work. He came to know of his cancer very late last year but continued to ask questions about the General Sethna Exhibition – Zest for Life, even at the end of November, to ensure that this story he was working on should maintain the quality of a true writer and be scrupulously accurate. As Senior Editor at Parsiana, he carried this same meticulous approach to every piece he worked on, ensuring that each story met the highest standards of integrity and precision.

Freny Daruwalla, who fondly writes for Jam-e-Jamshed, recalls: “I received a call from Farrokh Jijina sir one evening 3 years ago. He told me he had come across my work on Facebook and had heard my interview with Dr. Kersi Chavda, which he really liked. I still have Farrokh sir’s WhatsApp message: ‘May we speak about your podcasts?’ He later interviewed me, and his questions were deeply thought-provoking and encouraging. That was my first interaction with Farrokh sir. He was always kind and took the time to read my articles in Jam-e-Jamshed, offering valuable comments and feedback that helped me immensely. I would also like to share a personal story. After I left my previous job at Evergreen Story, Farrokh sir constantly checked in to see if I had found new employment. His generosity and concern spoke volumes about the kind of person he was. His writing style was remarkable—he had an extraordinary ability to capture the tiniest details and refine them to perfection. Last but not least, he never liked me calling him “sir.” He once joked, “Freny, I am not knighted!”

For Hemant Chaturvedi, he was THE introduction to the world of the Parsi community, helping even from his hospital bed. It was Hemant, not a Parsi, who informed us on Navroze that Farrokh had passed away in the morning and ‘the world unnecessarily lost a fine human being’. He would always joke with the photographer who has documented all the Aramgahs across India saying ‘I will help get you permission to shoot in the Aramgah but am I getting a credit in your book!?’

Farrokh never wanted any fuss made about him; so when I reached out with a message that I was thinking about him and praying for him, he just responded with a Thank You. Just over ten days ago, we were both in Bombay for ParZor work with the Return to Roots participants and were determined to meet Farrokh. We left the Ratan Tata Institute, RTI, Hughes Road on our way to Cusrow Baug and I sent him a message. He immediately responded and said he was in bed and could not meet visitors. We were at Churchgate with a small box of soft cheese biscuits and not obeying him, drove on to his home. His home reflected the man; elegant, old-world style, spotlessly gleaming, and with courteous staff. They hesitated because Farrokh was in his bedroom but we walked in: at first, he did not recognize us. The disease had reduced him to skin and bone but as he lay on his side and Freny reminded him of our coming from Delhi & Pune, he struggled to get up.

We sat by his side and he held onto my hand, the cheese biscuits rested near his pillow and when I spoke of my admiration for his work on the community, he just smiled. Then suddenly, a flood of memories began and the journalist took over. Farrokh wanted to know why I spoke so often about Suhali. I explained that in childhood it was the dream village of the Classic Mamai-ni-Musafari. We had laughed about Mamaiji gathering all her trunks and her parrot for her steamship voyage from Bombay to Ceylon to visit her sister after making a profit by selling her Tata Shares. Every Sunday, a chapter would be published in Gujarati and we children would sit on the Veranda in Ahmedabad to hear it read aloud and laugh together. Suhali on a ParZor Field Trip thirty years later was a deserted village, with beautiful Parsi Bungalows but no people.

Farrokh held my hand tightly and told us that he loved Suhali because it was his family home. He told us about his Suhali; the beautiful sight of the sea, the green fields, and his ancestral house. It was a large home, several stories high, and belonged to his Bapavaji. His recounting became a Bapavaji –ni – Musafari. Bapavaji was a large landholder with a very loud voice. He once scared away the dacoits who attacked the Balad Gaddi (bullock cart), their only means of transport from Suhali to Surat as they drove in the Bullock Cart to catch the Flying Ranee Train on regular trips to Bombay. All Bapavaji did was shout loudly at the men, who jumped and ran away to hide from this crazy Bawaji in the tall grass on the side of the road. Bapavaji was rich but stingy. All the women, wives, daughters-in-law, and granddaughters, who wore sarees at home; changed at the Surat Station’s Waiting Room into ‘frocks’ or as Farrokh said laughing ‘Faracks’. This change of dress enabled them to pass off as children and travel on half tickets rather than pay the full price!

Mamaiji believed that one room in their home was haunted and frightened everyone, mostly herself, by imagining ghosts escaping from that locked room and haunting her family. The stories went on and it was as if Farrokh had forgotten his pain and disease as he re-entered his childhood home.

It was dinner time when we left a happy smiling Farrokh who promised to tell us more stories on our next visit. He was taking a new genetic therapy along with his dialysis and we honestly prayed that it would work. The biscuits were still near his pillow but his face radiated a happy glow. We don’t know if he ever managed to eat them but that picture will always remain in our memories. Thank You Farrokh for caring, writing, and arguing – always in a gentle way – about our Parsi community. Rest now with your loving family in the gardens of Garothman Behest.

Your pen may be still, but your words will continue to speak for generations to come.