Bombay Brides

by Esther David

The drive from Mumbai to Ahmedabad was smooth. I had been warned about traffic jams and that it took hours to reach the centre of the city. When I passed the toll plaza and reached the end of the expressway, I saw innumerable roads shooting out in all directions. Confused, I stopped my car and realized that in India it is important to speak a regional language, like Hindi. Waise toh main thoda Hindi bol leti hun, par theek se aati nahi aur meri English bhi perfect nahi hai… Both my Hindi- and English-speaking skills were inadequate.

  I parked my car on the side of the road and started thinking of a plan of action. That was when I saw a paan shop and stopped to ask for directions. It had a small television screen, around which some young men were smoking while watching a cricket match. As I had not faced any problems in Mumbai so far, I rolled down the glass of my car window and asked the owner if there was a hotel nearby. When the young men heard my voice, they turned around, took a good look at me, talked amongst themselves, came towards my car and asked, ‘New to Ahmedabad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Israel.’

  ‘Great country, but you look Indian.’

  ‘I am Indian.’

  ‘Your accent is not like ours.’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘You have a lot of luggage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow us. We will take you to a hotel.’

  I thanked them and waited for them to get into their car.

  They looked like decent guys. I was tired and needed a clean hotel room to shower and sleep. They took a while to climb into their car. When they started their car, they gave me a thumbs-up sign and I followed them. That was a mistake. I could see from the changing landscape that we were driving towards a desolate area, where there was hardly any habitation, just street lights and dogs. At the expressway toll plaza, I had seen a list of emergency numbers, but had not thought it necessary to note them down.

  I panicked when I realized that we were leaving the city behind and going towards a deserted area. I decided to confront them. We were driving side by side, so I rolled down my window and asked, ‘Where are we going?’ One of them stretched out his hand, held on to my window and said something nasty with a snigger. I immediately rolled up my window forcibly and drove ahead of them.

  They chased me. I was terrified. But by then I had seen a sign which said ‘Airport’ so I drove at full speed. When I was sure that I had left them far behind, I drove towards the airport. I saw another sign in neon lights, which read ‘Hotel’, and stopped. Fortunately, the hotel was decent and I was given a good room with a view of the flickering lights of the newly built international airport. I wanted to file a police complaint against the young men who had chased me, but had no details about them.

  I poured a glass of water from the jug, lay down on the bed and cried, feeling lonely and abandoned in a country which was not really mine. I needed to talk to somebody. Mamma would panic, Pappa would understand, but if I called him, he would worry himself sick and ask me to return to Israel immediately. Now that I had almost reached my journey’s end, I could not possibly turn back. So I called Zev. He was concerned and comforted me, saying that such things happen and it was over now. I had to forget the incident, but not trust anybody from now on and avoid getting into trouble. When I told him that they were ‘badtameez and bakvas boys,’ he did not understand what I was saying and I could not find the equivalent Hebrew words. Anyway, he listened quietly and told me to order a strong cup of coffee and sandwiches.

  Before we ended our conversation, Zev advised that I meet the contact person at the synagogue. I told him I had lost the number. He found it and gave it to me. I did as he suggested and the next morning, two members from the Jewish community of Ahmedabad came to meet me. They asked me to accompany them to Shalom India Housing Society, where they had made arrangements for my stay. I followed them in my car, which they asked me to leave in the parking lot, and carried my bags to an elevator in Block A, which stopped at Apartment 107. They told me that it belonged to Juliet and Romiel Abhiram, who lived in Israel. The president of the housing society, Ezra, had called Juliet and asked her to allow me to stay there for a few days. I looked around the apartment and saw a poster of Prophet Elijah in his flying chariot on the wall. We had a similar image in our drawing room in Israel. I asked him to help me find my great-grandmother Penina’s grave. If I did, I would hold a malida for the entire Jewish community of Ahmedabad.

  They had also asked Salome, an elderly lady living on the ground floor, to help me. I was surprised at how quickly everything worked out, as I was given a mattress, bedsheets, a quilt, a table, two chairs, a hotplate, an electric kettle and some pots and pans from people I had not yet met. Later, when I had showered and dressed, I received a phone call from the secretary of the synagogue saying that Salome’s husband, Daniyal, would accompany me to the synagogue in an autorickshaw. I felt I was amongst my people, safe and protected.

  The synagogue in the Old City of Ahmedabad was beautiful. It was exactly as I had visualized it. The artifacts, marble flooring, shimmering curtains embroidered with the Star of David, candelabras, chandeliers and soft light inside the synagogue elated me. After praying there, I was sure I would reach my goal. The committee members were friendly, and I was told the history of the Jewish community of Gujarat, and that there was only one synagogue in the state. Over endless cups of tea and snacks, I told them my family history and that my great-grandmother was buried in the old cemetery of Ahmedabad.

  We spent the next day searching for her name in the tattered old logbooks of the synagogue. The president of the synagogue had advised that I should not drive alone in the city and suggested that I park my car in Juliet’s unused parking space at Shalom India Housing Society. They made arrangements with a known autorickshaw driver, Babu, to take me around Ahmedabad, always accompanied by Daniyal or Salome.

  It worked well. Daniyal and Salome were extremely helpful. I went with them to the graveyard in search of my great-grandmother. Salome always covered her head with her sari-end and I wore a sports cap. We spent four days looking for the grave. We read the inscriptions on each grave, which were written in Hebrew, Marathi and English. It was not easy looking around the graveyard. Although it was lined with trees, the land was uneven with an overgrowth of scrub and we had to walk carefully so as not to tread on the dead. Salome told me that the monsoon in Ahmedabad did not last long but sometimes, in August, the city received heavy rains and the cemetery was waterlogged. So every year, some graves sank deeper into the earth. It was very difficult to find caretakers to look after the cemetery and some graves had disappeared into the earth without a trace. Sometimes, when they buried someone on what appeared to be unused land, it was likely that by mistake, they were burying them over someone else. In the process, some graves could not be traced, even when the relatives of the dead came back year after year to look for them. The new cemetery on the far western side of the city on the banks of the Sabarmati river was better organized.

  In a week, I realized that I had to give up my project of finding the grave in Ahmedabad. Gradually, I came to terms with the reality and decided to make the most of my trip. Since my arrival, I had been invited almost every day to one home or another for lunch, dinner or an elaborate Sabbath dinner. I felt my life was like one big party and, although I missed my family a bit, I dreaded returning to Israel. I amused myself by thinking that I could get married to one of the nice, highly educated, ageing bachelors of the Bene Israel community and settle down in Ahmedabad. To prepare myself for my imaginary life in India, I started learning to cook Indian food from Salome. She was a very good cook. Sometimes her friend Elisheba joined us.

  Salome suggested that we meet in her apartment, as she had everything in her kitchen. All I had to do was buy some ingredients and vegetables. This arrangement worked well, as Daniyal was always away, running errands for the residents of Shalom India Housing Society and other Jewish families of Ahmedabad. He was also the
ir messenger, as he went from house to house giving news of births, deaths, bar mitzvahs, weddings, engagements and malidas. His lunch hours were erratic, so the cooking lessons were held undisturbed, unless some woman from the society wanted to share a recipe or brought something she had cooked. In Salome’s overcrowded kitchen, I saw many pots, pans and containers, which had come down to her from her family and Daniyal’s. She had also collected a lot of kitchenware from other Jewish families, who discarded old vessels for new. Salome and Elisheba liked to collect these utensils for the various Jewish rituals they organized at the synagogue. I started photographing Salome’s apartment and Elisheba’s storeroom at the synagogue. I loved her masala box with its different compartments brimming with haldi, mirchi, jeera powder, mustard seeds and vessels of brass, copper, steel, bronze, tin, aluminium along with the plastic knick-knacks, which added colour to my images. Since my arrival I had been photographing the old Jewish cemetery, the synagogue and the Jewish women of Ahmedabad, dressed in a variety of clothing, saris, salwar-kameezes, skirts, flared pants and dresses, chatting, cheerful, having snacks in the synagogue pavilion, chopping fruits for the malida platter and meeting at the small office of the executive committee, where they discussed one ritual or the other. I also photographed them at prayer, especially during Friday evenings, on the Sabbath.

  I was enjoying every moment of my stay in Ahmedabad. Once word got around that I was learning Indian cooking in Salome’s apartment, it became the meeting place for the women living in blocks A and B. Even Jewish women living in the eastern or far western parts of the city came to share their recipes with me. Actually, every day, I had food which was delicious—lazeez, lizzatdar, behtareen and khushboodar!

  The women of other communities from Block B also came to meet me. In fact, once we had a male guest, Franco Fernandez. He stood hesitantly at Salome’s door, asking if he could come in. I knew him slightly, as while walking on the lawns of the society, I had often heard him playing his violin. Rather shyly, he asked if he could teach me how to make Goan vindaloo with chicken, as he knew that pork was taboo for Jews. So, we had a hilarious afternoon with Franco, who wore an apron printed with tiny piglets.

  That evening, while passing by Salome’s apartment, Ezra stopped to see what was happening. He was amused and suggested that I meet Juliet in Israel, as she was planning to start a restaurant. Far from Israel, it sounded very good. I felt like a bright future awaited me back home, as no ageing bachelor here had caught my eye. During this period, I had learnt to use a pressure cooker, something I had never used before. I had thought that it would blow up like a bomb. But nothing happened and I found that my food cooked faster than before. So I bought a pressure cooker and packed it in my luggage. My bags were overflowing and I was sure I would have to pay for excess baggage.

  Then, much to my dismay, I opened my email one morning and realized that my date of departure was approaching. That night, teary eyed, I hugged Salome and informed her about it. I went up to my apartment, lit a candle to Prophet Elijah and thanked him for the wonderful gift he had given me of discovering India. Soon, all the residents of Shalom India Housing Society found out that I was leaving for Israel. Quickly, Ezra organized a farewell party for me, which was to be held on the lawns of the society where I had developed a passion for cooking and had met the wonderful people living in blocks A and B. This was the most beautiful memory of my stay in India.

  For the party, I decided to dress in the typical Gujarati chaniya-choli with a flowing multi-coloured dupatta. I bought it from the Night Bazaar at Law Garden. It was a glittering dress with a backless blouse, to be worn with silver jewellery. Before the party, I went to a beauty parlour for a facial and hair spa. My hair had grown much longer than before, so I asked the stylist to dye it black. That evening, as I was dressing, I heard my doorbell ring. Pin in mouth and dupatta trailing behind me, I opened the door and saw Sippora standing in the doorway with a gift. I was as excited as a little girl when I opened the box and stood gazing at a beautiful sari. I felt I was holding a bowl of strawberries in my hand. It was a shimmering silk sari with a silver border. When the light moved, the colours mixed and merged into a bright strawberry pink, streaked with deep saffron. There was also a sari-petticoat and a ready-to-wear blouse. I caressed the silk and said to Sippora, ‘I do not know how to wear a sari.’ So, Sippora helped me tie the sari, as I made mental notes about the process. Then she combed my hair, rolled it into a bun and tied a string of jasmine flowers around it, so that I looked like a typical Bene Israel woman. I was ready to go to the party.

  The youngsters of Shalom India Housing Society had arranged for a music system and, with Franco as their disc jockey, they played all my favourite Bollywood tunes, to which we danced till dinner was announced. It was a lovely party and I suddenly forgot all the Hindi words I knew. Everybody was talking in four languages—Marathi, Gujarati, English and Hindi. So I thanked them in Hebrew and bid farewell to my new friends.

  I might not have found my great-grandmother Penina but I had discovered a new life that had seeped into my being. With these beautiful memories, I left for Israel. Before that I gave a cheque to Salome for being my food guru and left the car for her and Elisheba to start a food truck, which was their dream.

  It felt strange returning to Israel. I had almost blanked out time and space. But I felt better when I met my family. I gave them gifts, returned to my tiny apartment and went back to work at the perfumery. But before that, I took my mother’s old masala box which she no longer used. Along with the pressure cooker, it would have pride of place in my kitchen.

  I reorganized my apartment with all that I had brought from India, and it started looking like an Indian home. I even hung six saris like a tent from my bedroom ceiling, so that I woke up every morning thinking of India. A month later, after I had settled down and returned to the rhythm of Israeli life, I was making Sabbath dinner for myself—dal, rice, bhindi that I had found in an Indian shop, with mince cutlets, when I suddenly remembered Zev. I had not thanked him for his support and help when I was in India. So, while cooking, I called and thanked him profusely. He cut through my sentence and asked, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Cooking Sabbath dinner for myself…’

  ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘Dal, rice, bhindi and mince cultets.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how to make dal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Magic.’

  ‘Can I invite myself for dinner? I am half an hour away.’

  ‘Sure, bring your blonde along.’

  Before Zev arrived, on a sudden impulse, I wore the sari Sippora had given me.

  When I opened the door for him, he whistled on seeing me in a sari and breathed in the warm fragrance of Indian food. He was looking good in a black kurta, jeans and Kolhapuri chappals. We stared at each other. To distract his attention, I asked, ‘Where is your blonde?’

  ‘Gone.’

  He was impressed with the food on the table, which I served in thalis I had brought from India. I lit the Sabbath candles, like in the good old days when we were husband and wife. Suddenly, I felt his hand covering mine. We were holding hands and saying the Sabbath prayers together.

  As we kissed, he held me in his arms and asked, ‘Will you marry me, all over again?’

  ‘Yes. Hum tumhe dil de chuke sanam.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘Maybe start an Indian café with Juliet.’

  ‘Yes, why not…’

  Later, Juliet and I met in Israel. Before her departure to India, I sent Dead Sea cosmetics and mud packs for Sippora’s beauty parlour and for the women of Shalom India Housing Society. Juliet and I became partners and we started two cafés, one in India, the other in Israel. To decorate my Israeli café, I made a collage of the photographs I had taken in India.

  18

  Juliet and Romiel

  JULIET’S FRESHLY WASHED hennae
d hair was spread on the pillow and Romiel’s head was resting on it. He inhaled the cool fragrance of her shampoo and perfume. She smiled as his hand caressed her belly. She was two months pregnant and they were looking forward to starting a family. They had worked in various restaurants in Israel and saved enough to return to India and buy cooking appliances for the café they planned to start in Ahmedabad, as well as expensive gifts for both their families. They would select a location and hire an interior designer. They would hire staff for their café, where they would serve varieties of falafel. They would furnish their apartment A-107 at Shalom India Housing Society beautifully and lead a good life. Later, they would send their child to one of the best schools in Ahmedabad.

  As they lay in bed discussing their future, Romiel played with Juliet’s wedding ring and said, ‘You have been working so hard that your hands have become rough. Now that you are going to Ahmedabad, spend some time at a beauty parlour and pamper yourself with facials, manicures, pedicures and feel like a queen. You deserve it.’

  She ruffled his hair and said, ‘You also need to spend some time at a salon. Look at your hair.’

  They kissed and lay side by side, wondering what the future held for them.

  In the last few years, they had made some important decisions about whether they wanted to live in India or Israel, and had taken the Overseas Citizen Card so that they could live in either country. Eventually, they would settle in one of the two, depending on where their café would give them the best returns.

  Romiel’s hand rested on Juliet’s midriff as he thought about how their first priority was the child. The news had come as a surprise—Juliet had gone for her regular check-up and the gynaecologist had announced that she was pregnant. During the bus ride home, Juliet had felt happy and elated as she looked at young mothers with little children with new eyes. She was in a hurry to share the news with Romiel. It was lunchtime and she knew his cell phone would be switched off, so she sent him a text message, hoping that as soon as he switched it on, he would receive the good news. But while turning the key in the lock of their apartment, she suddenly got cold feet, her palms started perspiring and she had misgivings about having a baby and also realizing their dream of having their own café. Late in the afternoon, when Romiel called back, excited, she relaxed. That night, when he arrived with a cake, like children they stuck a candle in it, lit the candle, cut the cake, fed each other and called their parents in India to give them the good news amidst much laughter. Later, they lit another candle and thanked Prophet Elijah for bestowing so much happiness on them.