by Esther David
Cyril slept in peace that night with the knowledge that Lisa was a Jew. Maybe he was close to finding his soulmate. The next day he called her, wanting to meet. She said she was busy and would speak to him some other time. Cyril was annoyed but decided to be patient, assuming that she felt awkward talking about her personal life in the presence of his parents. A week later, he invited her for dinner at a restaurant. She accepted.
When he picked her up from the gate of Shalom India Housing Society, she was wearing the same dress she had worn when he had seen her for the first time. As they ate, between long silences, they spoke about sundry matters. Then, Cyril asked her about her Jewish background and said that he had been surprised to see her at the synagogue for the Yom Kippur prayers. Lisa lowered her head, not willing to meet his eyes.
Suddenly she looked up and said, ‘Cyril, I am sorry I did not tell you that I am a Jew. Last week I knew it was Yom Kippur and as I had not told you and your parents about me being Jewish, I knew that I should inform you before surprising you at the synagogue. But believe me, it was the first time in my life that I decided to go to the synagogue. I thought that if I did not inform you, it would hurt you. So I thought I would tell you and your parents and then accompany them to the synagogue. But on the day I was going to call you, our group had to leave for a village near Ahmedabad and we returned almost at midnight, so I could not. I am sorry to have surprised you.’
Cyril listened quietly and then smiled to relieve the tension between them. He realized how keen Lisa had been to hide her Jewish identity from him and though he felt cheated, he did not let her know. He had read books about the Holocaust—maybe Lisa’s family had suffered and she wanted to forget. He knew of many instances in Europe when Jews did not disclose their identity. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, ‘I understand that you must have a reason for not telling us that you are a Jew.’ He waited for an answer.
Slowly, she told her story: ‘My grandfather is a survivor of the Holocaust. We do not like to talk about it. My mother is an American Jew and her family migrated to America from Russia. Both are non-believers and non-practising Jews. We do not like to talk about our Jewish background, so I turned to Buddhism as a solution to my conflict.’
‘Then why did you attend the Yom Kippur prayers?’
‘The credit goes to you for my change of heart. This is the first time that I went to a synagogue. When I came to you wanting to know about the Jewish community, I learnt a lot about Judaism and suddenly, on Yom Kippur, I decided to fast.’
‘When I saw you in the women’s gallery at the synagogue, I was surprised…’
‘I was sure it would shock you. But it was a special moment in my life and I wanted to be alone with myself. I also got a prayer book in English from the synagogue office before I went to the women’s gallery.’
‘My mother is really fond of you and she was wondering why you did not tell her about your Jewish background.’
‘When I stood next to her, I saw so many questions in her eyes. But I thought I would talk to her later, as I was moved by the blowing of the Shofar. I experienced so many mixed feelings that I did not know what to tell your mother.’
‘I think they will understand if you tell them yourself.’
‘Maybe I will come for dinner this Sabbath and explain everything.’
‘Thank you. They will feel better if you tell them your story.’
As they parted, Cyril had half a mind to hold her hand and say, ‘Will you marry me?’ But he did not. Instead, he drove her to Shalom India Housing Society, praying fervently to the Prophet to fulfil his wish.
The following Sabbath, Lisa decided to wear a sari—a deep green sari with a red blouse. The green suited her eyes. But she draped the sari in a rather haphazard manner. When she rang the doorbell of Cyril’s home, his mother saw her standing there, looking uncomfortable with the loose ends of her sari falling all around her. Eva smiled and asked Lisa to follow her into the bedroom. She taught her the correct way to wear a sari. In the process, she forgot the questions which were bothering her. Cyril had not yet arrived home from work.
His father Nissim sat in the drawing room, fuming, still annoyed that Lisa had hidden such a big secret from them even after they had welcomed her into their home like family. He was upset that she had possibly feigned ignorance about knowing anything about Judaism. When the women returned to the drawing room, smiling about the way Lisa had worn the sari, he frowned.
Lisa took one look at Nissim’s face and froze. He sat with furrowed brows, neither smiling nor greeting her. Instead, he asked her a direct question, ‘Tell me, Lisa, why didn’t you tell us that you are a Jew?’
Lisa guessed that Cyril had not told them anything and, as he was late from office, she would have to handle the situation on her own. So she sat on the sofa between Nissim and Eva and told them about her background. She convinced them that though she knew she was a Jew, she did not know anything about being Jewish, the Hebrew prayers, rites and rituals. She was very grateful that she had learnt so much from them. It had helped her face the truth about her being Jewish. She was not sure if she would continue being religious, but they had helped open a closed door of her life.
When Cyril arrived, dreading to see the tension between Lisa and his parents, he was relieved to see them sitting together on the sofa, laughing and joking about Lisa’s Jewish roots. He joined in their lighthearted banter and told Lisa that the sari suited her. He assumed that she had worn it to please him. He decided to ask her to marry him.
That night, his parents left them alone after dinner, hoping that he would propose to Lisa. Cyril offered to drop her back to Shalom India Housing Society, but as she was not in a hurry he said, ‘Lisa, I like you very much. Will you marry me?’
For a second she looked stunned, then laughed nervously. ‘You must be joking.’
‘No, I am not.’
‘Cyril, I really like you, but I cannot marry you. Next year I plan to marry my fiancé, Edward. He is finishing his doctorate in Zurich. Then we will settle in America. Sorry, Cyril. Now can you please drop me home?’
In that moment Cyril realized that Lisa was not his soulmate. And, after dropping her at the gate of Shalom India Housing Society, he returned home, determined that he would remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.
17
Sangita
YOU WILL NOT believe me if I tell you how difficult it has been to get to Ahmedabad from Israel. But here I am. This is my first trip to India. It’s been such a long journey. It was really difficult, bahut mushkil. You may ask, if I have never been to India, how do I know Hindi? Arre … it was not difficult. I am an Indian Jew and have grown up on a diet of Bollywood films. In Israel, when we are not working outside the house, the CD player is always on and we watch all the latest Hindi films. Even if we are in the kitchen arranging the bartans in the dishwasher, putting clothes in the washing machine, drying clothes or running the vacuum cleaner, we may not be watching the film, but we follow the storyline through the dialogues.
Not that I understand everything, but by now I know most dialogues of old films ‘by heart’. Maybe some day I will write my own script and send it to a film producer in Mumbai. I love period films, where the hero and heroine are dressed in flowing garments and take time to even hold hands. I like those films as the dialogues are simple and sentences like ‘I love you’ are said so elegantly, with a lot of tehzeeb, adab and mohabbat. All these beautiful words flow into me, they are part of me. Every time I watch a Hindi film, while doing a thousand and one things, my ears catch the sound of the words, which are sweet as honey to my Hebrew-attuned ears.
I am almost forty, but I am told that ever since I was a baby, whenever I heard Hindi songs, I would start dancing. That is why I was named Sangita, although Penina is my Hebrew name. I love the Bollywood ‘jhatka’-style dancing so much that wherever there is a Hodu-Yada, an Indian event at Eilat in the south of Israel, I go to hear the music and songs from Hindi films. It sti
rs something Indian buried deep within me. Yes, I am a third-generation Indian Jewish immigrant living in Israel. I am ekdum hardcore Israeli. I have done two years of military service, like all young Israelis. I was even sent to the occupied territories as a soldier. I have lived in a kibbutz, picking oranges, washing dishes on industrial dishwashers while picking up dry dishes from the conveyor belt. I come from a religious family and was taught all the prayers, rituals and customs. I know them all. But now that I am forty years old, it is distant, as ‘bahut zyada boring ho gaya…’ Now except for Bollywood numbers, nothing attracts me. And yes, I still need my monthly dose of chicken curry at my parents’ home. Sometimes I get a craving for a samosa or sweets like pedas and gulab-jamuns. These are a must, but remain on the periphery of my life, because I am like any other Israeli woman. We work from 5 in the morning till almost 10 at night.
‘Par ek din, meri life mein ek naya mod aaya…’ Things changed for me. I was at my parents’ home for Saturday lunch to be followed by the screening of a new Bollywood film on our television. But that particular day, my father became sentimental. Once in a while, he likes to tell me and my brother about our roots and family history. That afternoon he told us a story we had not heard before. It was about our great-grandmother Penina. Till then, I did not know that I was named after her. Usually, he would become nostalgic when we started the fast of Yom Kippur or drove past the Ben Gurion International Airport at Lod, where the family must have first landed when they emigrated to Israel. Now that Pappa has grown older, he tends to slip into the past and become sentimental about India more often. Sometimes we listen, sometimes we don’t. We keep shaking our heads automatically, half-listening or not at all, because the entire story is learnt ‘by heart’.
Before I begin my story, let me tell you that whenever I introduce myself as Sangita, most Bene Israel Jews look down upon me almost with hatred, a ‘nafrat ki aag’. I don’t care, as I like to be known as Sangita. Well, aisa hai ki I am a divorcee… At a very young age, I fell in love … mujhe mohabbat ho gayi thi with my childhood friend Zev, that is, when we were in school. He is half-Israeli, half-Indian, half-Russian, half-Polish, half-half-half—but an absolutely gorgeous hunk of a man. And I am Indian with a Dutch strain from my mother’s side, so I am fair and have auburn hair with blonde highlights. And, if you ask me about my divorce, ‘Shaadi kyun break ho gayi?’ Okay, let me tell you. Zev ko Indian food bahut pasand hai. He loves Indian cuisine. A month after our fairy-tale wedding on the beach in Tel Aviv under a bright red canopy or chuppah, mere sapne toot gaye jab usko pata chala ki mujhe Indian khana pakaana nahin aata. He had thought that I know how to cook Indian food and was disappointed that I didn’t. I bought Indian cookbooks and spent hours with my mother in her kitchen. I even watched food shows on YouTube and tried various Indian recipes, but I had no patience and was a failure in the kitchen. On my way back from work, I would bring falafel or borekas for dinner. And if I was in Tel Aviv, I would go to my favourite Indian canteen and ask them to pack tandoori chicken and naan, or a chicken curry. I made the rice at home, which would be either semi-cooked or overdone. I also made sure that whenever possible, Mother invited us to eat home-cooked Indian food. But he saw through my ploys and we were always quarrelling about small things. Gradually, I noticed that we had many differences and it was getting hard to make our marriage work.
Yes, I forgot to tell you that Zev worked as a technician at an aircraft factory and I worked as a cleaning woman at the airport. We did not spend enough time together and jab bhi we met, we quarrelled, till it started taking a toll on our marriage. Besides, whenever we were home, I would want to watch Hindi films, but filmy dialogues and teary scenes annoyed him. I would find that strange and ask myself, ‘Agar usey Indian khana pasand hai, to phir usey Indian phillum kyun achi nahi lagti?’
After three years of ladai-jaghda, one day Zev left me, saying that he was going to India. Soon after, I opened his Facebook page and saw he had posted his picture with a blonde he had met in Goa. Most Israelis love Goa. His new girlfriend had been living there for many years and was a surfing instructor. He returned to Israel with her after six months and asked for a divorce. So I agreed. Maine divorce de diya. Phir uske baad main free ho gayi. Ab ghar jaa kar aaram se ek Hindi film zaroor dekhti hoon. Then I decided to go back to university and became a fragrance chemist.
Now I no longer wash floors at the airport. I work in a company which makes perfume oils from minerals of the Dead Sea. I was happy with my new life. But all this came to an end, when my father told us about great-grandmother Penina. Yes, I was named after her. She was from Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India. Wiping a tear from his weather-beaten cheeks, he said that she was buried there and he had never returned to offer flowers at her grave. Unlike Israelis who place pebbles on graves, Indian Jews offer flowers.
This story hit me like a bullet. I thought I would forget it as I do my father’s other stories, but I did not. I had a vague memory of seeing a sepia-tinted photograph in the family album in which she was sitting on a chair with hands resting on her knees, wearing a nine-yard sari and silver chains, bracelets, armlets, waistbands, nose rings, earrings and anklets. That afternoon, I found an old album in Mother’s cupboard, studied my great-grandmother’s portrait and realized with a jolt that we looked alike. But Father had told me that she was very dark, while I am fair. Whenever he spoke about her, he would say that she was known to be very progressive. She had joined a cosmopolitan ladies’ club, played badminton and organized events to collect donations to buy medicines for the poor. I cannot imagine her playing badminton in skirts, but Mother explained that in those days, women tucked in their saris at the waist and wore canvas shoes. I was amused because I have worn T-shirts, hot pants, slit-denim jeans, sneakers or gladiator sandals for the major part of my life.
When, it comes to saris, kabhi kabhi meri mamma sari pehenti hain. Otherwise, she wears colourful blouses over trousers. Skirts bhi pehenti hain. Actually, I feel Western wear does not suit the Indian body—acha nahi lagta. But whenever we receive wedding invitations, meri mamma Banarasi sari aur gold jewellery pehenti hain, tab woh bahut khubsoorat lagti hain. But I do not know how to wear a sari. So for Indian events, I wear skirts, backless blouses, a dupatta and heels.
That month, after studying my great-grandmother’s photograph, I decided to fly to India and look for her grave. For this, I did a lot of research. I even swallowed my pride and took my ex-husband Zev’s help to work out a plan to reach Ahmedabad. He suggested, laughing, that I stop over in Bombay, as I am crazy about Bollywood. He knew it was the city of my dreams.
Eventually, I landed at Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. It was my first time in India, but I was comfortable. I went around the city in taxis and, peering out of the window, saw huge hoardings of the latest Hindi films and fascinating cutouts of my favourite actors. I felt I was in heaven. I stayed in a Jewish hostel and all went well. I could handle the traffic, the beggars chasing me and the spicy food. I became confident and befriended young American Jews living in the same hostel. We went around together and I felt safe. But I felt I needed my own vehicle, like in Israel. I was tired of taxis and autorickshaws. My friends helped me buy a second-hand car in a nice red colour. You won’t believe this; I was comfortable driving around the city. So, like all Indians, I also started saying, ‘If you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world.’ And I did.
During this time, I was in contact with my Pappa and decided to drive to Ahmedabad in my car. But he said that before reaching, I had to find a place to stay. He did not know anybody in Ahmedabad.
Anxious, I called Zev, who always comforts me; after all, we are childhood friends. He posted a message on Facebook about me. He pasted my photograph and wrote, ‘Alone in Ahmedabad. This is my friend Sangita, whose Hebrew name is Penina. She is an Indian Jew from Israel. She is travelling alone. Her family has lived in Israel for the last three generations. She does not know anybody in India. Sangita–Penina
Solomon is looking for her great-grandmother Penina Abraham Samuel’s grave in the old cemetery of Ahmedabad. Can you help her? Please contact Sangita at her email ID…’
It worked. Two days later, when I opened my email, I had a message in my inbox from a member of the executive committee of a synagogue. It was a short mail but assured help. There was a cell-phone number I was to call on reaching Ahmedabad. I sent him a text message promptly, thanking him for his reply. He immediately confirmed the date and time we could meet at the synagogue. I was relieved.
By then, I was driving around Mumbai as though I had been living there all my life. My new friends were very encouraging. Every day we had lunch at the same café, where the manager gave me insights into Indian life and directions about the road to Ahmedabad. They advised me not to befriend strangers in a new city. But I was bindaas; mujhe abhi tak aisa-vaisa koi anubhav nahin hua tha. I’d not had any strange experiences. I had done a lot of shopping and had bought many clothes and knick-knacks as gifts for family and friends.
Close to my date of departure, the hotel staff got me a map and told me about the new expressway to Ahmedabad. I was excited about the journey to my father’s motherland and was sure I would find my great-grandmother’s grave before long.
I reached Ahmedabad late in the afternoon. But being a little impatient by nature, I had forgotten to ask my friends in Mumbai about accommodation. When I started looking for the number of the Jewish person from Ahmedabad, to my shock, I realized that I had lost it. I knew the number was in my laptop, but the laptop was packed in my suitcase, which was in the luggage compartment at the back of the car, under all my bags. That was when I ran into trouble.