The Girl From Foreign: A Memoir

by Shepard, Sadia

  Mr. Chordekar enters the room with the help of his daughter, who leads him by the hand. He is a sturdily built man with white hair, very pale skin, and blue eyes clouded with cataracts, permanently facing an invisible point in the upper left-hand corner of his gaze. He says that he is sorry he can’t see us better or speak to us in English, and we hastily apologize for arriving unannounced. We reiterate our purpose here, and he asks, through Vinod, for the name of our great-grandmother.

  “Segulla-bai Chordekar,” I say.

  He shakes his head; the name is not familiar to him.

  “Chordekar,” he says, pointing to himself and nodding.

  I say, “Yes, Chordekar.”

  We sit for a few moments, unsure what to do next. He asks us if we will have a biscuit, and I don’t want to refuse his offer of hospitality. He gives five rupees to his son, who skips out the door and presumably to a nearby stand. When he returns two or three minutes later with a packet of biscuits, Mrs. Chordekar places them on a metal plate and passes it around the room.

  Mr. Chordekar grew up in Chorde. There were at one time as many as ten Bene Israel families in Chorde, but those days have long passed; everyone has moved to Bombay or to Israel. Only he and his family are left. After the loss of his eyesight, he was not able to work. He is grateful to the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in Bombay, who gave him a grant to start a small business, which they run out of their home. People come with empty vessels to the door, and Mrs. Chordekar fills them with kerosene from their supply. She weighs the filled vessel on a scale and charges the appropriate amount. It is not much money, but in this way they are able to cover their expenses. They plan to migrate to Israel within the next year or so, hoping the prospects for their children will be greater there.

  “Vinod, they are planning to move to Israel?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “It seems that is their plan, yes.”

  I try to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Chordekar living in Israel, learning Hebrew. Their children are clearly excited about the idea. The girl offers that she would like to go to a Jewish school, where she will meet other Jewish girls.

  A young woman in a housedress comes to the door with an empty can, which Mrs. Chordekar fills, weighs, and hands back to the girl, receiving a few notes in exchange.

  I ask Mr. Chordekar if I can take a portrait of his family to send to him later, and he seems to like the idea. I ask where they would like to be photographed and suggest perhaps in front of their house. Mr. Chordekar consults his wife, and they decide they would like to be photographed here, in their living area. The daughter suggests a backdrop that includes their color television, candelabra, and oil lamp. The son arranges four plastic chairs in a neat row. Mrs. Chordekar asks her children to change into other clothes; she suggests a pink salwar kameez for her daughter, who refuses it, telling her mother she wants to wear a Western-style dress and excusing herself to go upstairs and put it on.

  When they are ready, the Chordekars assemble themselves for their picture solemnly, and hold themselves very still. None of the family members smile. All except Mr. Chordekar look directly into the camera.

  After the picture, they show me their family photos, faded orange prints mounted behind cracked glass, in the hallway that separates the front door and the living area. They show us around their house. It includes a large room with four cots where they sleep, and an outdoor bench where they spend most of their evenings. Mr. Chordekar says his goodbyes and retreats to his room, and Mrs. Chordekar and her children sit on the bench. We are grateful for a small breeze, which signals the end of the sun’s daily onslaught. They seem more relaxed now that they are out of the house and the rituals of formality are over. I

  take more pictures of them, and they seem to enjoy it. Mrs. Chordekar smiles softly. She looks younger than her husband, and I wonder by how much.

  She suggests that we might like to take pictures of the temple in town, and asks the children to take us there. We walk down a little path bordered by small huts. As we walk, we gather children, a few at a time, until we are surrounded by dozens of tiny bodies. Their voices create a kind of chorus, and more and more join our ranks.

  “Sadia, look behind us,” Cassim says.

  I turn back and see what look like fifty children under the age of ten. A multitude of black eyelashes, shiny black eyes, and tiny brown limbs peeking out of grubby shorts and school-uniform skirts. The little girls wear their braids in two wide loops, one tied above each ear. When we laugh, they all laugh in unison; it is a giggling, swarming echo.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have no idea,” Cassim says.

  “MY . . . NAME . . . IS . . . PETER!” comes the call of a bold little boy, and I turn around in surprise.

  “Your name is Peter?” I say.

  “MY . . . NAME . . . IS . . . PETER!” another one repeats, looking pleased with himself.

  “You’re both named Peter?” I ask.

  “MY . . . NAME . . . IS . . . PETER!” yet another one says, and more little boys start to laugh louder. I realize it must be a line from an English lesson, or from a television advertisement.

  “MY . . . NAME . . . IS . . . PETER!” a group of four or five boys shout from my left.

  “My-name-is-Pe-ter,” a little girl says softly, tugging on my sleeve and looking up at me.

  The little Hindu temple is a tiny, dusty, empty structure. There’s not much to see, but we don’t want to disappoint our audience. Cassim suggests we take a group photo of the children in front of it and tries to huddle the group into his shot. Soon there’s a mob. It looks like a hundred children are trying to clamber into the frame. They are shouting excitedly; their cheers and cries rise and ebb as one collective, gleeful sound. I have little experience with children. I worry that they might spontaneously erupt into a mound of tears.

  “Quickly! Quickly!” I urge Cassim.

  He tells them to count to three and say “Peter!” They do and collapse in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  Cassim and I walk back toward the car, where we find Bimal and Vinod talking to some men from the village about the finer points of their car. Bimal and Vinod are clearly enjoying their role as Bombay celebrities. As we approach, Vinod greets us enthusiastically.

  “So this is your native place itself !” he says, looking delighted.

  We drive out of Chorde at a walking pace, surrounded on each side by a crowd of people who have gathered to see us off, resting their arms on the top and sides of our car. Small children press their hands and faces to our windows, knocking and waving, making Cassim and me laugh. As we reach the outskirts of Chorde, Bimal accelerates slightly, and a few of the young men in the group break into a run, keeping pace with the car. While the others give in to the inevitability of our departure, one boy keeps up, and we drive, in tandem with his sprint, for a few hundred meters. He is panting with exertion, his face contorted in the grimace of his effort. Finally, Bimal tires of the game and hits the gas again. We speed past the boy, and I look back to see him come to a halt, exhausted, in the middle of the road. He places his hands on his knees and watches us go. Behind him a group of small children wave at us, their small arms move in unison, until we are no longer visible.

  By nightfall, we are back in Bombay.

  “TAKE PICTURES OF our challah bread!” Benny Isaacs says to me one morning at ORT India. “Only authentic challah in Bombay!” he says proudly. “Our baker is very good these days. A very nice young man, a Muslim. You might like to take his photograph.”

  Cassim and I ask directions and find ourselves in the cavernous industrial kitchen of the school, where a wiry, thoughtful-looking baker named Akhtar is kneading dough into ropes, which he glazes with egg and braids into loaves. He is pleased to pose for my camera, and dutifully shows us the process he goes through to make each loaf. When we tell him our names, his eyes gleam with recognition and surprise.

  “Aap Musalman hain?” he asks Cassim, point
ing to the small gold Qur’an he wears around his neck. Are you Muslim?

  It’s interesting to me how much more often Cassim is recognized as a Muslim than I am. I wonder for a moment if he looks more South Asian than I do, or if people approach him more comfortably because he’s a man, or both.

  “As-salaam alaikum!” Akhtar says with enthusiasm.

  “Wa alaikum assalam!” Cassim and I respond reflexively.

  While I continue to photograph the bakery, Akhtar takes Cassim aside.

  “How many Muslims are there in America, brother?” he asks in Hindi.

  “About seven million,” Cassim says.

  “Seven million?” Akhtar asks, shocked at the number. “I thought there were only Christians and Jews there.”

  “No, no, there are many Muslims in America.”

  Akhtar leans in conspiratorially to Cassim and speaks in a softer voice.

  “Do you know how many Muslims there are in India, brother?”

  “How many?” Cassim asks.

  “We are forty percent of the population. The Indian government says that we are only ten percent, but we are very strong in number. There are many problems here between the Shiv Sena and our community. But we are forty percent, Cassim Brother. The Bombay government, they try and keep us down, but we are very strong.”

  Cassim looks serious as he listens to Akhtar. I know that he’s aware that Akhtar’s numbers are off; the Muslim population of India is closer to 15 percent of the population. But Akhtar is right about the Shiv Sena, the right-wing fundamentalist Hindu party currently in power. They believe strongly that Bombay’s culture should remain predominantly Hindu, and have a violent history of oppressing Muslims.

  “Today is Friday,” he says. “You can come with me to prayers; I’m just going now to the mosque. Come, you must come,” he says, tugging Cassim’s sleeve.

  “He wants me to pray with him. Do you mind if I go?” Cassim says over his shoulder as Akhtar leads him outside by the arm.

  “No, go ahead,” I call back.

  As I walk upstairs to the fourth floor to photograph the ORT kiddush winemakers, the staff members I pass in the stairway ask me where Cassim has disappeared to.

  “I think he is talking to Akhtar the baker,” I say, unsure how to clarify that he has gone to the mosque without explaining our entire family history.

  I watch from the fourth-floor balcony as Cassim and Akhtar re-enter the ORT driveway, and am impressed by how quickly they have formed an association. I can tell from the way Cassim leans in to hear Akhtar speak that he is fascinated by their conversation, and Akhtar is clearly in high spirits, clapping Cassim on the back repeatedly. I return downstairs to the bakery, and Cassim perches on a stool while Akhtar mixes ingredients to make a new batch of challah. Cassim asks him about his home in a rural area of central India, how he came alone to Bombay to find work, and how he sends money home every month to his village.

  “You should come to my native place!” Akhtar says, stirring flour, water, and eggs with a large wooden spoon. “Then you can see Bihar for yourself !”

  “Insh’allah . . .” Cassim says, smiling. God willing.

  Akhtar removes his gloves and jots down my mobile number on a piece of paper so that he can communicate with Cassim, and for the next two weeks calls him from phone booths to say hello every couple of days. Cassim, who has a much better ear for languages than I do, tells me that Akhtar’s Hindi is close to our mother’s Urdu, and for this reason he finds him easier to understand than he does most people in Bombay. After Partition, many Muslims stayed behind in Bihar instead of joining Pakistan. It’s an impoverished, mostly agricultural state that is considered somewhat backward by most of Bombay’s middle class, and Akhtar is part of a large migration of young Bihari men who have come to Bombay in recent years to find work. He tells Cassim that he’s never met a foreign Muslim before, or anyone who is partly from Pakistan; the idea of an educated, well-traveled Muslim is exotic and interesting to him. After one of their conversations, Cassim tells me that Akhtar has been offered a new job as an assistant pastry chef in the exclusive Athena nightclub in South Bombay. He begins his shift at midnight, and works until morning. He invites Cassim and me to visit him at work the following Saturday night, and asks us to come at 1 a.m.

  The Athena nightclub is located on a quiet street in Colaba, not far from the Taj Mahal Hotel. A cigarette seller has erected a makeshift stall on the sidewalk near the entrance line, and is doing a brisk business with the patrons waiting to get inside. A family of small children peer out from a tent erected not far from the club entrance, watching as the young Bombay elite emerge out of their imported cars and enter the throng of people in tight jeans, iridescent shirts, and Italian shoes, pushing their bodies toward the door, trying to gain entry. Cassim approaches the bouncer and tells him our names, as Akhtar has instructed him to do, and we are handed two thick white cards, entrance tickets worth fifteen hundred rupees, about thirty dollars each. Inside, the lights and music pulse feverishly. We are in a reality far removed from the one just outside, not quite sure how we ended up here. An attendant in a black uniform bows at us and leads us past the lines of people waiting at the bar for their drinks and a group of people trying to make their way onto the dance floor. He opens a series of doors, and we follow him into a large, bright professional kitchen, where we find Akhtar surrounded by several other staff members, standing at attention, waiting for us. Akhtar is wearing a chef’s hat and a large white apron covered in flour and chocolate. He is beaming.

  “Cassim Brother!” he says enthusiastically, waving his gloved hands, which are caked in dough.

  “As-salaam alaikum, Akhtar Bhai!” Cassim says.

  Akhtar nods respectfully in my direction and introduces us to the rest of the Athena staff, who nod at us. It seems that, in addition to being a nightclub, Athena also serves as a restaurant. The seven staff members who work the night shift are responsible for the restaurant’s pastry and cakes. Akhtar is an apprentice, and is learning his trade from a more experienced pastry chef, an older, serious-looking man with a mustache.

  I present Akhtar with the pictures of him baking bread at ORT, and he is very pleased. He tells us that he will send these pictures to his mother, and that she will be very happy. He has a big announcement to share with us. His mother has found him a wife, and he will be leaving for his wedding in three months.

  “Cassim Brother, can you come to my native place for my marriage?” he asks hopefully. “It will be a big marriage, with festivities for seven days. . . .”

  Cassim looks genuinely torn and tells him that he will try. I know that it would be almost impossible for Cassim to make the trip back from Fiji, but I can tell that he’s touched by the invitation.

  “Now you must eat something,” Akhtar says. “My friend will seat you.”

  Cassim and I are escorted by a smiling waiter in a tuxedo to a dark, closed restaurant section and are served six different varieties of dessert: two kinds of chocolate cream pie, various fruit tarts, and something approximatinga cheesecake. From behind a glass partition, we watch the crowd of young people gyrate on the dance floor and hear the familiar bass lines of American hip-hop remixed with Bollywood vocal tracks. I watch as two young men push up against an attractive young woman with a sheet of shiny blow-dried black hair, one in front and one in back. The three move in unison, and I wonder what Akhtar thinks of the people who eat his desserts.

  The cakes are delicious, but there are too many of them. We finish the first two slices quickly and then look at each other, daunted by the prospect of polishing off the rest. Akhtar peeks his head out from time to time from behind the door to the kitchen to check on our progress. I start to worry that he will get into trouble with his supervisor.

  We return to the kitchen, where Akhtar is eager to show us all of the aspects of his new job: the professional mixers he uses to blend his ingredients, the large industrial ovens where he bakes his cakes, the frosting cones he makes miniatur
e roses with. We admire each new appliance as we go, and Akhtar’s ability to use each one. He proudly frosts a chocolate cake for our benefit, showing us his new skills, and we applaud.