Mother India

by Tova Reich

  “Serve the priests?” Charlotte’s eyebrow arched into the punctuation of an exclamation point.

  Charlotte, too, like my brother, had taken a serious interest in the sisters and in all devadasis, an estimated quarter million of them still operating in Mother India, even though the practice had been declared illegal, like sati, according to data gathered for her by one of her flunkies sent out on a fact-finding mission. She was already talking about bringing them all to the States and educating them properly. Clearly they were under threat of persecution, which definitely would qualify them for refugee status. She would pitch this idea to Michelle next time they met for hot yoga. Every one of the devadasis would become a member of her all-girls band, Lakshmi and the Survivors, along with its fabulous virtuoso wind player, Monica Lewinsky; they were already in show business, after all, trained as temple performers. It would be awesome, the world’s largest multicultural, diverse, all-female band, definitely a Guinness Book of Records contender.

  After Buki enacted the first daring rescues not only of Devamayi and Mahamaya, but also of the two other little girls, Charlotte took on the cause, charging ahead with the full thrust of her formidable energy and resources. She put Buki at the head of the operation, ordering him to focus for the time being on the devadasis rather than the other sex workers, even the littlest girls, practically babies, no matter how pitiful and subhuman their plight, since the devadasis and everything they signified meant so much personally to Rebbie-ji and were so tied into his present mystical studies and teachings.

  Buki was the one who introduced my brother to the institution of devadasis. He first learned about them when Rebbie-ji dispatched him to Mumbai to check out the place with regard to the Jewish scene there, in particular the Chabad center newly restored and up and running at last following the terrorist attack and all the subsequent sordid financial fallout. It was a secret mission. Despite his physical conspicuousness due to his height and Hasidic finery, he was still the perfect spy for this assignment thanks to his familiarity with the Chabadnik modus operandi from his time as sheriff in Postville, Iowa, keeping a watchful eye on their slaughterhouses, their meatpacking sweatshops, and all their businesses, on the table and under the table.

  Nevertheless, he concluded it would be preferable not to pay an official call on the emissaries, Rabbi Mendy and his rebbetzin Mindy, due to the longstanding rivalry between the followers of the two dead rabbis, the rabbi of Chabad and the rabbi of Bratslav, and in particular the violent feud as to which of the two would rise up from concealment one day and return as the Messiah. On top of that there was his well-known close affiliation with my brother, regarded as an outcast and fugitive smeared with particularly unsavory false accusations, about which the Chabad boys, so media savvy, did everything in their power to keep the world up to date with timely reminders and bulletins. And from Buki’s own perspective, there was also the painful memory of the rumble between the two sects at the National Cattle Congress fairground in Waterloo, Iowa, over which of them could take the credit for his conversion and claim him as their own, as if he were a prime blue-ribbon bull. Then, to cap it all off, in an obvious ploy to humiliate my brother, Shmelke, to reduce him to the level of the dumping ground for all Jewish castoffs and undesirables, the Mumbai Chabad had passed on to him the old lady who smelled of chicken soup, or maybe it was stale urine, about whom no one could say who she was or what she was or whether she was dead or alive, and all the aggravation and guilt that leaked out from that toxic case.

  So although it had been customary over the centuries for wandering Jews traveling in strange and hostile places to count on hospitality from fellow Jews, in this particular situation it was impossible. In Mumbai, Buki had to make do with the Taj Mahal hotel, with Charlotte footing the bill, five-star luxury accommodation it is true, but no kosher food, and a truly goyish, even heathen atmosphere. Forgive me, Shmelke, for bringing this up here, you know how much I love you, my brother, my twin. But when you sent Buki to Mumbai to spy out the land, why did you not send him to me? I would have been thrilled to receive him, with open arms. I would have rejoiced to be his Rahab. Why didn’t you order him to check on me too? Am I not also a Jew, brother? I needed him to save my life.

  He went everywhere in the city, but he did not come to me. Had he come, maybe he could have intervened, as he intervened for strangers, the devadasis and the trafficked little girls. Maybe things could have been different. He visited all the slums, including Dharavi, but he never noticed her in her Muslim camouflage. He rode the trains, but he was not there to catch her in his arms when she was pushed out as if she were a lower form of life, trash, of no account at all, as if she were unloved, as if she were motherless, as if she did not matter to anyone on this earth.

  He must have made a striking figure on the streets of Mumbai, six feet, six inches tall, solid muscle, with his long blonde beard and flowing blonde sidelocks, his best kaftan, satin, gold-and-blue striped, with its prominently displayed sheriff’s badge, a silver, six-pointed star on which he had proudly printed in indelible ink the word Jude, a silken tasseled rope belt girding his waist, or perhaps, as many who had seen him maintained, it was a leather holster bulging with two pistols, his black felt Borsalino hat with its extra-wide brim rakishly angled like a Stetson, and the personal touch of his impenetrable mirrored sunglasses, like the Lone Ranger’s black mask. Who was that masked man? Everyone wondered as he rode off, fighting for truth and justice. Passersby pulled out their cell phones and snapped, his image sluiced through the pipelines of social media. He looked like a supporting cast member from the thrilling days of yesteryear who had gotten lost, wandered off one of the Bollywood sets, like a Gary Cooper knockoff striding into the wrong ghost town too late, too late, long past high noon.

  He made his way, bowlegged from having spent too long in the saddle, through the lanes of the Kamathipura red-light district as if tracking down the bad guys. What he was actually searching for though, like a vigilante, was any Jewish girl who might have been trafficked, or one way or another had taken the wrong turn and gotten herself caught in this shameful place—a post-army Israeli backpacker, for example, or a zoned-out, spoiled American kid from New York stricken with swami syndrome who had fallen down this black rabbit’s hole. As Rebbie-ji always said, “The kids are out there seeking, seeking—so why is it that they are finding them and not us? Oy, we have such a big job to do.” Whatever foul mess she had gotten herself into, if she was Jewish, Buki wanted her. It was his responsibility to free her in fulfillment of the exceedingly crucial mitzvah to redeem Jewish captives. And even if there was disagreement as to whether this mandate applied to women captives as well, Buki felt very strongly that it just was not nice for a Jewish girl to be seen in such a place.

  Whores, pimps, madams converged on him gesticulating lewdly, trying to pull him into their web, enticing him with samplings of their wares, but he shook his head and swatted them off, muttering in a deep drawl that the only thing he’s out here shopping for in this decrepit mall of India is a nice Jewish girl, did they happen to have one by any chance? He would settle for nothing less, he was not in the market for anything else. Nobody could understand what he was after. The workers who had picked up some functional English to service the foreign tourists couldn’t figure out what he was babbling about, no one had ever heard this word Jewish, this was the first time in their memory that any prospective client had requested such an item, it was obviously an extremely rarefied fetish or perversion, probably the latest new invention from America, blank looks came over their faces like window shades drawn down with a snap, and they shook their heads yes in the Indian way, which meant no.

  He did his best to convey a sense of what is generally meant by Jewish using a kind of sign language. He rotated thumbs against forefingers to indicate avarice, rubbed his hands together and leered to signal lasciviousness, folded downward the tip of his nose, which in its normal state was splendidly snubbed. It was turning into a game, charades, a moc
kery in such a setting, yet they all participated eagerly, it was a welcome diversion, they threw out their guesses enthusiastically, but to everything they produced Buki just shook his head, deflated. He was considering showing them his member of which he was justifiably proud, circumcised in its maturity in Postville, Iowa, by a slaughterer who doubled as a mohel, but restrained himself when he realized they would only conclude he was a Muslim and lead him to a whore naked under her burqa. He angled his two hands together in front of his face like an open book, and began swaying as if in prayer, but they only shrugged. Their excitement was waning, they were losing interest, a few were already turning to go. Whatever it was he wanted, it no longer was worth their time, it was obviously a very particular commodity not in general demand and therefore not worth stocking. In desperation, to keep them tuned in just a little longer, he leapt into the air and began to dance ecstatically, whirling with arms uplifted, a Hasid transported to divine heights.

  Devadasi! a voice from heaven cried out.

  Buki stalled, then nodded his head heartily—Yes ma’am, that’s it, a doxy, thank God!

  He had come here searching for a nice Jewish girl; he had never expected to find an Orthodox one. That was a huge bonus. It was his lucky day. Rebbie-ji would be very impressed when he came home with a doxy. It was a tremendous relief all around. They had solved the puzzle, customer satisfaction—a temple dancing girl, that was his thing. Every man had his thing, you just had to probe patiently to figure out what it was. They knew now exactly where to deposit him.

  Buki had complete faith in his own physical strength in just about any situation, and he also had faith in God. It struck him that now he might need to put himself in God’s hands to find his way back out again through the maze of constricting lanes and alleyways, courtyards within courtyards overflowing with trash, reeking with sewage, to wherever he was being taken. Buried somewhere in the net of this serpentine world there was a tiny dark room that he was forced to stoop to enter. Without stepping inside, his escort pointed to the narrow bed against the wall across from the entrance, and motioned for him to sit down. Then he closed the door and walked away. Buki heard the key turn in the lock.

  He sat there with his long legs spread wide, his elbows on his knees, his head lowered in the sling of his palms, waiting. A rat shuffled across the cement floor. There was a basin and a pitcher against the wall, a rag of a towel on the stub of a peg. The room was lit by one small yellow bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling with a pull spotted with dead black flies. He made out a small shrine in the corner with a glossy picture cut out from a calendar of the goddess Yellamma. Squatting beside it was a girl, a child almost, plump as if she had only recently been fattened in order to be eaten. Her face was far too heavily made up for such a young human specimen, and she was wearing a sari made of synthetic cloth with a bright pattern of Santa Claus faces on it with a white beard like Rebbe-ji’s, which she was beginning to unwind. Buki raised one large hand, palm outward, pushing it forward like a traffic cop to compel her to stop. She was very dark skinned, so black she was almost blue. Maybe she was a Bnei Israel or a Bnei Menashe or something like that, Buki speculated—one of those ten lost tribes of Israel who had wandered to the subcontinent and gotten lost in this whorehouse. “You sure don’t look Jewish,” he suddenly heard himself blurt out.

  She was not a Jewish, but the Jewish will be the winners in the end of days, that is what Muhammad always says, you just have to face it, nothing you can do about it, the Jewish are the children of apes and pigs but they will rule the whole world in the end, she would like to be a Jewish if he would be so kind. She went on in this way for a while until it suddenly dawned on Buki that she was speaking English. Where had she learned? From Muhammad’s TV, she replied. Muhammad was her patron, the man who bought her virginity. He sent one of his Hindus to her town, Saundatti, to buy him a new devadasi virgin every year. A devadasi is very holy, they don’t sell us to Muslims. He is very rich man, Muhammad, main man in Mumbai for Gulf States for buying and selling Indian slaves, Dalit men and women, boys and girls, but never devadasis. Devadasis he keeps for himself, private, until he stuffs them so full they are too fat to dance any more. Then bye-bye, finished with you, he dumps us here on Red Street, in Kamathipura. He is also very fat, Muhammad, more than one hundred kilos. When he is on top of you, you cannot breathe, all the air is coming out of your balloon. Sometimes he cuts with a razor blade, sometimes he burns with fire, sometimes he hits with a strap. There are marks on her body in places you could not see, she would show him for extra price. Soon I am going to buy your sister, Maha—Muhammad says this to her, many many times—I will buy her after her first period when they put her on sale, Mahahaha. If the priest got his dirty hands on her first I will return her, damaged goods, not like advertised. My name is Deva, if you wanted to know, my sister is Maha. I will tell you something big. They are going to steal everything you have, your hat, your coat, cut off your beard halfway and half the hair on your head and your two thumbs and your two big toes and strip you naked, they are going to beat you up and poke out your eyes and maybe kill you Mister Giant if you do not hurry, get out of here soon, soon, fast, very fast. But how will you get out of here? You do not know the way out. You need the help of the goddess. She would show him how to get out if he took her along, she would be his guide, but he must also swear—swear by Yellamma Renuka and also your Jewish God, Elohim, and also Allah—to take her to Saundatti in Karnataka after they escape and together they will kidnap her sister Maha from the temple. She will save his life today if he will pledge to save her sister tomorrow. Then they will all go together to where the Jewish are, and they will all be Jewishes together.

  “But I came here to get me a Jewish girl to bring home to my guru. It’s okay if she’s not religious.” Buki still could not let go, he did not like to fail.

  “There is a madam,” the girl finally offered. “The most mean, fat like an elephant. She is a Jewish, they say.” Buki considered this option briefly. Rebbie-ji welcomed Jewish victims of all sizes and shapes and life experience to the House of Holy Healing, nobody was considered unworthy or a lost cause, in some select cases you didn’t even have to be Jewish. Still, it might be too dangerous to tackle this one at this time. They could come back to get her later, with a battle plan, maybe a few men, take her out with a truck. The girl pulled the end of her sari over her face, and lowered her head.

  “Are you telling me now there’s not one single Jewish whore in this whole damn whorehouse?”

  There was a long pause, and she lifted her head sharply. She had just remembered. Yes, two girls, very small, only four and five years old maybe, in cages, their virginity sold already many times, worth many lakhs of rupees, she had heard they were Jewishes, it would be very hard to save them, not possible.

  “Let’s go git ’em, girl. It’s a major mitzvah.”

  Buki stood up in a flash, his head ramming against the ceiling, pancaking his Borsalino. He followed the girl’s glance. She was staring forlornly at the door, locked from outside. “No problem, sister.” One pull with his mighty hand, and it opened like a can of beer.

  It was surprisingly easy to carry out this rescue, Buki commented to me soon after I had taken over the prepubescent pod, when he recounted the whole story as part of my orientation. At first their hearts were pounding, the girl’s and his too he admitted. They would run a short distance, press themselves against a wall and take cover, poke their heads out cautiously to check if the coast was clear, then dart out again. Soon though, they realized nobody was around, it was midafternoon in India, the unforgiving heat of the day flattening everyone, they were all sleeping, recharging for a long night’s work ahead. The few who were awake and might have noticed them must have concluded that it was nothing out of the ordinary—just another newly inducted devadasi whore following orders, leading an overgrown transgender or cross-dresser or other hormonally challenged type, maybe even a hijra eunuch, to whatever he was paying for.

/>   Everyone was also fast asleep in the segregated area where they kept the youngest girls and babies in their cages, including the two little targets of their raid, as if a spell had been cast over the whole castle. Buki simply lifted them up and carried them off, careful not to disturb their sleep and startle them; they were almost two-dimensional, the only material weight was that of their wooden cages. They were wearing flounced synthetic chiffon-and-netting dresses in pinks and lavenders, tinseled ribbons in their hair, smears of glossy red lipstick, black kohl on their closed eyelids, gold-colored rings in their ears. Curled up in their cages they looked like tropical birds of many colors captured in the jungle.

  The devadasi led him easily through the labyrinth of Kamathipura, following directions whispered into her ear by her inner goddess GPS. They came out into the street where a black-and-yellow taxicab awaited them, as if hailed in advance by the good fairy. He did not even go back to the hotel to collect his things, including his precious sable streimel that added five inches to his height when he wore it on the Sabbath, and his cherished velvet bag containing his prayer shawl and phylacteries, trusting that a premium operation like the Taj would overnight it all exquisitely bubbled and bowed back to him in Kolkata. He ordered the driver to take them directly to the airport where he bought two first-class tickets from Mumbai to Kolkata, flying with the girl beside him in the window seat gazing out, marveling at the bed of clouds while gorging on peanuts and Coca Cola, and the two other little girls as his hand luggage stowed at his feet, their cages blanketed with his striped satin kaftan, the silver sheriff’s badge prominently displayed.