Mamaiji’s IPO—Insane Parsi Odyssey

My granny—my beloved Mamaiji—was from Suvali. Ah, Suvali! My coastal town! Out there, people spoke so loudly as if they were addressing the Lok Sabha. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone’s business—and then added a little extra spice to it for fun.

My mamaiji was a petite powerhouse—a short, feisty widow who had never set foot outside Suvali in her entire life. The town was her home, her comfort zone, her ashiq.

But I was one of the busiest man in Suvali. Seriously. My calendar was booked. I’d wake up, polish off a full eda-nu-breakfast, then dash off to play goti by the sea. After an intense morning of marble warfare, I’d return home, sweaty and triumphant—looking like I’d just survived World War Goti—and devour lunch like a warrior.

By 1:30 PM, the whole of Suvali would descend into a siesta. I’d nap too, obviously!

By 4:30 PM, I’d rise with my big avachi, sip peppermint-fudna-ni-choi with bhakras, and sprint off for my daily 5 PM kite-flying championship. My evenings were a flurry of sky battles, followed by dinner, and after such a long, tiring day, I’d fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
That, my friends, was my Suvali hustle.

Guess my age back then? Not ten. Not even a teen.
Small hint: I was in my 20s. Yes, yes, go ahead. Laugh now.

Mamaiji lived on modest means, with a heart full of contentment and a pocket full of… well, not much. Her second husband had left her some Tata shares. The market was bearish, especially when she cursed those shares: “Ayy chhe! Vaddhoch nathi nakkhot”.

But then… the miracle. A telegram arrived. Yes, babes—not a WhatsApp or an email. This was telegram-ka-zamana. The message from the stockbroker read, “Tata share prices had gone up”. Mamaiji, unimpressed, muttered, “Maybe 100–200 rupees.” She didn’t even blink.

Then came the second telegram after a few weeks.

I was mid-bath when she banged on the door. I emerged dripping, towel wrapped, and read it aloud:

“Tata shares up by ₹5,000.”

WHAAAATTTT?! Paanch hazaar rupaiya?!  Khodai ni meher! Paak Dadar Ahura Mazda!

Mamaiji immediately lit a divo, prayed in gratitude, and shouted at me sternly, “Go get a haar for Zarathost Saheb ni sabi! Now!!”

Because finally—finally—after all these years, she could travel to Sillon to meet her beloved sister, Chandan.

But how to travel? Train? Plane?

I had a super-fine idea. “By ship. And that too—first class!” I said with all the swagger of someone who just won Kaun Banega Crorepati.

Because really, after years of saving, praying, and cursing the stock market, it was Mamaiji’s Time.

We had to go from Suvali to Bombay, then to the dock, and finally board the majestic ship to Sillon.

Mamaiji started packing the bags. **Not bags—**bagssssss.
Blankets, mattresses, ghasras, bed sheets, one popat in a cage, petis, petaras, and enough luggage to fill an entire mail train.

I had to step in.
“Mamaiji, so much pasara is not allowed on a ship. We are not residing on the ship forever!”

She turned on me, eyes wide, voice booming:
“We are paying so much, gadhera! And now they say no samaan?! You don’t become an angrez and teach me rules, okay? These people are looteras. I am more experienced than all of you!”

Eventually, after my very patient lecture, she reluctantly removed half her house from the luggage.

But then… came the neighbourhood advisory committee.

Polly Pendo warned:
“Maiji, I heard many ships drown. I am scared your ship will drown too. Cancel your trip! Imagine if you drown!”
So pessimistic—like Patrakar Popatlal yelling ‘Cancel. Cancel. Cancel.’

I wanted to actually drown him in the sea.

Then came Gheli Guloo, Suvali’s self-declared National Geographic explorer:
“Mamma, when you go to Sillon, visit the aquarium, and also the wax museum, and maybe the Eiffel Tower.”

Seriously?! Have you ever seen the Eiffel Tower in Sillon?!

Meanwhile, Poli Pendo and Khodro Kaikushroo got into a full-blown argument, betting whether our ship would sink or float, or whether our ship would crash into a massive ice berg. These are our ‘Sagan na ghantias.’
Honestly.
Why do I live with such idiots?

The day of our departure came. And the entire mohalla decided to escort us to Bombay because— They’ve never seen a proper Bombay city!

As the train pulled into the station, a full parade assembled for Mamaiji’s farewell:
Hor, tora, tila, tapka, chalk-chadam!”Pacha avso na?”
I couldn’t even spot Mamaiji—her farewell bouquet was bigger than her.

The train gave a long whistle—PHEEEEEEEEEEE—and somewhere behind us, we heard Gheli Guloo fainted in the bogey.

And thus began our grand adventure:
An innocent Mamaiji, a frog-in-a-pond 20-something me, and a ship full of foreigners.

What happened next?
Well…
That’s a whole other story, a whole new adventure.

-Freny C Daruwalla

“I am deeply grateful to Mrs Navaz Taraporewala for her unwavering support in helping me translate the Gujarati book Mara Mamai ni Mausafri. This story is my own rendition inspired by the original.”