“I knew a Flossie Jacobs. Was she related to Flossie?”
“I’m not sure. She had a sister named Lizzie. . . .”
“I knew Flossie. Flossie was a very pretty girl, got married, moved to Israel. I haven’t seen her in thirty years. But, then, I haven’t seen my own children in almost ten. What’s your name, then?”
“My name is Sadia.”
“Muslim name.”
“My grandmother married a Muslim.”
She pauses for a moment, considering her response.
“I’m a Baghdadi Jew; you know, we came from Iraq two hundred years ago. Baghdadis built Bombay, you know: Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, these were built by Baghdadis. The British were very good to us; things worked properly then. Now there are very few of my community left. . . .”
“Your family is here with you?”
“Here? No. My children are in Israel. The people here are good to me, give me a place to stay; people come to visit the synagogue, they give me fifty rupees so I can buy sugar for my tea. Muhammad and I are otherwise alone here. You want the lights turned on so you can take pictures? Muhammad, are you there?”
A man in a rumpled tan uniform appears, his Nehru-style cap resting precariously on his head like a deflated balloon. Over his shirt pocket is an embroidered “M.” He looks at the floor and removes his hat quickly.
“Show the girl the synagogue, turn the lights on for her, all that,” Flora says.
I walk into the hall and marvel at the size of the place. This synagogue must have been built to house quite a large congregation at one time. I take some pictures of the empty space, but I am much more interested in Flora and Muhammad. After a few minutes, I slip back into the side hall, where Flora is fanning herself with an old calendar.
“Blasted heat,” Flora says, as I sit down across from her.
Muhammad appears a few minutes later with three small hot glasses of tea. He places a little side table by Flora and sets down a scrap of old newspaper on it. He fishes out four biscuits from a tea tin and places them on the newspaper, motioning for me to take one. Flora looks pleased and accepts her tea glass quickly. She blows into the tiny chamber, then tips the glass back and sucks the liquid between her teeth slowly.
Muhammad drinks his tea standing at the room’s edge, looking out at the courtyard, both inside the room and outside of it. I wonder how many times a day they repeat this ritual, and for how many years they have been living like this; invisible people, side by side.
“How many Baghdadis are there left in Bombay, Auntie? Do you have services here in the synagogue anymore?”
“Most everyone has left. To make a minyan the directors call on the Bene Israel men. Some of my congregation wouldn’t have heard of such a thing back then. But people all get along now, there are not too many Jews left.”
“What about your relationship with the Muslim community? The synagogue is surrounded by a Muslim neighborhood—do you feel safe here where there is violence in Israel?”
The Israeli Defense Force’s Operation Defensive Shield has been escalating in recent days, and the news is filled with reports of casualties on both sides; I wonder to what extent the local Muslim population feels a connection with the Palestinians.
“The problems in Israel are not our problems here. We Jews in India have had good relations with the Muslims, and they with us. During the Six-Day War, do you know there was rioting in the streets here in Byculla? We were very afraid of looters. The Muslims from the neighborhood wanted to make sure that no one would harm our synagogue. They joined hands and made a wall of their bodies across the gate of the synagogue, so that no one could get in. ‘This is a house of God,’ they said. I will never forget the kindness of the Muslims that day.”
“How many synagogues do you think have Muslim caretakers?” I ask. “In the world, I mean. It must be very rare.”
“India is the only place it’s possible. Here Jews and Muslims are both minorities. We’re both settled in India, isn’t it? Jews have experienced no anti-Semitism here. Not by the Hindus, not by the Muslims, not by the British. No, the British were very good to us.”
I WALK UP the long staircase of ORT and greet teachers and students as I go. The school feels familiar now, like a home base of sorts. My students have returned from Israel with high, excited voices—enthusiastic streams of stories about where they went, what they saw.
“Did you perform the play?”
“It was a huge success, Miss Sadia! First-class!”
They tell me about how they practiced their lines on the bus that took them between religious sites and the college campuses they were staying in, how they would call out the lines to one another, chiding those who forgot their parts. They tell me how two lines of the play became a kind of cheer for their trip, repeated over and over again: “Who are we?” someone from the front of the bus would call, and one group would respond, “We are both Indians and Jews!” And another, “Jews and Indians!”
I poke my head into Benny Isaacs’s office on the second floor to see if he has time to meet with me. I have with me a copy of my grandmother’s family tree, two mimeographed sheets taped together.
“Ah yes . . .” he says, poring over the paper eagerly and offering me a seat. “The Jacobs boys, your grandmother’s brothers. They were my mother’s first cousins, and she was very fond of them. They were a spirited lot, you know. She used to tell me stories about them, how they used to dress up and play tricks on one another. . . . We used to visit Rahat Villa sometimes; I remember playing on the veranda as a very small boy.”
“What about this branch of the family tree?” I ask. “Is there anyone else familiar on it?”
Benny Isaacs takes another look, and I see his eyes light up with curiosity.
“So!” he says. “Look at that—seems you’re related to Mhedeker!”
“Who is Mhedeker?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s a very big man in the community, very big indeed. He’s the president of Magen Hassidim Synagogue, the biggest Bene Israel synagogue in Bombay. His family came down here from Karachi after Partition. Quite a story, in fact—rags to riches. Now he’s a very successful businessman, has given a lot to the community. You should meet him.”
On the fifth floor I find Sharon, one of the ORT Jewish educators who helped me with the play, sitting with a ten-year-old boy. He is instructing him in Hebrew, and I listen in on their conversation. The boy sits across from Sharon with an open notebook, trying to form Hebrew letters and sound them out.
“Good, that’s good. Now try it again. . . .” he says.
The boy starts again, and Sharon turns to me.
“You want to sit in on my class, Sadia?” he asks, smiling.
“Sure,” I say, and sit down to watch them work.
People have told me that Sharon used to be quite liberal, secular even. He was a student of chemistry and not particularly religious. Then, in his early twenties, he began to study Judaism and became more observant. He’s now one of the more fastidious younger members of the Bene Israel community. He wears a long black beard and a perennial kippah on his head, and he works to promote Jewish knowledge in the community, much of which he learned in yeshiva in Jerusalem. Yet something about Sharon’s easy manner helps me not feel judged or uncomfortable, the way that I sometimes feel around pious people. His faith seems to be a personal matter that he’s happy to share with others, if they’re interested.
When the boy returns to his notebook, Sharon turns to me.
“Sadia, when are you coming to my home for Shabbat dinner? My wife, Sharona, and I supervise the ORT boys’ hostel, in Byculla. We have a large place, and we often have people come for Shabbat, for holidays. Perhaps you might have some questions, or just want to talk. Please feel welcome in our home.”
“Thank you, Sharon,” I say gratefully. “I’ve been wanting to learn more about Shabbat. Sharon, your wife’s name is Sharona?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, smiling.
�
��And you’re both Jewish educators?”
“Yes.”
“What a nice match you found!”
“I’m very lucky,” he says, nodding. “You know, we have found over time that Shabbat is not a hindrance for us, it is a kind of gift. Often during the week we don’t have time for more than five minutes to spend together. On Shabbat we can spend time together, talking, playing with our daughter. We enjoy it. Shabbat can be fun, a chance to be together. To pray, yes, but also to discuss, to enjoy each other’s company.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, and find that I mean it.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I am back in Bombay traffic on my way to Magen Hassidim Synagogue, to meet Mr. Mhedeker. When I reach the densely populated neighborhood of Agripada, I glimpse families living in crowded, cubicle-sized rooms above rows of shops. Unlike the subdued residential area where I live, here the street littered is with paper, the air is filled with the smell of roasting meat. Street carts wend their way between the cars, offering cups of crushed ice, colored bright green and red with syrup. Each lane features a different specialty. In one, a row of paper vendors sell stacks of discarded newspaper bundled with twine. In another, a shiny row of gold merchants weigh their wares on scales. Boys of twelve and thirteen play cricket in the street, their balls rolling underneath the parked cars. Women, some in colorful saris, others in black burqas, walk through the streets with white plastic bags of vegetables hanging from their elbows. Men watch them as they pass, smoking cigarettes or chewing paan, which they spit out in bright streams into the thin, full gutter—a red rivulet winding its way through the neighborhood.
When I walk through the synagogue gate, it is surprising to enter the spacious, walled courtyard and be instantly surrounded by quiet. Magen Hassidim is a large structure and quite beautiful, with separate sections for the women to sit upstairs and the men downstairs. People have told me that this synagogue is the most desirable location for a Bene Israel wedding to take place, and that on High Holidays the large hall is packed to capacity, with standing room only in the back. I am greeted and ushered inside the main door by a man who won’t shake my hand; he must be Orthodox, I realize. Inside the office I find a very tall, imposing-looking gentleman who is presumably Mr. Mhedeker, sitting behind a large desk. He has salt-and-pepper hair cropped closely to his head and a trim pencil mustache, and he nods at me when I enter, indicating that I should sit down next to his desk.
A boy produces biscuits, tea, and a bottle of mango nectar, which he places in front of me. Mr. Mhedeker offers me a biscuit from the plate, and I bite into one eagerly, wanting to show my gratitude for his hospitality.
He lifts one up and closes his eyes, praying before he takes a bite.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I should have waited for you to pray.”
He shakes his head to reassure me that he doesn’t mind.
“So. Benny Isaacs tells me you’re doing research?” he asks.
I place my family tree in front of him and point to the section that Benny had noticed.
“I understand that you are related to the former jailer of Karachi? Who was a Bene Israel? See here, he was my great-grandfather’s brother. . . .”
“Is that so? The jailer was my grandfather! He served the British; our family was in Karachi for generations. We were quite well established there.”
“And you grew up there?” I ask. “Before you decided to come to Bombay, I mean?”
“I did not make the decision!” he says forcefully, and then calms himself. “I will tell you.”
Mr. Mhedeker leans his body back in his chair comfortably and begins to talk. I take out my notebook and pen.
“I was raised in Karachi,” he starts, “when it was a part of India. This was before Partition. In Sindh we had a very big farm—eighty-five to ninety mango trees, apples, limes—it was a big business. We used to have a camel cart, and we would sell to the wholesale market. We had our own building in Karachi. We were very happy there. Then Partition happened. I was thirteen years old. In 1947, everything changed.”
“Were you asked to leave Pakistan?”
“There was no asking. Two hundred people came to my house. They had come from India. They said to my mother: We have lost everything, we have left everything behind. You go on now. Go to India. Whatever is on your body is yours. This is our house now.”
“They were refugees?”
“They were people who had lost their homes. My mother said, ‘How can I go? This is my house, I have small children here. . . .’” Mr. Mhedeker shakes his head at the memory. “They said, ‘We have lost everything, now this is ours.’ My mother reached for her cupboard, where she kept her cash, and a man stopped her. He said, ‘Madam, please close the door. We have told you; whatever is on your body is yours. We will not harm you, but you go now. If you reach for the cupboard again, what is on your body will also become our property. You go now.’”
“And so you left. . . .”
“Within ten minutes we had become beggars. My mother gathered us children up, and somehow we got to a boat—I don’t know how she did it. We came to Bombay by ship. We went to my auntie’s house, and we stayed here with the Jewish community. At that time there were full buildings of Jews here—this whole area was filled with Bene Israel.”
“What did you do when you arrived in Bombay?”
“Our position was very bad. We had no money. In those days, I used to take my shirt and pant to be darned. The darning man would say: How can I darn these clothes? They have been patched too many times. I left school at sixteen years old and worked in a toothbrush factory. I made two rupees, eight annas per day. I was thinking as I made the toothbrushes that I have to become a big man; I had this in my mind. I wanted to become a businessman. I was not so religious at that time. I thought to myself, ‘What has God given us? We had our lives in Karachi, and he took all of that away. Why?’ Then my brother’s wife told me to come to the synagogue for New Year’s prayers. I said to her, ‘Why? God has forgotten us.’ She said, No, you must go. I said, ‘How can I go? I have nothing but these old clothes to wear, one shirt and one pant.’ My brother’s wife was a wonderful lady. She provided new clothes for me to go to the synagogue, new clothes for the new year, and I began to go for prayers. I was twenty-two or twenty-three at the time. Day by day, God has helped me. Everything in my life began to change when I started coming to the synagogue.”
“How did you go from that time to being a successful businessman?”
“I began to sell chocolate, handkerchiefs, from a basket on the road. I sold them for eight annas, twelve annas. Then, with one hundred borrowed rupees, I began to sell toothbrushes. After some time I thought to myself, ‘I must have my own factory.’ This was in 1964. I took on a small place, where I made a toothbrush machine. I had an idea of how to do it from working in the factory. In two years’ time, I had it. It was the first toothbrush machinemade in India. Before that, toothbrushes were all imported—from London, Germany. I began to export toothbrushes also. To Russia, to Israel, to Dubai. Two hundred people worked for me. There were different units in the factory—the toothbrush unit, plastic molding, sealing and cutting, bristling machine, trimming machine, packing. My company was called Menorah Industries. I sold these toothbrushes like hotcakes, I tell you.”
“Will you go to Israel?” I ask. “Do you plan to migrate there?”
“I have one son in Toronto, three daughters in Israel. I have thought about going, but my life is here. I became president of Magen Hassidim twenty-eight years ago. As president, my duty is to look after the synagogue, property, marriages—so many decisions. Maximum weddings take place here—I would say fifty weddings take place in Magen Hassidim per year. We have one coming up in a few weeks.”
“I think I know the bride, Leah—she was one of my students at ORT. Who is she marrying?”
The Girl From Foreign: A Memoir Page 23