Right away, I have to admit that I’ve never felt as elated as I did at the opening of the exhibition of photographs on Parsis at the Chemould-Prescott Gallery on Tuesday.

Ask any fashion designer, where he (or she) picks up fabrics — those swathes of cotton and silk yardage — and chances are that a trade secret may be revealed.

A frail, 70ish man turned Superman right before my eyes last Sunday.

They aren’t publicised. Neither is there any form of readings for them.

They’ve either given it up as a joke, or aren’t easily reachable.

It’s not as hallowed as the Shivaji Park, where hundreds of children dream about becoming the next Sachin Tendulkar. Coaches by the dozen guide students there.

It must have been centuries ago, when as a just-hatched reporter, I had sauntered into the office of Maharashtra fisheries department on DN Road.

Now you need to know someone at the Ripon Club to pig out on the best Parsi cuisine in town.

Most of my friends are Chor Bazaaroholics, swearing that they have found the bargains of their lifetimes there: rosewood furniture, ancient reading lamps and silver bric-a-brac.

How they pounced!