Rohan Doctor Brings Louisa AI to Life at WZCC-NY Event

On Saturday, July 19th, the WZCC-NY chapter and ZAGNY hosted a discussion with Rohan Doctor (Linkedin Profile) entitled “Using AI to Connect People, Not Replace Them” at Hunter College’s Silberman Campus. Mr. Doctor is the Founder and CEO of Louisa AI, a networking platform for corporates and organizations that automatically creates user profiles from clients’ databases and pulls in newsfeeds to proactively connect people who may know each other. This allows colleagues across geographies and job functions to leverage each other’s connections to generate and close deals.

Event Reported By Jeh Mory | WZCC NY Chapter

Mr. Doctor, a 17-year veteran of Goldman Sachs who most recently served as Managing Director and Head of Bank Solutions in the company’s Hong Kong office, founded Louisa within Goldman’s internal incubator before spinning it out in 2023.

Moderated by Jivahn Moradian, himself a project manager at an AI cosmetics startup, the discussion began with Mr. Doctor explaining how he developed the idea for Louisa after a chance encounter at a water cooler led to the closing of a large transaction. When asked how he closed the deal and, more importantly, how he might replicate it, he responded: “systematize serendipity with data.” Louisa was created to do just that.

Goldman seeded the company within its internal incubator, leveraged its technology for use within its own business, and spun it off in 2023, allowing it to develop relationships with corporate clients across the finance and consulting sectors. In Mr. Doctor’s view, Louisa’s niche and experience at the intersection of Wall Street and Silicon Valley offered a key differentiator—allowing the company to better understand and focus on the needs and preferences of its unique client base.

Other key discussion points centered on Mr. Doctor’s views and perspectives on entrepreneurship and AI, the latter of which was particularly intriguing. His implementation of AI as an explicit connector of people—prompting Person A that her colleague, Person B, and her ex-college roommate, Person C, could potentially do business with each other halfway around the world (if only they knew the other existed)—stands alongside the equally explicit reality that productivity gains from AI could allow four individuals to do the work that once required forty. Platforms such as Louisa demonstrate that innovation allows us to do new kinds of work, rather than merely perform old tasks more efficiently—just like how one person with Excel cannot be replaced by forty people with calculators.

Throughout the discussion, Mr. Doctor referred to his Zoroastrian faith and Parsi identity, musing about how a Zoroastrian instance or cluster on his platform might allow the community to similarly leverage the knowledge and connections of our far-flung, high-achieving members.

The event concluded with a brief demonstration of the platform, allowing the audience to experience the user interface and visualize how a news article or user profile might unlock second- or third-degree connections—whether in a professional or personal capacity.

Catch the Full Talk + Help Grow Our Community Impact

Watch the full video recap here:
https://youtu.be/XbPf1rKvGL0

Apply for internships at Louisa AI (New York & Mumbai):
www.louisa.ai/careers

Refer a potential client (senior professional at a finance or consulting firm) and unlock a $10,000 donation to a Zoroastrian organization of your choice — WZCC, ZAGNY, FEZANA, WZO, ZTFE, etc.

Support the future: Louisa AI has donated a seed-stage stake to WZCC, meaning the Zoroastrian community will benefit directly from its future success.

Thank You to:

• Rohan Doctor, Speaker
• Jivahn Moradian, Moderator
• Dr. Shahriyour Andaz, Event Sponsor
• Hunter College, Venue Host
• Our 70+ attendees, volunteers & organizers!

Want to stay in touch or ask questions?
Contact us: https://ny.wzcc.us/contact-us

The post Rohan Doctor Brings Louisa AI to Life at WZCC-NY Event appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Remembering dramatist and columnist extraordinaire Dorab Mehta (1917-2005) who entertained theatre audiences and newspaper readers

A dated photograph of Dorab (left) and Homai Mehta

Article by Meher Marfatia | Mid-Day

When I write I also laugh,” he declared. Dorab Mehta secretly scribbled his first skit at 14, in his math book at Proprietary High School. It was performed under a building stairwell. Caught writing his first play in class at Elphinstone College, he saw that script torn and dumped a lane below.

Undeterred, some novels and love stories (Thagaari, Zita) later, Mehta wrote the tragi-comic, Kino in 1949. It was staged with a roller curtain dropping after the first tragic half, to foreground comic antics of the second part. The three-act production Baar Bachha no Baap launched his Progressive Players Group in 1954. He followed up that well-received farce with delightfully alliterative titles like Karko Kako, Sample Soona Masi and Gustadji nu Guesthouse. The next decade rewarded him with smash successes, in collaboration with Indian National Theatre: Tirangi Tehmul, Kutra ni Poonchri Vaaki, Gher Ghungro ne Ghotalo and Ugee Dapan ni Dor hit diamond jubilee heights.

Rehearsing in Mehta’s home: Standing line includes actor Jasi China, backstage prompter Khodu Irani, Sunderbai Hall ticket planner Adi ‘Dhansaak’ and script copier Akhtar Bhai. Seated with actors are seen Dorab Mehta (centre), daughter Rashna (second from left) and wife Homai (extreme right)

“Who do you think actually, physically wrote his plays?” asks Mehta’s granddaughter, fashion designer Shazneen Engineer. “My lovely, supportive grandmother, ever ready for anything the theatre world challenged them with. She would patiently sit on a round cane stool, opposite where he was on his iconic black easy-chair, taking down every word dictated because he suffered from writer’s cramp. Losing Homai Mumma last month, I still feel her presence and am sure she’s writing more stories with him up there.”

Interviewed for Laughter in the House, my book on Parsi theatre, Homai Mehta had said, “As we went along, I begged Dorab, ‘Slow down, I can’t keep up.’ He would sort out knots in his handkerchief — each tied as a reminder to add a certain idea to the plot. Hating smutty lines or double entendre, he managed wonderful humour without any dirt.”

Ruby Patel and Dadi Sarkari in Gher Ghungro ne Ghotalo. Pics Courtesy/Laughter In The House: 20th Century Parsi Theatre by Meher Marfatia

While tracing Mehta’s theatre oeuvre, Navroze seems as right an occasion to salute his journalistic career. Besides authoring 300 plays, he was a contributor to the popular magazine, Gupsup. Most memorable, however, was the classic weekly column, Jaamaas ni Jiloo, on the fun and foibles in the daily life of a middle-class Parsi couple. It earned mention in the Limca Book of National Records as the longest-running column, printed in the Jam-e-Jamshed newspaper for 54 years. Its logo — Jaamaasji reclining on a chair while wife Jiloo leans over, newspaper in hand — was comfortingly familiar to legions of loyal readers, aware that Homai was Jiloo.     

“Dorab always put me in the picture,” she said. “I was also the Humbai (Homai) of his Mumbai Vartaman column called, Hu ne Mari Humbai. We didn’t realise how big a household name my Jaamaasji of Jame had become until his obituary tributes poured in.”

Dorab Mehta (right) with daughter Rashna Chiniwala

Then there was his Kaiser-i-Hind column, Jara Tamaara Kaan Ma, which ran for nearly 40 years, under the nom de plume of Katkatyo, meaning “chatterbox”. A reporter with the paper, Mehta (known to watch three movies a day), reviewed films for editor, Eruchshaw Hirjeebehdin. As a boy he had stashed away photographs of Douglas Fairbanks under his bed. He managed to coax his sympathetic brothers to smuggle him into cinema halls — to enjoy the climax of films when sent on errands like buying oil for a fish meal for the family.

At the outbreak of World War II, Mehta compiled special articles for the Information and Broadcasting Ministry, prepared broadcasts for the warfront and scripted two documentaries for the Government. Reverting to a less sombre note, Engineer says, “His writing was very real. He told me stories of Jaamaasji and Jiloomai, their freeloader neighbour Bomanshah and cheeky houseboy Chhagan, before the episodes appeared,” says Engineer. “My grandmother was really his Jaamaas ni Jiloo, his inspiration: the perfect partner to his journalistic journey.”

Logo of the Jaamaas ni Jiloo column. Pics Courtesy/Rashna Chiniwala; Mehta Family

Engineer skipped tuition classes to see play practices two months before Navroze in her grandparents’ Tardeo home. “I’d rush from school to be cheerfully greeted by actors walking around rehearsing for the upcoming naatak. My dear grandfather placed a little ‘ghanti’ (bell) in my excited hands. I perched on the settee trying to meticulously ring it at the exact correct time, to imitate a doorbell or a phone ring. Those were magical evenings, filled with giggles and guffaws, as actors struck comical stances to music accompanying the mandatory dance number.

“An amusing incident took place at Cowasjee Jehangir Hall (now the National Gallery of Modern Art), where many plays were performed. Two stage hands were instructed to drop the curtain for a scene change on hearing a backstage whistle prompt. Nodding off, they jumped out of their sleep at the sound of a misleading whistle — blown by the bus conductor in the Museum depot across the road. Mistaking that as their cue, they promptly lowered the curtain!”

Engineer’s mother, Mehta’s daughter Rashna Chiniwala, recalls, “There was mutual respect between Adi Marzban and my father. Dad would advise him, saying, “Ardeshir” this or that, and Adi would hear him out. Both were gifted multifaceted genius. Dad was a good violin and piano player too. Above all, he was the master of mirth, born to make the world a happier place.”

Navroze Mubarak, everyone.

The post Parsi New Year 2025: Blithe spirits and Navroze naataks appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Today marks the start of the Shehenshai New Year, when Parsi Zarathushtis all over the world welcome the “Navu Varas.” Over the past 10 days of Muktad and Gatha, we brought you along on a journey of tradition, nostalgia, and the value of continued customs—traditions that transcend just prayers and become celebrations not only of those alive today, but of those on whose shoulders we stand.

For the first time, the New Year coincides with India’s Independence Day. As the nation celebrates its 79th year of independence, Parsis the world over are grateful to a country and a land that gave them refuge a thousand and more years ago. In return, the Parsi and Irani Zarathushti community thrived and repaid that debt in full. Leading the way in nation building and in all walks of life, we became a model community—and we took this spirit to all parts of the world where we settled and called home.

Navroze, if you grew up in Bombay, was pure magic. You woke up to the smell of sandalwood and breakfast, got into your “new” clothes, and headed straight to the agiary. Grandparents would slip you an envelope, pretending it was nothing, though you always knew exactly what it held. By evening, it was time for a natak—those plays where you’d bump into half the community in the lobby—followed by dinner in a restaurant so full of Parsis you couldn’t hear yourself think. Rain or shine, everyone was out. You’d greet friends, greet strangers, and feel part of something bigger.

Living “abroad” now, those memories sting just a little. In New York, we gather at the Zoroastrian Association of Greater New York (ZAGNY). There’s prayer, there’s dinner, and there’s warmth. But the density of it—the neighbors you’ve known since you were a child, the streets that hum with familiarity—that’s something distance can’t quite replicate. Festivals in the heart of your own community have a texture no hall, however full, can match. And to me, that became even more apparent in 2018, when I found myself in Mumbai—first for the Muktad prayers of my dear mom, followed by New Year celebrations. However, with the next generation here, I could see things differently in the presence of my niece and nephew. As they make their own memories, I sometimes wonder if what we do today will survive for the generation that follows them.

The last year has been one of hectic activity and promising optimism for the community worldwide. Successful gatherings like the North American Congress in Houston, the Return To Roots program in India, and the WZCC Global Conclave in Toronto reinforce the notion that we, as followers of this ancient faith, thrive in meeting in person. Even the stories from the Everyday Parsi 2025 series weave a common thread: the collective power of tradition and ritual is the binding glue that keeps us together. Customs started in Karachi continue today in Houston. Memories made in Jamshedpur manifest into new ones in Melbourne.

The Zarathushtis of India and Pakistan grapple with the issue of depleting numbers amidst the rich tapestry of institutions, be they physical, social, or cultural. The diaspora continues to push forward and define its own identity through the building of institutions—be they Dar-E-Mehrs, the resurgence of youth involvement seen at the 8th World Youth Congress in London, or the massive surge at the Zoroastrian Youth of North America (ZYNA), FEZANA’s youth wing. Programs like Return To Roots aim to bridge the geographical gap, shaping a future where the Zarathushti youth of tomorrow lead with a deep understanding of their heritage and culture.

This year also marks the 20th anniversary of Parsi Khabar itself. In 2005, we started as a fledgling website, the first of its kind in the Zoroastrian world. From the early days to now, we have grown to thousands of daily subscribers and average over a million page views every month. We bring you a constant stream of news, opinions, and stories—some joyful, some contentious—but all doing their bit to record our moment in time over the last two decades. We’ve covered the triumphs, the disputes, the projects, the personalities, and everything else that makes us tick. We’ve always tried to stay balanced and let you, our reader, make up your minds, because in the end, the conversation itself is what matters. Through this website we have had the opportunity to meet thousands of folks from all over the world. We would like to thank each one of our readers for the continued support of what is truly a labour of love for all of us here at Parsi Khabar.

As we reinvigorate ourselves this New Year, let us resolve to continue to do what is good for us, and resolve to better what has not been. May we collectively thrive in all parts of the world we call home. May our mobeds continue to lead us as the keepers of the faith. May our local and national community leaders continue to lead us toward a stronger community worldwide. May the months ahead bring us more understanding than discord, more generosity than grievance, and the quiet pride of knowing we’ve been part of a shared journey worth cherishing.

Saal Mubarak, everyone.

The post Navroze Mubarak 2025: Happy New Year 1395 Y.Z. appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Today is the Vahishtoishti Gatha, the fifth and final Gatha day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our eleventh and final author Xerxes Commissariat.

The ten days of Muktad prayers are, to me, a time of deep reverence — when the community gathers to honor the Fravashis of our loved ones.

As a child, I remember attending Muktad prayers at the Behrana Agyari in Karachi with my parents and brother. The jam-packed hall on the second floor is where the Humbandagi prayers took place. The prayers started promptly at 7:00 a.m. and were led by the Patloo sisters — Daisy and Persi. Everyone in attendance would chant the kardas from a small booklet, followed by a translation.

After the Humbandagi prayers, there was a brief talk on various topics by the late Ervard Godrej Sidhwa.

Behrana Agyari, Karachi

In the adjacent area, the room was filled with numerous flower vases, where prayers were also offered for individual families.

Muktad Floral Vases at the Behrana Agyari, Karachi – 2025

I have fond memories of sitting with my Parsi friends, and as the Humbandagi concluded, a bunch of us boys would begin a ten-minute walk to the Bai Virbaiji Soparivala Parsi High School, where we attended school. Having gone to a Parsi school, we also had additional prayers and discussions related to Muktad during the ten days, led by the late Ervard Godrej Sidhwa.

After finishing 12th grade, I moved to Dallas, Texas, in 1998. I recall continuing the tradition of attending the Muktad prayers at Anahita Sidhwa’s house, since ZANT (Zoroastrian Association of North Texas) did not have a center of their own at that time. Ervard Porus Balsara led the Humbandagi prayers, which were followed by chasni, tea, and snacks.

Later on, when I moved to Irvine, California in 2003, the tradition of attending the ten-day Muktad prayers continued at Ervads Zarrir and Zerksis Bhandara’s residence. ZAC (Zoroastrian Association of California) did not have a center, and the Bhandaras graciously opened their house to the community. The daily Muktad prayers were followed by chasni and refreshments.

Subsequently, when the ZAC Atash Kadeh was inaugurated in 2016, the Muktad prayers continued to be held every year, drawing hundreds of people to pay their respects. Every year before the Muktad days, ZAC members gather for a communal cleanup of the Atash Kadeh. All furniture and chairs are removed, and everything — from floors and windows to lamp shades — is scrubbed in preparation for the holy days.

2025 marks the 34th year of the Muktad prayers being held in Southern California and the 9th year at the ZAC Atash Kadeh. Over five hundred names of our dear departed are recited and lovingly remembered.

Muktad Floral Vases at the Zoroastrian Association of California Atash Kadeh – 2025

Last year, Ervad Zerkxis Bhandara performed 22 Baaj ceremonies (Baaj is one of the inner liturgies, a Pav Mehel Kriya within the family of the Yajashne, Vendidad, and Nirangdin). The Zoroastrian Association of California is the only community outside India/Pakistan to have this ceremony performed regularly.

Myself, along with the Southern California community, is fortunate to have Ervads Zarrir and Zerksis Bhandara, who continue to keep the tradition of Muktad prayers alive — allowing my children to experience them just as I once did.

About Xerxes Commissariat

Xerxes Commissariat currently serves as the Vice President of the Federation of Zoroastrian Associations of North America (FEZANA).

Having been a resident of Southern California since 2003, Xerxes is a proud life member of the Zoroastrian Association of California (ZAC). Over the past twenty-two years, he has played an integral role in the Southern California Zoroastrian community. Presently, he serves as the co-chair of the association’s maintenance committee, a position he’s held for the past decade.

Additionally, he has contributed to the association’s expansion sub-committee. From overseeing maintenance to organizing social events, he continues to lead and coordinate many of ZAC’s annual functions.

Prior to relocating to California, Xerxes resided in Dallas, Texas, where he completed his undergraduate degree. During his time in Dallas, he actively participated in the Zoroastrian Association of North Texas (ZANT) community and served on ZANT’s Finance & Investment sub-committee.

He holds a Master of Business Administration (MBA) degree and currently resides in Irvine, California, with his wife Diana and two children, Zane and Zara.

The post Everyday Parsi: Xerxes Commissariat appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Today is the Vahishtoishti Gatha, the fifth and final Gatha day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our tenth author Dr. Persis Driver.

Flickering Memories of Fearless Women

In my fast-paced, often chaotic life, Muktad days are when time holds still; they are a kind of placeholder on my overwhelmed calendar. They arrive like a whisper, compelling me to pause, reflect, and connect; to experience the beauty of an ethereal presence somewhere between the material and spiritual dualities of our Zoroastrian existence. Although an abstract concept, I find tangible evidence of this liminal space between the living and the departed in the scent of the loban and sukhad, with their wisps spiraling around freshly polished silver vases filled with fragrant gladioli, roses, and jasmine. Each year, childhood nostalgia reminds me of entering the magnificent halls of the Anjuman Atash Behram in Bombay. Here, the early morning air hangs just a little thicker, the symphony of prayers in Dasturjis’ deep baritone voices provides stability in tradition, and the moments of silence command the most alertness. In between sitting and praying and listening, I like to reflect on one simple question: “Who am I?”

One answer to this question lies in the connection I feel to two powerful women whose past shapes my present. The first was my paternal grandmother, Shirin Mamma, who was a formidable presence to reckon with. I never met her, but her legacy lives on in the stories of my father, my uncles, and even passing acquaintances who were her students. She was a high school English teacher, and according to her students and colleagues, the most no-nonsense, dedicated educator who demanded excellence at all costs. She was also a fierce advocate for special needs education at a time of heightened social stigma associated with neurodivergence. And her love story with her high school sweetheart, my grandfather, was often repeated among my Parsi baug neighbors like it belonged in a rom-com. All of 5’1″ with a tiny, graceful physique, she lived life large.

My maternal grandmother, Viloo Mamma, was quite the opposite in demeanor. She had a quiet resilience that made her the unflinching anchor for the next three generations. She was soft-spoken, humble, and incredibly creative. My fondest memories are of sitting by her side, listening to her weave stories from thin air, creating complex characters (with Zoroastrian names) and multidimensional Shahnameh-styled plots. But her imagination was balanced by her astute perception of human nature; family members old and young all reached out to her for compassionate, progressive, and practical advice. Even today, especially during the Muktad days, we cousins reminisce about her measured suggestions and traditional gher na nuskas (home remedies) that continue to guide us daily. But we also find great humor, joy, and love in remembering how she transformed into a shrewd and ruthless competitor during any card game of Rummy or Flush. No one was surprised by her stubborn tenacity, of course, since this unassuming woman was a pioneer of industry and women’s education in her little Gujarat village. Against societal norms and physical pressure, she, along with her older sister, started and managed a flour mill and a school for girls, sometimes at great personal risk.

If the Muktad days are when the veil between the physical and spiritual worlds is lifted, it amuses me to think of the looks on my grandmothers’ faces as they peek through the shroud. I hope they feel proud when, amongst the eight of their female grandchildren, they find successful teachers, business professionals, entrepreneurs, scientists, and social justice advocates. Knowing their competitive nature, I laugh at the thought of their smug smiles watching us flounder in our futile attempts to recreate their traditional recipes of badaam paak and khajur ni ghari. But most of all, I hope they feel gratified in the knowledge that each of us is committed to fearlessly preserving their legacy of faith, family, and community.

About Dr. Persis Driver

Dr. Persis Driver is an Associate Professor of Educational Psychology and Director of the Center for Teaching and Learning at Dominican University in the United States of America and the co-chair of the FEZANA Religion Education Committee (REC). She uses her knowledge of teaching and human development to support a global coalition of over a hundred religion education teachers through an open-resource website for age-appropriate lesson plans. She has compiled a guide on developmentally sound teaching practices for students at diverse ages. She also co-leads the Zoroastrian Intergenerational Oral History (ZIOH) Project that trains and supports middle and high school youth in recording, publishing, and archiving the diverse stories of the global Zoroastrian diaspora.

The post Everyday Parsi: Persis Driver appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Today is the Vohuxshathra Gatha, the fourth Gatha day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our ninth author Arnavaz Sethna.

My Memories of Muktad in Karachi

Growing up in Karachi in an Athornan family, Muktad days were special to me. Until I was 7 years old, Muktad only meant eating Papri and Malido—somehow none of my cousins and I liked Daroons, which were then fed to any roaming cow that came near the house. Manekji Magol, my mother’s fua, was the Panthaky of Karachi Sadar Agiary and, as such, he had a lot of clientele. Most of the Muktads were held at the house. My aunts would get up around 3:00 a.m. to prepare the many Muktad thalis, filling them with Papri, Malido, Daroon, and one item each of available fruits. The oldest son, Burjor—whom we called Mamaji—was a Navar and helped during Muktad along with some hired Mobeds. After Manekji passed, the Panthaky went to his brother, Jamshedji Magol, who has been mentioned by the late Sarosh Collector.

As I grew older and heard our Dasturji Dhalla’s lectures on various occasions, I came to realize the religious significance of the Muktad prayers. I learned that they are the ten sacred days in Zoroastrianism when it is believed that the souls of our departed loved ones come and visit us. We must welcome them with flowers, fruits, and special prayers.

As was the custom, the families requesting Muktads for their loved ones had to pay for the services of the Mobeds and all the other incidentals that went with the prayers. There were many families who could not afford to pay, and hence they didn’t have the traditional Muktad for their departed loved ones. The solution was to have a Hama Asho Farohar Muktad—prayers to welcome and honor all Fravashis. This would be held in Jehangir Rajkotwalla Hall, set up with marble tables where anyone who wanted could put a vase of flowers at no cost. And thus began the tradition of Ham Bandagi in Karachi.

A program was developed whereby the singing of the fakras would start at 7:00 a.m.—four fakras each day with translation in Gujarati—followed by a 15-minute sermon by Dasturji Dhalla.

All ten days, we woke up early, showered, dressed, and practically ran to Jehangir Baug. We went straight to the Kusti room, did our kusti, picked up the small book of fakras laid out on the table outside the hall, and went in. Copies of the book titled Ham Bandagi matay chunti kadhela Avesta na Fakra were kept there, and I still have one to this day.

Promptly at 7:00 a.m., the congregation would rise, and the fakras to be prayed that day would be announced:

Banuo anay ghrastho, aajay aapray panch, chha, saat anay anth fakrao bhansu.

Mrs. Dubash would come to the podium and sing the fakras in her sweet, melodious voice. First, she would sing a fakra, and then the attendees would repeat it until all the announced fakras were completed. I still get goosebumps thinking of the hall resonating with the sound of the congregation singing. This would be followed by a sermon by Dasturji Dhalla, the High Priest of Pakistan.

After the Ham Bandagi, the priests would perform the communal Muktad prayers, which included Satum (Stum) prayers. And thus, the tradition of ten days of Muktad continued for Hama Asho Farohar. After the passing of Dasturji Dhalla, Ervad Godrej Sidhwa gave the sermons. On a lighter note, as soon as Godrej-ji would come to the podium, we young adults would whisper “aaj no mahro vishai …” because that’s how he would start his sermon. His pet peeve was the 10th day, when every year he would say, “aaj no divas patet no chhay, nahi kay KPI jai nay dance karvano” (“Today is the day of repentance, not to go for dinner and dance at KPI.”).

As the late Sarosh Collector mentioned in his article, he and I discussed continuing this tradition of Ham Bandagi in Houston—and we did, on Navroze day. This was an instant success. In the 1980s and 1990s, we had Ham Bandagi at Rothko Chapel, but with the building of the Zarathushti Center, which has a prayer room, we now have ten days of Muktad ceremonies culminating with the last prayers at Pachhli Raat (just before dawn), followed by the first Havan Geh Boi of Navroze. Later in the evening, we have a Ham Bandagi of the fakras with translation in Gujarati and English. And it continues at our Atash Kadeh to this day.

For ten sacred days, the fakras are chosen—voices raised in solemn cadence, invoking blessings and remembrance. This cherished rite, once anchored in Karachi’s agiaries and prayer halls, flowed through the eloquence of Dasturji Dhalla and the quiet devotion of Godrej Sidhwa, bridging generations across oceans. In Houston today, that same flame endures—rekindled with each Avesta recitation, each remembered name, each whisper of faith. What began as a moment of collective prayer has become a legacy, unbroken and undimmed, a lifeline of devotion connecting past to present, Karachi to the diaspora, prayer to purpose.

Thank you, Arzan, for allowing me to go down memory lane and remember the special days of the Muktad.

About Arnavaz Sethna

Arnavaz Sethna was born in Karachi and was involved in community service from a very young age, helping Manek and Naju Rustomji at the Navroz festival. She served on the Mama School alumni committee for many years. She emigrated to the USA in 1978, moved to Houston, and immediately became a member of ZAH. Later, she served on the Executive Committee as Secretary for several years and was FEZANA Secretary from 1999 to 2003. She is presently the FEZANA Journal Subscription Manager.

The post Everyday Parsi: Arnavaz Sethna appeared on Parsi Khabar.

Today is the Spentamainyu Gatha, the third Gatha day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our eighth author Roshan Rivetna.

Muktad Memories – From Mumbai (Bombay) to Chicago

Early Days in Mumbai

My early days, growing up in Bombay (Mumbai), were spent between my Bapaiji’s flat on Gowalia Tank Road (it has since been renamed after someone else — I don’t recall who) and my Mamaiji’s “Panday Bungalow” at the Tardeo tram terminus, which has now been torn down to make way for the bus terminal at Tardeo.

My Mamaiji, Navajbai — shown here in her early days — was head of our joint household. I recall her as a very simple, sweet old lady, always in a white muslin saree and blouse (as she had lost her husband at a young age), sitting and praying in an easy chair all day. If the ‘rama’, Manyo, happened to cross her path, she would mutter under her breath and shoo him away. While we questioned how the appearance of poor Manyo could possibly spoil her prayers, we deeply respected her faith.

The approach of Muktad days was very special in the Panday household. There was a special “bhunvano oddo” (prayer room) set aside for prayers. The whole house was cleaned and swabbed, and the ‘muktad na vase’ — each one inscribed with the name of a dear departed — were taken out from the large wooden ‘peti’ (trunk), polished, and laid out on the marble table, filled with roses and ‘goolcheri’ lilies. The Mobeds recited Muktad prayers and read the names of the dear departed every day, for 10 days (or was it 18 days?).

Those were the days when our whole family gathered to pray, firmly believing that the Fravashis of our departed souls would come down to visit us and bless us. It was very comforting to take some moments from our busy lives to sit in peace, reflect on our near and dear ones who had left us, and seek their blessings.

Muktads in Chicago

The few families in Chicago in the 1960s made attempts to set up Muktad in each other’s homes, but it was not until after the Arbab Rustom Guiv Dar-e-Mehr was built in 1983 that the community realized the value of this shared experience.

We are deeply grateful to the Mobeds of Chicago and to all those who come together to organize the Muktad prayers for five Gatha days at the end of the year at the Dar-e-Mehr. It draws a large number of people — some of whom come to the Dar-e-Mehr for only this one occasion every year.

It is truly a breathtaking sight, with long marble tables in the Prayer Hall, dozens of silver vases filled with fragrant, fresh flowers, and flickering divas. With all that is happening around us in the world these days, these are a few moments of peace and calm. As we sit there and feel the spirit of our dear departed around us, we reminisce about our lives, pray for their souls, and look forward to another year ahead with the blessings of our loved ones.

We truly hope that this tradition will endure for future generations in North America.

About Roshan Rivetna

Roshan Rivetna is perhaps best known for her stewardship of FEZANA Journal (1991-2005) and her publications “Legacy of Zarathushtra”, “Zoroastrian Connections with Judaism and Christianity”, “My Mother Used to Say,” and her demographic studies – “The Zarathushti World – a Demographic Picture” [FJ, Fall 2013]. Her efforts at bringing Zoroastrian singles together, were featured in New York Times [2009].  With her collection of floral decorations and ‘mandap’, Roshan is often called upon for gala events.  She offers culinary delicacies (www.ParsiCuisine.com/ParsiMithaiShop).   Roshan pursued a career in Nuclear Physics at Tata Institute of Fundamental Research, Argonne National Laboratory and AT&T Bell Laboratories.

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Today is the Ushtavaiti Gatha, the second Gatha day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our seventh author Mahtab Dastur.

The Muktad times have always been a time of prayer and remembrance. When we were younger, we would go to Mumbai every August for Muktad. Every morning we would meet my dad at the Agiary, where he prayed for his parents and his Kaka, along with all the other mobeds. I would look forward to eating the chasni, specifically the bright orange malido (I still miss it). These dasturjis would eventually be the ones who did my navjote, my brother’s navjote, and even his navaar and martab. Over time, they became such a common sight during my time in Mumbai that I began seeing them outside the Agiary too.

One particular memory reminds me of the dedication the head priest, Kaizad uncle, had — the quiet commitment he made. My dad once told me that head priests always wore white. I, the ever-evolving fashionista, couldn’t believe it. And then one day, on the way to the “Naka,” I saw Kaizad uncle running. Apparently dasturjis also exercise. He was in all white clothing, white sneakers included — though his shoes were embellished with rainbow-colored stripes. I guess all-white wasn’t available, or maybe he too wanted to express his inner fashionista. I mention this because I don’t think I’ve ever observed this level of dedication anywhere else. Ever.

And the Muktad times remind me of that dedication.

A few years before the COVID pandemic — perhaps one or two years prior — we stopped going to Mumbai for the Muktad prayers and started praying in Houston. The Muktad prayers here are different — special, but different. Being too young to really remember the transition, my memories of the Muktads are mostly filled with ZAH (the Zoroastrian Association of Houston), with a few scattered scenes from those Mumbai years.

Muktad preparations begin with a deep clean of the entire house — sweeping, dusting, mopping — with special attention to the laundry room. Why? Clothes are washed with meticulous care. As a family, we take out 11 sets of clothing (or as many as we can). Routine number one begins. Once the first load goes into the washer, a metal chair is placed outside the laundry room door. No one may enter without taking a full shower, head to toe, and without touching anything except the towel they’re wearing. Usually, my brother takes on the role of “clean runner,” transferring wet clothes from the washer to the dryer and starting the next load, all while wrapped in a towel. To avoid any “contamination,” the washer and dryer are purposely kept apart. This entire process is repeated for each load — and again during ironing, which takes the longest for the jamaas.

On the first day of our ten-day Muktad (not the eighteen like in Udvada — though maybe we should), we’re up at the (unholy) hour of 4 a.m. What follows is carefully practiced routine number two, perfected over years. After a quick breakfast of chai and bread — or cereal, for us kids — we shower and get dressed, taking care not to touch anything except our towel, the clean clothes in the laundry room, and the metal chairs we’ve laid out and sprayed (showered) with water. Around 5 a.m., Cyrus, a paramobed, often comes over, and we bring him with us to pray at the center. That’s where our prayers happen, an hour drive away, in the kids’ room — or, as we still call it, Vehishta Aunty’s room.

Still half-asleep on the drive (except my dad, who is driving and drinking his chai in typical Dastur fashion), we arrive each morning to the bright, familiar faces of Fred Uncle and Aban Aunty, already busy making parathas and arranging flowers — somehow always more awake than we are. Then comes routine number three: setup. By now, we’re a well-oiled machine, the routine coming to us like stories from the worn pages of a much-loved book. We empty, wash, and refill the vases. Flowers are rinsed, trimmed, and placed inside them. The vases are carried into the prayer room, where Aban Aunty insists they be arranged the “right way.” Fruits are washed, sliced, and set in kumchas. Malido is scooped into kumchas. Water and milk are poured into metal cups to put… into, you guessed it, kumchas. And then there’s my favorite part: the flower kumcha. Carefully snipped roses and peeled petals fill the last dish, beautifully arranged, if I do say so myself (and I do — I’m the one who does it).

After prayers, we do loban and head to the kitchen, where a delicious, mouth-watering breakfast awaits. Life is good. It’s potluck-style, so every day brings something new — like kera-per-edu (egg on banana). Then we go home. Except not really. My brother and I go to school, and my parents head to work. In fact, we used to need special permission just to miss the first few hours of school — especially tricky since the first day’s attendance gets reported to the state. (Even now, accommodations continue to be made, for which I’m deeply grateful. This year, for example, as I begin my second year at Rice University, I requested and was granted a single room during Muktad so that I can follow the same routine I would at home.)

The thing about going to school after Muktad prayers is we would go through our school day smelling like loban — not quite like smoke, but something sweeter, something headier. But of course, our friends couldn’t tell the difference. We’d have to explain to our friends that no, we don’t smoke. In fact, it would be against the religion. And really, we’re not smokers!

Truthfully, I actually quite enjoy the scent of the loban. Every time I smell it, I’m taken back to Muktads in India — flower vendors lining the sidewalk across the Agiary, and Parsis gathered to buy, hoping the vendor would recognize their name (or a relative’s) and offer a discount. The smell of loban also takes me back to the quiet murmurs in the Pak Iranshah in Udvada at night, where only divos light the room, lulling you to sleep (admittedly, I’ve dozed off there before).

And now, after years of doing Muktad in Houston, the smell of loban grounds me. It reminds me not just of the rituals, but of my quiet commitment — my responsibility to pray for the departed. I think of all the years before, sitting just as I do now, reciting the “usual” prayers like the Geh and Nyashes, and on Gatha days, the entire Gatha.

Muktad reminds me that our faith isn’t just cultural celebrations and good food. It’s also prayer — and doing the harder parts: waking up early, explaining why I smell like loban, requesting room changes, reading long Gathas in Gujarati, and listening to Peshotan uncle (our head priest during Muktad) give lectures after prayers, even as the smell of food from the kitchen tests our focus.

The Muktad is a reminder of the promise I’ve made to myself — to practice my faith to the maximum possible extent, even when it isn’t easy or “enjoyable.”

And in reminding me of the purest parts of our religion, the Muktad brings me back to the parts that make me feel most at peace.

About Mahtab Dastur

Mahtab B. Dastur is a sophomore at Rice University, studying Social Policy and Neuroscience. She currently serves as Rice University’s Student Association External Vice President and the Zoroastrian Youth of North America (ZYNA) Religion & Culture Co-Chair. Her passions beyond the community include youth literacy and healthy relationships, which she supports through her foundations, Books2Smiles and Project CARV. She has also presented on these topics at global leadership conferences, including Girl Up USA, the United Nations (as part of the FEZANA delegation), and Zoroastrian Congresses.

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Today is Ahunavaiti Gatha, the first Gatha Day of this year’s muktad. And in the 2025 Everyday Parsi series we feature our sixth author Ervad Adil Mithaiwala

In the Presence of Fravashis: My Muktad Journey

By Ervad Adil Mithaiwala

It begins with a bell.

A quiet Agiary at dawn. The air is heavy with sandalwood. The sound of the Boi echoes, soft and profound. I was just a boy of 11 when I first heard it — not as a devotee, but as a Navar-in-training. That bell became my heartbeat.

Becoming a Navar at the tender age of 11, I was one of the early batches of Mobeds to begin using English-transliterated prayer books. I remember those 25 days of Navar training vividly — the solitude of sleeping in the Agiary, the echo of the Boi bell in the stillness of Ushain Geh, and the quiet joy of knowing that the Venidad was scheduled that night, giving me a strange sense of calm and sleep.

Then came the day I was tied the pagdi — a moment that sealed a lifelong bond with my faith. Soon after my Navar, I was taken by Ervad Hoshang Randeria to Komra Agiary in Pune. At the time, English-printed Afargan or Farokshi books didn’t exist. It was my grandfather — my guru — who lovingly handwrote the entire set of prayers for me in a red-covered book. That red book became my foundation and tool to connect with the Divine.

Learning the Rituals — Farokshi and Humility

When Muktad arrived that year, I was told to pray only Farokshi, as I hadn’t attended Dadar Athornan for formal Mobed training. I didn’t even know how to place flowers in the khumcha. But I remember how I felt — sitting on that white sheet, facing vases filled with roses and tuberoses, the silver vessels glimmering in the dim light. I prayed loud. Too loud. I didn’t yet know the rhythm, or the humility in tone that Farokshi demands. But my heart was full. That was enough for the souls listening.

For years, I sat in the background — observing, absorbing. Little was given; much was learned.

But the experience — the fragrance of flowers, the atmosphere, the energy — gave me adrenaline and a burning desire to learn.

For the next 3–4 years, I performed limited duties, repeating the same roles, learning slowly. Then came a turning point.

Until one day, I shifted to Sir JJ Agiary, Pune — and into the hands of Er. Eruchshaw Dastur. Discipline met grace.

At the age of 17, I moved to Sir JJ Agiary, Pune, where I was mentored by Er. Eruchshaw Dastur, Panthaky Saheb of Udvada. Immaculate, organized, and spiritually magnetic — he surrounded the Agiary with highly trained Mobeds. It was here that I learned the Afargan, and how to truly pray with rhythm, voice, and throw.

Listening to Darayus Dastur was an experience in itself — his vocal energy unmatched. I absorbed everything I could.

Evenings during Muktad at Sir JJ were sacred. The setting up of tables, replacing flowers, checking satums — it wasn’t work, it was worship. We weren’t just performing rituals; we were preparing for guests — our ancestors. That feeling… no religion can replicate it. You don’t light a diva for the dead. You welcome them home. These were formative years, not just in rituals, but in human connection.

In 1986, I moved to Mumbai and came in contact with Ervad Kaikobad Randeria of Batliwala Agiary, where I stepped into the broader Parsi prayer circle — Parab prayers, Uthamnas, Jashans, days with more work — the learning never stopped.

Years later, life took me to Dubai. Another chapter. Another teacher — Er. Darayus Dastoor.

Later, in Dubai, I spent 12 spiritually rich years alongside Er. Darayus Dastoor, whose style, posture, and presence were profoundly impactful. This time, I was on the other side of the carpet — attending prayers, supporting my sons as they too became Mobeds and prayed alongside legends like him. Twelve years in Dubai — and not a single prayer was turned down. The souls kept visiting, and we kept receiving them.

Returning Home — A Full Circle

In 2016, my mother became unwell and doctors had given up. I was living close to the Agiary and felt a divine pull — a calling to offer myself in service. I believed that through my daily prayers and presence in the Agiary, I could bring some spiritual healing and peace to her.

It was during this time that the Panthaky of Batliwala Agiary, Ervad Viraf Pavri, asked if I could come daily, especially since one of the senior Mobeds had suffered a leg injury. I took it as a sign — a moment of gratitude to Pak Ahura Mazda for guiding me through the most difficult two years of my life in Dubai.

He was also planning to travel to the US for a Navjote and would be away for over a month. He suggested I could take over the morning Boi, but since I was not a Martab, I could not enter the Kebla.

I took this as a sign from above — a moment of realisation that if I became a Martab, I could not only help the Agiary, but also give Boi and offer Baaj prayers for my mother. That’s when I decided to formally become a Martab.

Under the guidance of Ervad Hoshedar Panthaky, I began my journey of learning — not just rituals and words, but deeper understanding and spiritual enlightenment. One of the greatest lessons I learned was that when you are truly happy, instead of partying, pause and pray. Be thankful. That lesson has brought me closer to the sacred work of a Mobed, and even closer to my mother, now in the spiritual realm.

Learning never stopped. I learned and performed many prayers and kriyas — Boi, Baaj, Navjote, Uthamna, Ashirwad, and more — taught by greats and guided by Ervads like Viraf Pavri, Hoshedar Panthaky, Khushrow Kanga, and Sherezad Pavri. Each year deepened my roots.

The Deeper Realisation — A Soul’s Purpose

Over the years, I’ve had a powerful realisation: God brings certain people into our lives for a reason — and sometimes, that reason only becomes clear much later.

As I stand in the Kebla, offering Boi prayers or reciting the Muktad liturgies, I am overwhelmed by a quiet but deep emotion. Many of the souls I now pray for are people in whose homes I once played as a child, eaten meals lovingly prepared by them, or been cared for with affection. It’s as though life has brought me full circle — and in that circle lies a divine plan.

It feels as if I have been chosen by them, guided by their Fravashis, to be the one to voice their remembrance. As if I was gifted by Pak Ahura Mazda the art of praying — not just with clarity, but with devotion so sincere that their families feel comforted, their grief softened, and their hearts given peace.

There is no greater fulfilment than seeing the glimmer of solace in the eyes of a grieving family, knowing that your prayer touched something eternal.

I have now been praying every single day for nearly a decade. And Muktad — it’s not an annual ritual. It’s an annual reunion. A spiritual Navjote of our bond with those who came before us.

Muktad — My Personal Festival of Faith

Today, Muktad to me is:

• The energy of vases and flowers.
• The love in the satums families bring — food cooked with memories.
• The quiet tears and radiant smiles of those feeling their loved ones close.
• The group of Mobeds — standing, sitting in their white jamas, and the sound of our prayers — the mathravani — floating in the air. That sight, that feel, that experience is beyond words. It cannot be explained — it must be felt. It must be lived.
• And finally, on Pateti day, comes the valavo, when about 100 people gather in the evening, pray the Patet Pashemani for ourselves, and say a final goodbye to our Fravashis. I bet every single person has tears in their eyes and softness in their heart. However, the New Day and New Year bring their own freshness.
• The fragrance of har, the white clothes, the sense of renewal before Navroze.

I’ve now prayed 365 days a year for over a decade, often for people whose lives once touched mine in small or big ways.

To those who ask me, “Ketla varas sudhi bhanavanu?” I ask — do you stop remembering your parents because a calendar said so?

“You’re not paying for words. You’re upholding a relationship.”
“Faith is an offering — not a transaction.”
“If you don’t hear the name recited by a Mobed, the ruvān still hears your niyat.”
“Prayers are letters of love — never undelivered.”

To forget one’s ancestors is to cut off the roots of one’s own tree.

And in every Boi, every Afargan, every whispered Farokshi — I feel those roots grounding me deeper in my din, in my duty, and in my identity as a Zarthoshti Mobed.

Muktad is not for the dead. It’s for the living. It’s a time when the air thickens with blessings, when the house smells of loban and roses, when vases shine like silver suns and satums sit lovingly prepared by hands that once fed their loved ones.

I have seen tears in people’s eyes when they see their loved one’s name written again. I have heard the silence of peace after a properly recited Afargan. I have witnessed Mobeds who carry their duty not as a job, but as their Asha.

There is greatness in our prayers. There is beauty in our rituals. And there is healing in our remembrance. From those who wrote books for us by hand, to those who tied our pagdis, to those who still bring us home-cooked satums — the soul of our community lives in these rituals.

We are not worshipping the dead. We are honouring the light they left behind. We are inviting them, once a year, to join us, to sit beside us, to feel our love. And we must never let that light go out.

This is my Muktad. My inheritance. My offering.

“To forget one’s ancestors is to cut off the roots of one’s own tree.”

Let us remember. Let us pray. Let us honour.

I often recall the words of an elder Mobed I once served alongside:

Muktad maa sukh nathi — shanti chhe.
(“There may not be joy in Muktad, but there is peace.”)

And that peace is profound.

To every Zarthoshti family today, I say this: Muktad is your opportunity to keep your connection alive with those who gave you life, values, and culture. You may not hear their voices — but they hear your prayers. They feel your remembrance.

Even if you cannot attend the Agiary, you can:

• Light a diva at home with love and intention.
• Say a small Ashem Vohu or Yatha Ahu prayer in their memory.
• Cook their favourite dish and think of them while you do.
• Sponsor a prayer through a Mobed you trust.

It is not the size of the ritual, but the sincerity of your remembrance that matters.

Muktad is a gift. A time to pause, reflect, and feel that sacred thread between generations.

In remembering them, we honour ourselves.

May the Fravashis bless us always.

— Ervad Adil Mithaiwala

Ervad Adil MIthaiwala standing behind Ervad Viraf Pavri, the Panthaki Saheb of the Batliwalla Agiary in Tardeo, Mumbai, India

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