When dusk shrouds the hill, the eerie silence is punctuated by the rustle of leaves and the steady chirp of crickets. A narrow path through the woods leads to two ancient, circular stone towers presided over by vultures. This is where the Parsis - Bombay's small, affluent community of Persian emigres - offer their dead to the vultures, a medieval desert ritual that is still practised in the heart of a bustling metropolis.The Parsi Towers of Silence - spread over 50 acres of prime real estate - stand on Malabar Hill next to some of the most elite addresses in Bombay. Thick greenery screens groups of mourners from the gaze of the curious. Around this retreat rise skyscrapers, and above the hum of the undergrowth you can hear the muted roar of city traffic. It is a surreal world set against the urban backdrop of 20th-century India.

But outside a row of dingy staff quarters, the evening gossip is reassuringly earthy. From the comfort of his old armchair, Rustom Bharucha estimates the weight of a corpse that came in the previous day. "One ton, I tell you!" he grins, drawing dry chuckles from a group of cronies who down their daily chhota pegs to ward off the rigours of a long day at work. Like the others, 62-year-old Bharucha is a khandiya, or pallbearer, who inherited the profession from his father.

It is a tough, dehumanising job. Death is often partial to ungodly hours, and frequently the men have to work a 24-hour shift. They go to fetch the body, bathe and prepare it for the funeral rites. Then the corpse is carried uphill and deposited in the towers. Several weeks later, the khandiyas sweep away the remains of the body.

They are not exactly thanked for their service. "People are afraid to touch us because even our glance is supposed to be polluting," says an aggrieved Sorab Kapadia, a 39-year-old. His lot perhaps is no different from that of the Hindu, but Kapadia belongs to a community that wears its casteless credentials with pride. The cut, naturally, is all the more unkind. Liberal in outlook and relatively westernised, the Parsis practise no caste system, and social rank is rarely of any consequence. "Yet no one wants to accept us or marry our children," says Sorab's wife Banoo, resignedly.

It doesn't help that the community is both dwindling and wealthy. With barely 75,000 Parsis worldwide, there are few takers for the pallbearers' job. Bombay, the Tarsi capital', has only 13 khandiya families struggling to cope with a grim demographic reality. Inter-racial marriages and a preference for small families have resulted in Parsi death rate becoming almost three times the birth rate.

The enforced seclusion of the khandiyas, and consequent inbreeding, has knitted the families together in a maze of complex conjugal ties. "Since marrying outside the Parsi community is still a cardinal sin and marrying within more or less taboo, the khandiyas matrimonial market gets hopelessly restricted," explains Homi Dastur, joint director of the Bombay Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan.



And chances of change seem remote. "If the children are of the same age, we encourage them to fall in love," says 49-year-old Delnawaz Sethna. Few find partners from "respectable" Parsi families, but when it does happen, there is much rejoicing. For the younger generation, the world outside is a promised land, the only release from the repressive legacy of their forefathers. Many have educated themselves and found other jobs.

Some, like Peston Nanji, tried their wings but found it hard to spurn a monthly salary of Rs 2,000 and free living quarters. After serving as a chauffeur for seven years. Peston returned to the fold when his first child was born, rejecting offers from the numerous Parsi charities that dole out generous amounts to the community's poor. Peston would rather do any other job, but came back for the money and the facilities. For the Khandiyas of Bombay, defying their destiny, as Peston discovered, isn't going to be easy.