Dastur dhalla autobiography rangers

At night they [32] would tell tales of kings and courtiers. I would listen to them with rapt attention. I had neither the knowledge nor the skill necessary to write a story. Yet after frequent alterations and amendments, a great deal of wastage of paper, ink, and energy, I conjured up a plot and started to scribble, all unknown to my revered uncle.

Seeing me spend many more hours in concentration at my desk, everyone believed that good sense had ultimately prevailed and I was at long last paying greater attention to my studies. I was in the matriculation class then. In seven months the story was completed. On enquiring at a press the printer quoted an estimate of Rs. I did not possess even Rs.

Many days passed in trying to solve the dilemma. At last, I summoned courage one day and revealed all the details to my uncle. He was taken completely unawares and my strange story caused him a great deal of surprise and sadness. Now he was able to fathom the enigma of my recent engrossment in studies. Examinations were fast approaching and, at such a time instead of studying my mind was absorbed in writing stories.

This knowledge pained him deeply. The following morning, I received a long letter from him. It was an admixture of advice, inducement and admonition. Respecting his counsel to store away story-books for a while and to concentrate on studies, I began to pay greater attention to my lessons. I knew it was impossible for me to pass, as my mathematics would surely go against me.

Even China had no attraction for me now. Rather than be a businessman in China, I was now bent upon being an author. Yet, in deference to the wishes of my elders, it was imperative that I appear for the examination. In all other papers I fared well but I avoided even to appear for the maths paper. I failed, yet I was declared successful in the results column of the Jame-Jamshed.

A friend came, beaming with joy, a copy of the newspaper in hand, to congratulate me. I acquainted him with the facts. He referred to the University Registrar who confirmed my failure. My failure was a severe disappointment to my family. All their hopes in me were shattered. My uncle persuaded me not to lose heart and to continue my studies, but I refused to abide by his advice.

From China word arrived that, notwithstanding what had happened, I should prepare to go to China now. Even this I did not obey. Everyone was most dejected. My beloved wife's father feared that the future of his dearly loved and favourite youngest daughter had been placed in the hands of a vagabond and that naught but gloom was in store for her.

He was quite well-placed in life and had a wide circle of friends. His family was to stay in a house at Kangavad at Navsari while he was to live with a few friends from Bombay in a bungalow in the compound. I was also invited to spend a dastur dhalla autobiography rangers there. I was most eager to go to Navsari — not to enjoy the 'toddy' of the vast grounds of Lunsi-Kui but because that would afford an opportunity to see and meet my beloved.

That, of course, in the presence of elders — never alone! Time effects strange and singular changes. Today in our community we have love marriages. The young people meet, get acquainted, friendship is fostered, love grows, they willingly choose each other as partners and carry the glad tidings to their parents. The elders get them engaged.

Should the wedding be delayed due to some reason, they meet freely and move about together without restriction. Then they get married. It was not so in my case. Since years we had been engaged and were even married. I had come to Navsari, the native place of my consort.

Dastur dhalla autobiography rangers: Dastur Dhalla became an ardent

My heart ached to meet her, greet her, and talk to her. Every morning I climbed the steps of the home of my in-laws. I craved to meet my sweetheart alone. But our meeting was always supervised and chaperoned. So my life's companion would sit in coy and maidenly modesty with a veil of silence and seriousness shading her smile. The senior members of the family would enquire about the welfare of my dastur dhalla autobiographies rangers and lengthen the conversation with meaningless gossip.

Of what value was that to me? My mind and heart would cling only to the [35] fascinating form in front of me. I was thirsty for the sound of her silvery voice. I longed to gather the flowers that may fall from her sweet lips. My heart danced with joy and my thoughts mingled with those of my beloved. In such a state of absorption if a question was shot at me unawares, I stuttered and stammered.

The joy that leaped within my heart was reflected through the windows of my soul. My messages sped through my glances, and they were not lost. By-passing the scrutiny of the surrounding guards they reached their intended target. The receiving heart immediately responded with delight and a slight blush suffused the cheeks and a soft smile played around the lips.

Our love-lit eyes met in love's language and our silent glances were more vocal than speech. Our hearts poured out the sweet melody of love. We drank deep at that joyous fount and quenched the thirst of our longing souls. Near the compound was a sweet-water well where our women-folk went in the evenings to fill their pitchers. Before pipes carried water into homes this was the only mode of conduction.

Thus our women reaped the benefit of an hour or two of fresh air. Even the well-to-do availed of this opportunity. The village-well of those days served the purpose of modern ladies' gymkhanas or clubs. Miserable daughters-in-law, tortured by the tyranny of a harsh mother-in-law or troubled by the taunts and tantrums of a sister-in-law, found relief in pouring out their tale of woe into the responsive ear of an equally wretched friend.

Both found solace in each other's narratives. Others laughed and sang and were merry as they filled their pots and went their way. The 'stop press' items of newspapers carried the latest news a few homes, hence the main-spring of gossip and rumour was that village-well. At least forty to fifty companions gathered thus every evening. I stood daily under the shade of a nearby [36] tamarind tree and watched the cavalcade of companions pass by with pots and pitchers balanced on their heads or hung at their waists.

One amongst the hundred was distinctly outstanding. My gaze was fixed upon this captivating beauty in the full bloom of her youth, with pitcher balanced on her head, gliding gracefully along, her cheeks flushed with a crimson glow of consciousness, her features radiant with a sweet smile, stealing sly glances at me. This bewitching water-bearer was my wedded wife.

My artistic soul painted the image of my beloved's beauty upon my heart wherein she found her anchor and her abode. The time for departure was drawing near. The train was to leave Navsari early the next morning. By pushing a single button from a power-station the electric lights of an entire city can be switched off immediately; even so did the divine sentinal of the sky extinguish in a flicker the myriad lamps that had lent light to the darkness of night.

Diligent womenfolk had already swept and cleaned their homes and imprinted upon their doorsteps the impress of happy augury and were chanting auspicious songs. The melodious chirping of birds mingled with their music urging the sun to rise. The creaking of the wheels of bullock-carts in the distance as they wended their way from the fields to the towns blended with the soft squeak of the water-wheel of the well in the vicinity.

From the branches of mango and tamarind trees was heard the welcome song of cuckoos heralding the spring. The tranquility of dawn lent serenity to the mind and roses and double-jasmine wafted their refreshing fragrance. There was still a little time for the train to arrive so we settled on a bench awaiting its arrival. By chance — or rather by contrivance — we sat side by side and that too at the furthest end of the bench.

Respecting the presence of the elders, with [37] whispers and glances, through slight touches and imperceptible flirtations, we rapidly exchanged sentiments of love and affection. The bell tolled, the train arrived. There was a hustle and bustle; the guard blew his whistle and even while I looked, my heart's delight, wrapped in white Chinese satin, receded from sight.

To me she seemed like an angel in the sky, this lovely creature of unparalleled beauty or form and features. But her image was absorbed in my being. My heart held its beloved within its deepest recesses. Upon my mind was sculptured the beauty of her form. Spiritually I was a born iconoclast — mentally I became an idolator. Innumerable events colour a man's life from dawn to dusk and he goes through varied experiences from the commencement of a year to its end.

He does not remember them all. Each event and each experience enacted in its own time exercises its own unique influence and is forgotten. But there are moments in every man's life that remain forever. They are engraved in his memory and become a part of his joys and sorrows for a long time to come. Such moments are rare, but when they do come they leave an indelible impression and are abiding.

In this existence of sunshine and shadows, the memory of such joyous moments brings strength and succour, hope and courage to man and make his life sweet and serene. With such beautiful and unforgettable memories I left Navsari to return to Bombay. The great patriot, Dadabhoy Navroji, had come to Bombay to preside over the 9th session of the Lahore National Congress.

In the Bible it is stated: 'Knock and it shall be opened to you'. Lal Mohan Ghosh had knocked twice on the doors of the British parliament but they were not opened to him; so, disheartened, he retreated. With the persistence of a Navsari-ite, Dadabhoy also knocked. He knocked again and again, repeatedly and ever louder, and only when they were opened, did this 'black man' of Lord Salisbury rest.

Elaborate arrangements were made to welcome Dadabhoy. Large arches had been erected at intervals on the road-side. On these and on flags were printed slogans inspiring patriotic ardour, vigour, courage, and enthusiasm. I read them attentively, copied them down on a piece of paper and pondered upon them. In processions I would joust and jostle to remain close to Dadabhoy's carriage.

At night I would read the account of the addresses and lectures delivered. In clubs and friendly circles this was the main topic of conversation. Whilst conversing, a challenge was thrown out as to who was competent enough to write an article in the newspaper about the welcome accorded to Dadabhoy. A penance of ten ' ' sit ups was decided upon and I took up the challenge.

Addresses and messages of congratulations had arrived from twenty-five different cities of the country and from various associations of Bombay. Nothing had come either from the "dastur dhalla autobiographies rangers" of Karachi or from the Parsi community there. I selected that subject and wrote a stinging article condemning the indolence and apathy of the capital city of Sindh and sent it to the 'Rast Goftar'.

This was my first and final correspondence in a newspaper. In the fifty-three years that have elapsed since that day, I have not penned a single correspondence either signed or anonymous, or under a nom-de-plume. My uncle was interested in books relating to religious matters and I had seen his small collection. In Bombay I bought approximately twenty-five books.

In our neighbourhood lived an old Marathi physician. He was habituated to opium. He was a good person with substantial fund of stories. Within a few days I had heard him relate twenty-five to thirty yarns. My interest in stories was stimulated. At the same time, I was attracted to more sound and serious reading. Dadabhoy Navroji was born in a poor family.

My heart always ached for the wretchedness and misery of the poor. My uncle frequently explained that a man may be born poor but he is not destined to live his whole life in poverty. Should he so desire, endeavour, and resolve to alter his condition, he could conquer this demon of misery. A beautiful lotus springs from muddy waters and lifts its head above the surrounding filth; the brilliant diamond is embedded in the soil; the glamour of a pearl is hidden within the oyster-shell; even so have men, born in poverty, become great and brought glory and honour to their tribe.

Poverty is hard to bear and painful, but it is not invincible. Born and bred in poverty, Dadabhoy Navroji by the strength of his character and the wealth of his knowledge conquered poverty. He had succeeded, then why shouldn't I? He had become renowned, then why not I? All day long such thoughts filled my mind and did not let me rest that night. I had gained something rare and precious.

I returned a new man. None could see the strange change that had come over me, for that was wrought within the recesses of my innermost being. Only my God and I recognised it. Suddenly I began to think great thoughts, cherish high ideals, dream noble dreams. My being longed to do something new, to become new, to achieve something new. I was neither educated nor learned.

Experience had not yet moulded me. But an inner voice prompted that I was capable of doing something, being someone. An undreamed-of self-confidence was born in me. A new force ran in my veins. A new enthusiasm filled my being. I was full of hope. Timid by temperament I was suddenly emboldened. Not to sail the seas in search of adventures in China, but to stay at home and achieve something yet unknown, to make a name in the world.

I felt that I was not quite a good-for-nothing; I was somebody. Pleasant day-dreaming can bring in its wake many pleasurable emotions. But these take wing no sooner than they are born. Who can stem the tide of fantasy? Within the twinkling of an eye it turns a wilderness into a bed of roses. The pauper becomes a prince in a flash of fancy. Many a castle built in the air comes crashing down to reality.

In my saner moments I would wonder if all my feelings were genuine. Were the thoughts that had brightened my mind mere flights of imagination? Were they just airy nothings? My conscience refused to accept such negative thinking. A job was not easily available and when one did come my way, it was to be an honorary apprenticeship. I realized that nothing could be achieved in this world without higher education.

I had attained no such education nor was I willing to do so, because that would entail the compulsory study of my detested subject — mathematics. If only I could find a school where I could study the subjects of my choice! I wanted to advance my knowledge of English, history, Persian, science, and other allied subjects, but such a school did not exist.

So I resolved to educate myself. I surmised that if I continued my reading — scholarly reading — my aim would be achieved. I started reading. I read a great deal and with great concentration. I read regularly, systematically, and with real interest and understanding. I fed my mind with fare that it could digest. With utmost care I chose my reading material and selected my books.

No one's advice was sought, but the contents of each library book were conned carefully, the preface read, and the pages scanned through. The chosen book was taken home. Not only did I read the book but deliberated on the matter also. Eagerly did I devour history, biography, and stories of travel. Within a span of five years I was attracted to books of deep philosophy.

Strangely, though the library was replete with novels, I never read them. It was particularly surprising as I had become the editor and-proprietor of a magazine that contained mostly fiction. Kaikhushru Kabraji was its editor. I was twenty then. My salary as an editor was Rs. At the office I was working in an honorary capacity, so this was my life's first salary.

As it faced a deficit in the very first year, the proprietor refused to continue its publication, so I took its liabilities upon myself. During that period it was the fortunate destiny of Karachi-ites to sip 'the nectar of knowledge' on the one hand and to refresh their minds with 'the fragrance of flowers' from 'the garden of wisdom' on the other.

I, too, encountered a loss; and, what was more important, within a very short time I lost all interest in writing the love-stories of Mehera and Silla. My mind was drawn to subjects relating to God, the soul, and the spirit. At the end of the third year, I discontinued the publication of that magazine. After all the accounts of the press had been settled, a deficit of a hundred rupees was due.

Through the very special favour of a Hindu friend, I was loaned that amount at an interest of an anna per rupee per month. This was my life's first debt. Every month Rs. Within a year I paid an interest of Rs. At last I decided to set aside my sense of shame and reveal the tale of my troubles to my dastur dhalla autobiography rangers.

Everyone in the family had been against this enterprise from the start. With great enthusiasm I had sent a copy of its first issue to my father-in-law [43] at Bombay. I received strict instructions from there never to send such trash to him again. From China came the admonition that I should abandon such vain endeavours and even at that stage consider going to China.

My uncle was not angry. With a slight reproach he immediately gave me the money. However, the following day I received a lengthy letter from him on the malady of incurring debts and the disgrace and dishonour that accompany a debtor. In ancient Iran child-marriages were unknown. After coming to this country, among the many Hindu practices adopted by the Parsis, this custom of getting children married at an early age was adopted.

Thus very young children were wedded; but, until they reached puberty, the boy and girl lived with their parents. Only after the girl came of age did she leave her parental home to go into the home of her in-laws. According to Parsi marriage laws, with the pronouncement of the words, "Een kanik osti Cooverbai namver" and "Eeyum coomari osti Cooverbai namvar", in Pazand and in Sanskrit, which mean: "Take this maiden named Cooverbai of priestly lineage," before the invitees witnessing the wedding ceremony, my in-laws presented to me their precious daughter in the holy rites of matrimony.

I had won this five-year-old delicate beauty — she was mine. Yet, even though full fourteen years had gone by, we lived seven hundred miles apart. Forty-five years after my uncle had settled in Karachi the auspicious occasion had arrived to welcome a daughter-in-law into our home. In the spring-time of youth, on the dawn of my twentieth birthday, my bride stepped into our home, there to remain forever.

Her advent brought light and sunshine into our home. Happy and light-hearted, she would turn the most sullen face into smiles and put speech into the mouth of the quietest creature — hence our home resounded with joy and laughter. Who would not like such a daughter-in-law? Everyone liked her and I liked her too. Being the only daughter-in-law in the home she soon became [45] the favourite of all.

Great changes were wrought in the mode and manner of our living by her entrance. My uncle announced that a pet of her parents, she had come from a happy home, had been reared on the best fare and brought up with love and joy, hence she should lack nothing in our home either. The menu was no longer to contain plain khichdi but some sort of sauce or curry or mince should be served with it.

Rice too should be served with some gravy. We used to be content with plain milk and chapatti as an evening repast once a week, but henceforth that practice should cease and it was decided to send for the 'bazaar' every day of the month. One dish should be prepared from any available vegetable. Besides these changes another major alteration was also introduced.

Until that time all the cooking, cleaning, sweeping, and other chores had been performed by my aunt and sister. Cooking remained with the women of the household, but it was decided to employ a young servant in the home so that the menial burden of sweeping and cleaning may not fall upon the daughter-in-law.

Dastur dhalla autobiography rangers: Dastur Dhalla: The Saga of a

Our love for each other was deep and abiding. Our life was full of sweetness and joy. We could not bear to lose sight of one another. Our conversation never ended. Every morning when I left for work, the women would naturally be in the kitchen. I would bid farewell to my aunt and sister and my wife would accompany me to the doorstep. The leave-taking was long and loving.

There never was an end to what we had to say to each other. When eventually I did tear myself away, she would wait at the doorway affectionately waving back to me as long as we could see one another. Meanwhile all sorts of things would happen in the kitchen. Something would over-boil or over-flow; something would simmer and scorch.

This became a daily affair. It was beyond my aunt's comprehension to fathom the contents of our unending [46] conversation. Her childhood's experience was completely different. Such a young couple dared not converse in the company of others. In Iranian homes there are two compartments — an outer portion called the birun and an inner portion, the andrun.

The veiled women live in the inner room. Parsi women were not veiled, but their conversation and contacts were strictly supervised and restricted. At eventide while returning from work many a passerby would come into view, but in my mind was the vision of one person only, and my eyes strained in eagerness for the sight of a single familiar face.

Laying aside some sewing or embroidery that was in hand, my one-and-only sweetheart would be at the window, anxiously awaiting my return. At the first glimpse of her my heart would leap with joy, my mind would find its happiness and the shadow of a smile would steal around my lips. Less than eight hours had elapsed since we had last seen each other, but it seemed to us that we were meeting again after eight days or more.

We could not bear to be separated or to be out of each other's sight. Our lives were entwined in love and oneness and we could not live without each other. Our hearts had become one. As an ivy clings to a bough, my beloved clung to me, and I in return loved her with equal warmth. She was the living embodiment of the loveliest poetry of my life.

She had turned my life into a beautiful song. Asho Zarathushtra counsels a couple on the threshold of marriage to let their love be pure and abiding and vie with each other in devotion. With my whole mind and heart and soul, I loved my beloved. She returned my affection with a deep and sacred devotion. Neither could conquer in this contest of love.

It seemed impossible to find another couple in the whole, wide world so deeply devoted and so passionately in love. It was not long before we realized that our thinking was not in harmony. Our thoughts were more divided than could be tolerated, more discordant than could be endured. Our principles of life were completely different. The gulf between us was wide indeed.

Our hearts were united in love and affection but our minds were drifting apart. In America couples are divorced on the slightest pretext. The husband and wife whose thinking differs, can easily obtain a divorce in courts of law on grounds of incompatibility of temperament. Our state was somewhat similar to that. My day began at dawn, at 4 a.

Lulled by the demon of laziness, my partner stayed in bed till 6. This pained me deeply. How can dame fortune favour the family whose home-maker did not invite her with songs and sweet speeches and who was not industrious enough to rise early and adorn the home with auguries of good omen? In order to vanquish the devil and to crush his evil intentions I would apply the 'waters of the Golden River' — 'taro' — three times religiously to my face, hands, and feet early in the morning.

This bull's urine was as holy in my estimation as the waters of the sacred Ganges to the Hindu. To derive the maximum benefit of its miraculous effect, I would apply a cupful of it three times over my whole body from the scalp of my head to the soles of my feet before bathing. Not only did my good lady refuse to use 'taro' but she even dared to dissuade me from doing so, with entreaties that I was harming my skin unnecessarily by the application of so unclean a substance.

Her words sounded false and even sacrilegious. I craved for an opportunity [48] to wreck my vengeance. At last, one day while she was bathing, I stealthily and suddenly poured a tumblerful of taro from above all over her. She raised a mighty hullabaloo and everyone came running, anticipating some calamity. When I placed my case before them, they declared my deed as correct from the religious standpoint, yet my uncle did not approve of my behaviour.

According to the Vendidad shorn hair is considered as desecrated as pared nails. I also believed that it was sinful to move about bareheaded or to dastur dhalla autobiography rangers with the head uncovered. In order to ward off sin I used to put on a deep, white night-cap like the one mobeds wear. My good lady did not approve of this.

She told me I looked like a corpse-bearer in that cap. Such words sorely annoyed me. We quibbled and quarrelled, reviled and reproved, but eventually were united. This became a daily affair; so, after six or seven months, I thought it advisable to suppress the source of evil. Instead of the white cap I donned a cap made of checked cloth.

Not pacified, my dear wife said I looked like a cook in that headgear. This was the limit. My aunt had not approved of the idea of my changing the white cap for a spotted one. She taunted me that I had been beguiled by a woman and related the following saying that she had heard in the regime of the East India Company: "Keep the under-dog in "dastur dhalla autobiography rangers" lest he gain an upperhand.

She added that under similar circumstances a young man was made to dance to the tune of his mistress. On seeing him thus subdued, his mother had asked, "Son, who has turned you into such a cock? Thus my beloved had bestowed on me the titles of corpse-bearer, care-taker, and cook, and my aunt had dubbed me a cock. How could such misery be endured?

But how could that be? I was her rightful husband and as such was responsible for her joys and sorrows. If she did not use taro, disregarded the rules of piety and purity, flouted customs and conventions, it would result in heinous sin and after death her soul would lose its way and be unable to cross the Bridge of Doom [Chinwad bridge].

At that time the Lord of Justice would surely hold me accountable for her failings being her husband and the custodian of her behaviour! Just as I was responsible for her happiness here, I was equally responsible for her soul's immortality hereafter! My wife would feign to be wise and advise me that both of us should follow the axiom of 'live and let live'.

But that was impossible. Were I to do so, I would be failing in my duty and how could I reply to the spiritual judges who would stand at the door-way on the day of retribution? I searched for religious references in defence of my conduct and after much labour I found a few. This relieved me considerably. I was confident that I would be able to defeat my wife in her arguments now.

Quite pleased with my discovery, I approached her, all smiles, the Arda Viraf Nameh in hand. In it was written "Once there was a husband and there was a wife. The husband was noble, the wife ignoble. Both died and approached the courtroom of the Almighty. Justice was meted out. Heaven was the husband's due, the wife was sent to hell. When the demon started to drag the wife hellwards, she turned back to her husband and jeered: 'You were my husband and today you are selfishly strutting to heaven.

Why did you not save me from the pathway of ruin? But, no. On the contrary this emancipated [50] woman discredited the validity of Viraf's writings and qualified them as crazy crowings, thus tantalizing me with her taunts. What an evil destiny was mine!! Within the recesses of my mind lingered the thought that I had harboured in my home not a wife but a woe.

Whence, why, and wherefore had come this disgrace into our sweet, simple, and serene existence? Religion teaches man lessons of truth and devotion.

Dastur dhalla autobiography rangers: The Karachi priest, Dastur Dhalla proposed

It holds before mankind the ideal of universal resurrection on the Day of Redemption. Yet that same religion raises jihads throughout the world, pitches man against man, divides communities into sects and castes and creates bitterness and misunderstanding between loved and loving ones. By dint of his profound intellectual powers, unmatched knowledge of the doctrine, and persuasive rhetoric, he was instrumental in creating a resurgence of religious awakening among the youth, who flocked by the hundreds to hear his brilliant lectures.

He taught that religion is a thing of the heart, not of the head. When he spoke, his countenance radiated light and his listeners felt that their souls had awakened to a new life! But, as Pouruchisti remembers, most of all, "Bapa was a very kind and gentle soul. He enjoyed doing his own daily work, such as making his bed, dusting his books and washing his own teacup.

He would have to turn a coin over to read its worth. I remember once, he received Rs. What will we do with so much money? E arly life. Dastur Dhalla was born in at Surat. His parents lived in a hovel in one of the poorest parts of the city, where his father and uncle practiced the priesthood. According to the custom of those times, Maneckji was married at the age of nine to a girl, Cooverbai, from a well-to-do priestly family of Navsari, who was barely 5 or 6 years old.

Pouruchisti tells a little story about the marriage. After the wedding Motamama stayed with her family in Navsari. When Mama was nearly 18 years old, Bapa went to Navsari with his family to bring his bride home. He came upon a well where several young girls were drawing water. There he saw, and immediately fell in love with one of the girls. He went back home and told the story to his family - which he had chanced upon a girl at the well, whom he had fallen in love with at first sight.

Maneckji was ordained a navar at the age of At 19, in order to make a living, he took up a clerical job in Karachi, which he held for 8 years. But all through this periodManeckji did not forsake his overwhelming aim in life to become a scholar. He would get up at 4 am, and devote at least three hours every morning to reading and writing before proceeding to his office.

After work he would stop by the library, and devote another dastur dhalla autobiography rangers hours every day to his studies. Through his painstaking studies, he had acquired enough knowledge about the Zarathushti religion, to publish a monthly pamphlet called Gulshan-e-Danesh at the age of At 22, he published his first book of pages on the religion reflecting his views during this highly orthodox, early period of his life.

During this time, Maneckji was also making his mark as an erudite and knowledgeable public speaker. On one such occasion, he so impressed an eminent, visiting theologian, Mr. Cama, [after whom the renowned K. Cama Oriental Institute of Mumbai is named] that the latter made a fervent appeal to the Parsis in Karachi to send Maneckji for a training course at the Athoman Madressa in Bombay.

With Rs. Cama himself, Maneckji came to study at the Madressa. Working hard day and night, with zeal and diligence, he completed the 5-year course in 3 years. His teachers at the Madressa had instructed him in knowledge based on tradition. Subjects ParseesBiography. People Maneckji Nusservanji Dhalla Edition Availability 1. Dastur Dhalla, the saga of a soul: an autobiography of Shams-ul-ulama Dastur Dr.

Dhalla Memorial Institute. D43 B The Physical Object Pagination vx, p. Community Reviews 0. Dhalla Memorial Institute in English. December 12, December 7, October 11,