Mr. Homi Merwan Engineer

Homi Merwan Engineer, born in Bombay on September 2, 1914, passed away peacefully in Vancouver, B.C. on July 9, 2010 at the age of almost 96 years. He was the husband of Soonoo and father of Merwan and Rukshana. Homi was the second of eight children of his beloved mother Maneck and father Merwan Irani.

Eulogy by son Merwan Homi Engineer followed by Eulogy by daughter Rukshana Engineer

Homi had vivid and fond memories of his youth: traveling on a bullock cart to school; inspecting the rails on an inspection trolley with his father; corralling his siblings for calisthenics lessons with quirky Japanese instructor Yamaki Yamaki; walking through the beautiful Karachi of old with it’s saintly Mayor, Jamshed G. Metha, a friend of the family; beating the older boys in races up to the table lands at Parsi High School Punchgany. Most vivid of all, was the memory of his older brother Aspy beating J.R.D. Tata and others to win the Aga Khan Prize given to the first Indian to fly solo from England to India. Aspy was barely 17 years old. Homi, only 15, did most of the the flight route planning. When he discovered a serious error in his mapping, Homi prayed for his brother's safety. Aspy, confused by a map, threw the map out of the cockpit and flew safely via the coastline to his next destination. When J.R.D. landed at Karachi airport, a proud Homi proclaimed: “Well Tata, my brother beat you; I'll drive you into the city”. Gracious in defeat, J.R.D. hired brother Jangoo to be one of his first pilots in Tata Airlines (which later become Air India).

Academically, Homi was precocious. He matriculated from High School at age 14. After a few years of college, he won an electrical engineering scholarship to the University of Sheffield. At the end of the first year of study abroad, Homi was devastated when he could not find his marks posted until a friend pointed out that he was on top of the list at 100%. He continued to graduate at the top of his class.

The adventure in Europe had dark passages. A 19-year old, Homi found that his rudimentary German was useless and he was distained in Nazi Germany. Much worse, he challenged a Duchess in a public forum saying that he had letters from home describing recent British atrocities in India. This triggered a press investigation and public apologies by those who had written Homi. Regretfully, he blamed his outspokenness for stressing his father who died of asthma shortly thereafter. Homi also blamed his outspokenness for not being selected for the very prestigious Indian Civil Service, even though he had the highest exam marks.

In the Great Depression, Homi competed in the Indian Service of Engineers exams against thousands of other desperate unemployed engineers. He got the highest mark to secure the only vacancy to a non-Muslim.

During WW2, Homi supervised the laying of telephone lines in India. He was ruthlessly efficient and exposed his colleagues as being corrupt by doing the same job at one-third the cost (with death threats for a reward).

The Engineer family name was in the news when Homi’s three brothers Aspy, Minoo and Rointon were each awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for their courage in engaging the enemy. Brother Jangoo was also an outstanding aviator. For their aviation accomplishments see: http://www.bharat-rakshak.com/IAF/personnel/tributes/1074-engineers.html#gsc.tab=0

After the war, Homi served as Lieutenant Colonel in the reserves. He was proud of supervising telecommunications in Delhi during transition to Indian independence. Shortly afterwards he oversaw the installation of the first electronic exchanges in India, both in Delhi and then in Calcutta.

A workaholic, Homi married Soonoo Chandabhoy of Poona at the late age of 37 years. Besides being beautiful, Dad chose Mom because he liked the sound of her voice and the intelligence of her politics. Mom chose Dad because he was brilliant, dynamic and dashing. The new couple were fortunate to spend a lovely time in Europe. A child evaded them, but ailing Mother Maneck-bai vowed she would not die until Homi had a son. Five years later, son Merwan arrived, and Maneck-bai passed away soon thereafter.

The dust and heat of India took its toll on Homi with frequent serious attacks of asthma. Soonoo too was finding the heat left her anemic. An acquaintance suggested Vancouver. At age 42, Homi landed in Vancouver in 1957. Dad quickly got a job, purchased a house in Kitsilano, and bought a fully automatic Mercury Monterey. He was prepared when Mom and baby Merwan followed six months later.

Sis was born in 1961 and became the first Vancouver Parsi to be granted Canadian citizenship. In a few years other Parsis came to Vancouver. I remember pleasant gatherings with the Bachas, Confectioners, Pavri’s, and Wadia's. Convinced by Dad’s description of Vancouver as Shangri-La, brother Rointon and niece Shireen and families arrived in the early 1970s.

Homi, along with the late Jamshed K. Pavri, was a founding member of The Zoroastrian Society of British Columbia in February 1968. He helped Jamshed in managing the Society’s administrative matters, including drafting its original constitution. In the wider community, Homi and Leslie Strike founded the India-Canada Association in 1958. Leslie writes: "It grew and flourished for quite a few years with the help of people like Dr Pandia and the Indian Consul General at that time. The first founding dinner took place at what was then the Georgia Towers Hotel. About 300 attended. Homi was the President and I was the 1st Vice President until 1968. Many of the meetings were combined with visits of speakers with fellowships from the English-Speaking Union. I remember one of the outstanding events was the first North American concert appearance of Ravi Shankar, who also attended a reception at the Engineer residence, and later still of dancer Uday Shankar. We also had General Choudhury, Chief of the General Staff and later Ambassador to Canada. I also met Madame Pandit Nehru when she visited Vancouver and Victoria on her way to her UN speech." As the Association's president, Homi hosted an evening with Indira Gandhi at the Queen Elizabeth theater in 1973. The Association become the Indo-Canadian Friendship Society of British Columbia in 1974 with Gurdev Gill as its president. With Inderjit Singh Kohali, Homi started the Indo-Canadian magazine. He was the main champion defending India in the Vancouver Sun through the 1960s-70s."

Homi worked at BC TEL (now called Telus) until retirement. He represented the company at the Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC) hearings. Not wanting to retire, he became a stock broker. Both before and after retirement, Homi took up various causes. When he got convinced of something he went full steam ahead. He spoke in public forums on issues as diverse as circumcision and investments. An unfortunate fixation was on precious metals as a hedge against the inevitability collapse of the financial system. This proved to be Homi's financial waterloo and something that alienated and isolated him from others.

Through much of my youth, Dad was sickly with asthma. There were many close calls and he was convinced he was going to die young like his father. The amazing thing is that he got healthier with age. He attributed his longevity to his new passion for health foods and treatments. I think his longevity was also due to his keen interest in the news and the ability to concentrate intensely. Right up until his last few days, he still followed tennis avidly. In the nursing home we play wrested intensely, like when I was child. My favorite childhood activity became alive again, except now he tried to win.

With age Dad also become more humble and sweet. His sharp memory reviewed his whole life and he slowly came to realize that, though thwarted in many ambitions, he was blessed with a very full life and love ones. The last of his dear Maneck-bai surviving children, he was happy to join his parents, siblings and old friends in the hereafter.

Amongst the living, Homi will be remembered as an endearing and frustrating iconoclast. I will continue to play wrestle with Dear Dad in the here and in the hereafter.

Eulogy by daughter Rukshana (Roxanne) given July 14th, 2010

Dad was many things to many people. He could be charming, witty, clever, even brilliant at times; tenacious, determined, and fiesty... He could also be difficult, bossy, and full of himself, and so, if my words today ring of a certain cocky coinfidence, please know that after days of being in a tired haze, I awoke today flooded with ideas thanks to Dad's spirit tapping me on the shoulder to get busy and compose something in his honour!

When I look at Dad's life, I see an intellectual wizard, a spirited rebel rouser, and an independent maverick full of vim, vigour and wit... A man who upon being introduced to a Dr. Monroe, quipped, "As in the Monroe Doctrine? Well, you're not as good-looking as Marilyn Monroe, but you'll do!" I also see a man with his share of flaws and lessons to be learned through this journey we call life. But above all, I see a man of passion. For Dad was passionate about many things, and the passion he imbued most profoundly in me was one for politics.

I distinctly recall as a child how night after night, for years on end, he'd sit in front of the evening news - or more like hop up and down, red-faced like Rumpelstiltskin as my Aunt Pat would fondly call him - yelling at Walter Cronkite or God forbid, any politician who'd dare enter our livingroom peddling his propaganda, "You're lying! You're lying! You bloody CIA bastard!" For whether it was villagers victimized by South American juntas or staged, fake terrorism, Dad cared deeply about injustice and exposing the weapons of mass deception used to feed the hungry war machine and contort the course of history. A stickler for accuracy, he'd chastize anyone who'd dare call the tragedy in Iraq a "war" when it was clearly an invasion that had obliterated over a million lives. And to those who'd pearch the likes of Churchill or Patton on an historical pedestal, he'd curse "humbug" and lecture them on the true hero of World War II, General Zukhov, a figure without whom he felt his very future, like that of much of humanity, would have been jeopardized. An idealist much of his life, Dad even considered joining the international brigade fighting against Franco. He'd lost several friends in the bloody turmoil but fortunately for us, never ended up acting on his impulse to challenge the Spanish tyrannt. Reflecting on my own life and passion to make a difference, I believe it's thanks to him and my wonderful peace activist mother that I developed the news radar to peel back the onion of lies, connect the dots, and unmask the gospel of officialdom as regurgitated by a controlled, complicit media.

On the lighter side, Dad was a passionate viewer of tennis, ready to cheer on his favourites and pan those he'd considered ego-driven or spoiled. Serena Williams and Rafael Nadal were on his tennis hit list, while cheers rang true for Roger Federer and Stephie Graf. He also enjoyed viewing soccer and was thrilled on the rare occasion that cricket was broadcast on TV. I remember once taking him to Emergency, where the 92 year old astounded one of the hospital staff by recounting in astonishing detail an Australian cricket match and its star player from seventy years back! No cultural illiterate, Dad loved classic old movies, ballet, and opera, and would relish detailing the trials and tribulations of his favourite stars from the great activist, gospel singer Paul Robeson to the legendary Luciano Pavarotti. Though no ballet expert, dad's propensity for offering opinions on most every topic yielded a great admiration for Galina Ulanova whom even in her 40's danced Giselle with the "lightness" of a girlish peasant. Conversely, he'd lament that "poor" Margot Fonteyn wasn't as ravishing as her British dancing peer, auburn-haired, Moira Shearer, no matter that Fonteyn was, indeed a raven-haired beauty! Ballet was my first passion in life, and Dad fed my obsession over the years with a collection of newspaper critiques and articles carefully snipped out, dated and highlighted.

A mental exercise enthusiast, Dad adored bridge and chess and even managed to devour challenging crosswords into his early 90's. And if I ever went blank as to how

to spell a word, I'd lazily phone Dad and my personal walking dictionary would come to the rescue! No doubt, his knowledge and love of the English language flourished from a passion for poetry that he cultivated in his youth. In fact, when workacholic Homi was forced by his boss to take a holiday, he spent time in the hills immersing himself in poetic classics. Any wonder that till almost the end, Dad could recall the lines to 'Lucy Gray' and 'Elegy in a Country Church-Yard'. His senior sharp mind addicted to mental workouts, made him particularly intolerant of intellectual midgets. I fondly recall how he grimaced when a volunteer at elder daycare showed a photo of Einstein and patronizingly asked the group, "Now does anyone know who this is?" Dad indiginantly retorted, "Elementary, my dear, everyone knows that's Einstein!" and proceeded to lecture her on Einstein's theories complete with mathematical formulas. Needless to say, Dad refused to return to the intellectually-barren facility!

But it was when he took pen to paper that he was at his flamboyant, colourful best. Whether writing poignantly about family, passionately about politics, or playingfully

toying with humour in one of his imfamous award-winning Toastmaster creations, Dad took artistic licence to a whole new level, generously using bold capitals and underlines to transport the reader from complacency to passion. But nothing, absolutley nothing, revved up the old typewriter faster than his reaction to current events, and Dad became imfamous over the decades for his frequent, biting letters to the editor. For whether you agreed or disagreed with him - as I and my brother, the "impudent young puppy", sometimes did - no regular subscriber to The Vancouver Sun could ignore the man from 5830 Granville St.! Indeed, for better or worse, I inherited my "letter to the editor" gene compliments of dear Dad.

As the years passed, his tirades to the editor waned but not his zeal to impart advice, and so in his 80's, he decided he'd write a book and day after day for months on end, he'd bus out to the U.B.C. library with lunch in hand where he'd burn the midnight oil, determined to awaken the public with his sage advice. Although Dad's book never materialized, I still marvel at the energy and determination invested in pursuing such a daunting endeavour in the twilight of his years.

And dad was determined to get whatever mileage out of those years that he could. Upon discovering in his 70's that he had cancer, he flung his cigarettes under a chair

(he smoked off and on in his life) where they'd permanently rest in peace. He then embarked on a protocol of dark bread, sardines, vitamins, and even carrot and broccolli juice. Gone was the "dead" white bread of yesteryear. And through the advice of his good friend Leslie Strike, coupled with the health foods he now embraced, he not only reduced his heavy intake of prednizone, but eventually freed himself entirely of the drug and the very asthma that had come so close to stealing his life several times. Once liberated of pharmacheutical enslavement, Dad became an alternative health convert preaching to friends and strangers alike to abandon their MD for an ND.

Determined to make up for years of inactivity, Dad would jaunt off to Lost Lagoon to feed the ducks till he could no longer handle the jealous geese nipping at his shins. Much against our pleas, he then turned to climbing his apartment stairs in a noctural ritual that would seep into the wee morning hours. Ah, but what could you expect from a headstrong fellow who despite several bad falls and rebounds like the energizer bunny, stubbornly insisted that he'd never submit to a cane before the age of 90! Luckily, we foiled Dad's plans and convinced him to adopt a cane at 89, pleading that it would ease the worries of Mum and Merwan about to part for India. If Dad's withering gait revealed his advancing years, atop his shocking pink stationary pink bike, he was something to behold. There, once safely perched, this gaunt 92 year old in his striped pyjamas would pedal like a madman!

But rest assured that Dad's dogged determination to win the bet amongst his brothers as to who'd live the longest, did not deter him from enjoying the finer things in life which included my Aunt Pat's lamb vindaloo, neighbour Coomi's dal ni puri, and just about anything our dear friend Khorshed Panthaky would lovingly prepare. And though he'd be the first to admit he was no match for these culinary divas, we'd all enjoy his one of a kind, everything but the kitchen sink, chicken curry and his super immune boosting salad with big chunks of apple, fresh ginger and garlic on a bed of butter lettuce and tomatoes swished with olive oil and lemon juice. And when it came to favourites, Dad had plenty, including samosas and alfonso mangoes only available in India. Closer to home, he enjoyed the fresh soups, yam fries, spinach patties and goat yogurt that he bought on his frequent jaunts to Capers a block from his westend abode where the cashiers would warmly greet the lovable 91 year old by name. But by the end of his life, his number one favourite treat was pure dark chocolate, and he'd comically remind me that it was my duty as his daughter to keep him well supplied with the prized bars.

Yet even the joy of food could not escape debate. When the news pundits lashed out at eggs for their high cholesterol, Dad would sneer, "Nonsence, every Englishman enjoyed eggs daily when I was a young." And sure enough, the conventional theory of cholesterol being the culprit in heart disease rather than a byproduct of initial health insults is being challlenged today. Just as well, since growing up, Dad made a Sunday ritual of preparing spicy potatoes, onions, tomatoes and Canadian back bacon topped with eggs and tabasco sauce. As for white anything, be it bread, rice or mashed potatoes, he'd lecture the staff at Little Mountain on how detrimental these were, citing a Toastmasters speech given decades earlier in which the speaker threw a loaf of white bread on the ground denouncing the "poison" as "pure garbage."

On the restaurant front, he'd hot-headily debate anyone who dared compare his beloved spicy curry with bland Italian pasta or God forbid, raw fish! When incensed Dad couldn't stomach how popular Japanese food was in Vancouver, I'd gently reassure hm that in Scotland, Indian restaurants outnumbered those of culinary inferior nations. Why, even good old fashioned baked beans, the "simple man's food" was superior to dull foreign fare according to Dad's tastebuds. But then, Dad's baked beans bursting with veggies and spices, was as unique as he was!

Alas, even this fiesty, Indo-centric gourmand could not stave off the affects of aging indefinitely. At the age of 91, Dad finally consented to move into a suite in my building where he maintained some degree of independence thanks to neighbour, Heidi and myself attending to basic household chores. Having had one fall too many, we got word on dad's 94th birthday that there was an opening at a care facility and that the family would have but two hours to think it over. We gently broke the news to Dad, glad that finally he'd be under 24 hour supervision but disappointed that it wasn't the care home we'd hoped for. Well, only an hour later, we got a phone call letting us know that an opening at Little Mountain Care - our first choice and only steps from Mum's condominium - had just come up. What remarkable timing! Had Dad's mother, known for her amazing power to change the course of events, "Intervened.?" Who knows... The shocked caseworker just kept repeating that in all her years on the job, she'd "never" seen two in demand openings become available within less than an hour.

The last few years of Dad's life were trying. It wasn' t easy for a man who'd been used to exercising at 3 am and concocting a breakfast of oatmeal and bee pollen for the afternoon, to surrender his sovereignty to an institution. The man who once boasted he could change my diapers in a flash, now had to rely on others for his basic needs. But out of this imposed vulnerability emerged a silver lining. He became gentler and sweeter, often using terms that years earlier had been rare in our daily interaction like "love" and "God bless you"... And though living confined to his chair and bed yielded far more downs than ups, what remained largely in tact was his rye, spontaneous sense of humour. I remember once asking, "Dad are your feet cold or hot?" to which he immediately piped back, "They're ugly! If they didn't belong to me, I wouldn't wear them!" In May 2009, when I told a receptionist that Dad was 94 years old, he jokingly objected, "No, that's not correct! I'm 95!" Nevermind his birthday was in September, he was damn sure he was going to get credit for anything over ninety-four and a half! So needless to say, we'll accord Dad full credit for almost making it to 96! ... One day, Dal, one of his favourite care aids at Little Mountain said, "Oh, Homi, I'm so tired. I wish I could just lay down beside you and fall asleep" to which he replied with a naughty smile, " Gee, I'd love that but let me see how big your husband is first!" Just days before his death while he was still craving water, he mused in a weakened voice as I withdrew the cup, "Hmm... Are you trying to turn me into a drunkard?" But the last laughs we got out of dad came just two days before he passed on. In a hazy, dream-like state, he managed to raise his left hand with his index finger waving and say, "samosa!" as if he were back in the old days ordering food at a restaurant! Minutes later, Merwan, Mum, Shireen, Bobby and I sat around his bed singing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' and upon reaching the last line, "Which nobody can deny", ailing Dad blurted out, "Oh, yes they can."

But Dad's most meaningful last words to me weren't conceived in humour but gratitude. I held photographs of his parents up to his face and said,"Dad, you're going to be meeting your mother and father soon," to which he whispered, "thank you." Looking back, I'm touched by the small things: seeing him barely try to sing along and clap his hands when the Pathakys came to visit; drinking in the late Khorshed Panthaky's image with his weakened eyes, calling her a "gem" and asking for a copy of her photo though less than a week from his own demise; drawing Merwan's hand to his mouth for a last kiss and then trying to give him a loving "ah shucks" punch. There is, indeed, sweet comfort in knowing that family and friends were able to say goodbye and sing songs dear to him like, 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling', and that the rich voice of his favourite Luciano Pavarotti was able to transcend his failing senses in the last day of his life.

Dad's final day on this earthly plane was Friday, July 9th, 2010 and my mother, brother and I were priviledged to be at his bedside the last hour of his life as he peacefully transitioned to the realm beyond. Dad deeply loved his parents and in his bedtime ritual would look sentimentally at their photos and sigh, "Goodnight Daddy. Goodnight Mummy." And now it was my turn to say my final farewell to my father, Homi Merwan Engineer... Goodnight Dear Daddy. I love you, and I'll dearly miss you."