The Milk, the Sugar, and the Spark – Story of the Parsis

(Image originally published in India Today, October 2024.)

A tale from across the sea and time

The Parsis didn’t arrive in India with drums or declarations. They came quietly, after much had already been lost. Generations ago—some say more than a thousand years—Zoroastrians fled their homeland in Persia. Their temples had been desecrated, their way of life threatened. What they carried with them was not wealth or weapons, but something far more sacred: the fire.

For Zoroastrians, fire was not just light and warmth. It was holy. A symbol of truth, of purity, of divinity. Wherever they went, they tended it with care—keeping it alive through exile, across oceans, into unknown shores.

Eventually, they reached Gujarat. Tired, displaced, but not defeated.

There, they sought permission to stay. The local king, Jadi Rana, met them—but did not offer a direct reply. Instead, he sent a silent message: a vessel filled to the brim with milk. The implication was clear. His land was full. There was no space for outsiders.

The Zoroastrians didn’t speak. They took the milk, added a spoonful of sugar, and returned it. Their answer lay in the gesture: We will blend in. Quietly. Sweetly. We will not overflow. But we will enrich what is already here.

That story has lived for centuries—not in textbooks, but in kitchens and courtyards. It is said to come from the Qissa-i-Sanjan, an epic poem written long after the events themselves. Whether it happened exactly like this, no one knows for sure. But in the Parsi community, the tale endures as truth of another kind. A symbolic memory of grace, intelligence, and willingness to belong.

The king allowed them to stay.

A Place Found, and a Place Built

The Parsis kept their promise. They didn’t just integrate—they became essential.

Over time, they learned the local tongue, adopted Indian dress, observed Indian customs, all while keeping their own faith burning. They did not lose themselves in assimilation—they deepened the country by bringing something quietly different into its fold.

When they eventually moved to Bombay, they built more than homes. They built industry. They built hospitals and schools. They built opportunity. They became visionaries of modern India—not loud, not showy, but principled, precise, and deeply generous. The kind of people who didn’t need to ask to be recognised—they simply were.

The Tatas, the Godrej’s, the Wadia’s. Architects, educators, scientists, philosophers. Their names echo across generations, but always with a quietness. They gave to their country without asking to own it.

The Lesson in the Legend

Today, the world struggles with the question of migrants and belonging. Some speak only of burden. Some react with fear. Some demand borders. But this old story—the one with the milk and the sugar—offers something different.

It shows what is possible when people arrive not to take, but to contribute. And when a host has the grace to receive, not from obligation, but from openness.

The Parsis were never called “outsiders” again. Because they never acted like they were. And perhaps, in their own way, they taught both the migrants and the hosts of the world a lesson that still matters:

It is not enough to find space. You must make yourself worthy of it. And when you do, you do not remain a guest—you become part of the home.

At the Edge of Firelight…

The Parsis didn’t just arrive in India. They offered a promise — to sweeten the land without spilling over. And they did. Quietly, powerfully, through steel and scholarship, architecture and art… and food.

From the mourning pot of Dhansak to the wedding custards of Lagan nu Custard, theirs is a cuisine steeped in memory, generosity, and fire.

(Image credit: India Today, “A tale of sugar and milk: How Parsis found a home in India,” 2024.)

Here at Ladles and Lore, we follow their story… one dish at a time.