“Are there any families remaining? I heard there was one family who still make oil in the traditional way.”
“Perhaps one only.”
“And where do they live?”
She opens her file and pores through a database of names and dates for several minutes, shaking her head. Then she finds an entry of interest and reads aloud.
“David Waskar, of village adjacent to Revdanda. Owner of private oil press. Father of Benjamin Waskar, chazan and caretaker of Magen David Synagogue, and Ellis Waskar, owner of private rickshaw. Last visit from social worker in December 1998. Described Mr. Waskar as ‘difficult.’ Social worker thrown out of house. End report.”
Nandini looks up at me from her file.
“Why not photograph the synagogues here in Bombay? Many people from Israel have visited, taken photos.”
I explain to Nandini that I would very much like to visit Revdanda.
She smiles kindly at me and closes the file.
“If you like, Miss Shepard.”
REKHEV AND I set out for Revdanda at dawn, when the light is still hazy. We speed down Marine Drive in a taxi, and I note the sharp contrast among the different morning rituals that bring Bombay residents to her beaches. Through the outstretched arms of a group of smartly dressed retirees doing Tai Chi, I watch men returning from their morning ablutions. We buy our ferry tickets at the foot of the Gateway of India, the majestic arch built for the arrival of King George V and Queen Mary, which faces the back of the Taj Mahal Hotel on one side and the sea on the other. For centuries, it was the Gateway that first greeted visitors to this city as they arrived by ship.
We travel one hour across the harbor to the port of Mandwa. It’s a gorgeous journey; light plays off of the water and the morning is still cool. I feel grateful, calmed by the pull of a destination, and watch as the buildings of South Bombay fade and are replaced by a watery horizon. I’m slightly nervous to take this trip with Rekhev; we have never traveled together any farther than the center of Pune, and I have never seen him interact with anyone other than his fellow film students.
“Have you dreamt of crossing water?” Rekhev asks me suddenly. “Recently, I mean?”
“Yes. Why?” I ask.
“It’s a good omen. I have been reading about omens in the Konkan,” he says.
“What are some other good omens?” I ask, eager for more.
“To dream of a cow, a bullock, an elephant, a palace, a mountain, a woman dressed in white, swallowing the disk of the sun or the moon, a lamp, fruit, lifting a goblet of wine . . . so many things.”
It strikes me as funny, the scholar’s authority with which Rekhev recites this list.
“You memorized them?”
“No, I have them written here, in my notebook.”
Rekhev opens his notebook and flips through pages and pages of notes and drawings. Careful letters, written with a fountain pen—some in Devanagari script, some in English. I wonder if Rekhev believes in any of this, or if he just likes the sounds of the words.
“Any bad omens?”
“Cotton, ashes, bones, singing, laughing, studying, a woman dressed in red, a red mark on the forehead, a cat, a prickly shrub, a contest between two planets—these are considered bad omens.” Rekhev looks at the water for a moment, and then back at me. “Tell me something, Sadia. Do you ever dream of your Nana?”
“I have dreamt of her only three times since she died, but, yes, I dreamt of her my first night in Pune.”
“Perhaps she was looking out for you.”
“It’s strange, I felt that way.”
“It is not strange at all. In the Konkan, it is believed that ancestors who take interest in the welfare of their descendants appear in dreams. Sometimes they foretell future events, so that the dreaming person may take precautions. I’m quite taken with this idea.”
FROM MANDWA, we board a bus that takes us through farms and small residential communities to Alibag, where Cassim and I began our journey. The bus leaves us at the depot in the center of town. From here, we are not certain how to get to Revdanda. We approach a rickshaw driver, who points in the direction of a tea stall across the street, where passengers bound in different directions are piling into six-seater rickshaws.
It takes about an hour to reach Revdanda from Alibag, as the heat of midmorning begins to rise, foreshadowing the coming discomfort of noon. The road takes a series of twists and becomes more densely populated with trees and vines; I am struck by how green everything is, greener than any place I have seen in India thus far. Periodically, a new bungalow can be seen through gaps in the foliage, sometimes a glimpse of an old farmhouse. The road is littered with the occasional coconut. Three young boys, their arms linked around each other’s waists, walk toward a tiny, dusty temple. From time to time, I notice makeshift stalls set up by the side of the road: a tarp held up with tall sticks, shielding a table with a cash box and an attendant, two or three animal carcasses hanging from the roof.
As we move farther from Bombay, Rekhev and I settle into a comfortable silence. I watch as he calmly and quickly takes in his surroundings in each new place, occasionally jotting something down in his notebook. There is an effortlessness between us that I have not experienced with him before, and I feel fond of him, grateful for his presence. It would be difficult for me to make this journey on my own; I see that now. When his hair falls into his eyes, I fight the temptation to tuck it behind his ear.
The remainder of a large fortress wall marks the entrance to Revdanda, where the driver lets us off.
I notice a small flat stone embedded in the mossy ruin that reads: “On this site stood a monastery built by the Portuguese in AD 1510.”
“Rekhev, this may have been a walled city once,” I say excitedly, “a kind of fort. Look at the circular ring of rocks.”
“We are close to the sea, to the port of Chaul,” Rekhev says, examining the wall. “This must have been an important place at one time. . . .”
The Portuguese history of Revdanda is otherwise invisible. The main commercial area of the town is centered on a long main street, with a vegetable market at one end and small shops, each a small cubicle of space, occupying rows on either side. The vendors’ shops have sets of double doors that open to the street, showing their wares. As we pass through, I peer into a tailor’s shop; a grocer with bags of rice, tea, and cold drinks; a mechanic; and even a small restaurant. For reasons that are not clear to me, I feel instantly content here. Rekhev and I walk along the street and stop in a small stall to have tea. An old man in a cotton dhoti crouches in the entrance, frying onion bhujias in a wide, low black vat of oil. He looks at us and nods, and we sit at one of the two tables.
“There’s something about this place,” Rekhev says, watching the street.
“I agree—I can’t put my finger on it.”
“I have a good feeling,” he says.
Rekhev smiles, which catches me off guard. I have become used to his scowls.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask.
“A donkey just passed the tea shop from the right and brayed—did you hear it?”
“I suppose. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s a very good omen for the start of a journey,” he says, laughing. “Forgive me, I’ve been reading too many of these folktales.”
I realize that I have never heard him laugh before; it’s a convivial, warm sound that makes me feel like laughing, too.
After tea, we walk toward a group of rickshaw drivers who watch our approach with interest and curiosity. Rekhev asks them if they know David Waskar.
“Da-veed?” they say. “Da-veed Waskar?”
We nod in agreement. One of them volunteers to take us, explaining that the Waskars live in a nearby village. It will be twenty rupees to go there; are we willing to pay? We nod and get into his rickshaw.
The road to the Waskars’ village is covered on both sides with thick green foliage: tall grasses, low brambles, and coconut trees. After several minut
es along a narrow road, we come to what must be the center of the village, and Revdanda feels like a bustling metropolis in comparison. There is a tiny stall where a proprietor has just enough room to lean out over a waist-high partition to sell penny candy and homemade biscuits to children who have just finished school. Most people sit in open doors, facing the activity of the street, talking with those who walk along the road on their way home. The occasional bicycle passes down the lane, ringing a bell to alert those in its path. A bored-looking woman fetches water from her well, dropping a bucket down and waiting for the noise of wood hitting water before she lifts it up again.
We stop in front of a house where a woman is sitting on her heels, her arms resting on either knee. I practice my elementary Hindi, trying to sound natural.
“David Waskar khidar hai?” Where is David Waskar?
“Here, naturally,” she says. “Where else would he be?” She waves us ahead.
After driving a few more hundred meters, we pass two men on a scooter. Rekhev leans out and asks them if they know David Waskar.
“Know him?” the driver of the scooter says. “Everyone knows him. Go to the end of the lane.” His friend makes a forward motion with his arm. “It’s a big house, you’ll see it.”
The lane narrows, and at a turn toward its end we see a blue house set in a compound, with two adjacent buildings. At the top of each building is a Star of David, carefully carved and painted. There can be no mistake.
“This is it, Rekhev,” I say.
We get out of the rickshaw and walk gingerly into the yard. There is a strange sound, a kind of seesawing song, coming from behind the building on our right. An old man wearing a dark blue cloth cap, a sleeveless shirt, and shorts emerges. He appears to be in his early seventies, but walks with a sprightly step. His eyes are unmistakably bright, as if he is perpetually amused. He looks at us and stops singing. I feel an eerie sense of the familiar.
“Shalom!” I call out. “Aap David Waskar hain? Are you David Waskar?”
His face breaks into a deep, wide smile.
“Haan,” he says, laying a hand on his heart. “I am David Waskar. Shalom.”
I introduce Rekhev, and he explains the purpose of our visit, that we have come to find out if there are any Bene Israel who still make and sell oil in this area. I’m surprised, and a little pleased, to see how adept Rekhev is at making an instant connection with the man. I see how he speaks deferentially, even affectionately, to the older man, and how the man responds.
“You’ve come all the way from Bombay to find us?” he says, laughing, and we tell him yes.
“Come, come,” he says, putting his hand on Rekhev’s back. “You are my guests, come and sit. The electricity is shut off now for the afternoon, but it will come on after some time. Rest awhile and drink something.”
He places two plastic chairs underneath a large tree for us to sit on and squats on the ground nearby, where he takes a machete and slices open a coconut. He fetches two glasses from the inside of his house and pours the coconut milk into the glasses. We thank him for his kindness and drink the sweet liquid, surveying the compound. There are three buildings and a wooden shed surrounding a large yard, where a deep trough of brown seeds are laid out to dry. Behind us, two bulls stand in their pen, placidly chewing tall grasses. Several chickens wander by our feet, picking at scraps and occasionally letting out a squawk. Two carpenters sit on the ground of the woodshed, planing logs. In the center of the compound is a large, handmade wooden swing held up with iron fasteners bolted into an old, knobby tree. It’s a peaceful place; the only passing traffic is two girls in school uniforms riding by on matching bicycles.
“I love this house,” Rekhev says to me.
A strong-looking young man with a mustache emerges from one of the buildings and sits on the swing, looking at us with friendly curiosity.
“My son,” David says. “Benja. Benjamin.”
We say hello and shake hands, apologizing for arriving unannounced.
“It’s nothing,” Benjamin says, smiling. “You’re most welcome.”
Three small children, two tiny dark-headed boys who look about five years old and a girl of about seven, run out of the house to stare at us.
“Tell them your names!” David says, and the little boys smile and hide behind the older girl. “Who are you?” he asks them. The children twist their little bodies in shyness, afraid to speak up.
Finally, one of the little boys raises his head and chants a high, singsong recitation of his name, village, and district, as he has clearly been taught to do in school.
“My name is Siyon Ellis Waskar, staying in Revdanda, Bazaar Pada, Ustancha Ustan, Alibag, Jillah Raigad.”
“Very good!” David Waskar says. “That was good! And you two?”
“My name is Eleizabeth Benjamin Waskar, staying in Revdanda, Bazaar Pada, Ustancha Ustan, Alibag, Jillah Raigad,” says the little girl. She has a husky voice, as if her age belies her true personality.
“Elan?” he says, trying to catch the attention of the smaller boy. “Elan?”
But Elan won’t speak. He runs from behind his sister to behind a nearby tree to avoid the task, and we laugh.
“Foolishness!” David says, then turns his attention to us. “My grandchildren. Siyon, Eleiza, Elan.” A little boy, perhaps just over a year old, stumbles out of the house and across the courtyard toward his grandfather. He has clearly just learned how to walk, and seems surprised that he has the ability to move himself from one location to another.
“Ah!” David says, amused. “Israel!” He scoops up the child in his lap, and the baby adroitly straddles David’s knee, his tiny fat legs hanging down on either side, watching us.
“His name is Israel?” I ask.
“His name is Israel,” David says. “We have named him Israel.”
“How many of you are there in your family?” I ask, and Rekhev translates.
“I had two wives, but one is no more,” David says. “Two sons are here, Benjamin and Ellis, and their wives and children. I have two sons here, two in Israel. And me. David Waskar. Hindus call me Da-veed, Muslims call me Dawood. Da-veed, Da-wood.” David Waskar smiles at the thought. “What to do, I am an Israel Jew. Anyway, I have no problems here. I am friends with everyone. People respect me a lot. They should, we have been here a long time.”
David speaks Hindi tinged with Marathi, the local language of this province, and he speaks it very fast. Rekhev doesn’t speak Marathi and tells me under his breath that he finds David’s accent difficult to understand. “He’s fascinating, though, don’t you think?” he asks me quietly, and I can tell that he’s intrigued by their conversation.
“How long have the Jews been here in your village?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s an old story. Many, many years. There was a ship. It came from Israel; it took a month to get here. Now it takes only five, six hours on a jet airplane. My wife can tell you—she has just come back from there on a visit. But back then it took a month. Over a month. And then there was a shipwreck. We landed here, we began to make oil, we sold it in carts from village to village. People called us teli, oil presser. They thought we were low-caste; they didn’t know we were Jews. Still, we got along with everyone. The problems of the Hindus and Muslims are not our problems.”
“Do you still make oil?”
“We make the oil all year, and then my wife and I go and sell it. It is difficult now, now people buy oil in a shop, and they are not as used to buying our oil, but I still do it. I go to very small villages where they need it. I enjoy it—traveling on the bullock cart, seeing the different places. I enjoy the travel a lot. But then I enjoy coming home a lot, too. God has blessed me. I have a good family, a hardworking family. Whatever we grow, or we sell, we eat. Nothing more. God has given me enough, and I am grateful.”
The Girl From Foreign: A Memoir Page 21
