Stepping into a synagogue on the morning of Rosh Hashanah, as I had done for the past twenty years of my life (except last year, sorry God!), I felt unsettlingly foreign. I was one of three whities, the services were all in Hebrew, and what’s more, they made me wear a tallis? This is no Classical Reform, and I don’t see a Brazilian man making off-color jokes to the congregation.
Three days later it felt very natural when my family turned off the TV to commence the ceremonies of Ganpati, only to turn it back on the instant they finished. Now this was more familiar.
Ever since coming here I have felt that India is not different but parallel, and that the things different would be surprisingly similar and the things similar would be surprisingly different. I am happy to have found this through religion and these past weeks were God-appaloosa.
Three holidays in two weeks, three religions in one religious clusterf#@% of a country, and one Religious Studies minor determined to experience them all.
Round one: Rosh Hashanah. This one should be a piece of Hamentashen. I went to the Red Temple, one of two synagogues in Pune and the largest in Asia outside Israel, the day before to find out when services were. The outside of the temple looks simple and imposing like an Anglican Church (steeple and all) and it is built entirely from brick-red brick. I waited for the go-ahead from the security guard who questioned me (Ever since 26/11, when Indian Jews in Mumbai were targeted by the terrorists, security is pretty high at the Red Temple and no goys are allowed in during the High Holidays). Should I bust out my last name to prove my Jew credentials (J-cred)? What about the Sh’mah or the Kiddush or perhaps something more covenant related?
Finally, the caretaker of the synagogue, who I later found out was named David ben Schlomo, motioned me in.
What’s that, David ben Schlomo, you only need to look at me to know I’m a Jew? That obvious, eh?
The first thing that I noticed about David was his white yarmulke and his dark skin. Call me what you want but I was surprised. I do not encounter Sephardim often, much less a man ethnically Indian wearing a similar little beanie to the one that I got from Sam Driks’ Bar Mitzvah seven years ago. The second thing I noticed about David ben Schlomo was the name David ben Schlomo. Enough said.
He gave me a little card with the times for all the services for the High Holidays and I knew I was stepping into some orthodox grounds and that I may be preparing myself for embarrassment. Can’t I be like the other secular Jews who go to India and take Jew-sabbatical (Please note the irony in that contraction. You see, sabbatical comes from the Hebrew word for…oh nevermind)?
The next evening I arrive a little late to services (family: think John and Jenny, not Steve and Louise) and I was one of the first. I sat down on a bench facing the center of the synagogue, not the Torah. The synagogue was simply decorated with white paint and floral decorations. The Ten Commandments were carved in English and Hebrew and in the same white marble that covered the floors, and there were several other framed signs in Hebrew. There were white columns holding up the balcony and had blue floral caps, with each column having a distinct blue floral adornment. In the center of the sanctuary was a raised island on which the rabbi (called something else here that I cannot remember) led services.
In the end about forty people showed up for the hour-long service. The Pune Jewish community is about one-fifty and shrinking. Most have left for Israel, and I will talk about that later. Everybody looked Indian to me and some of the women, who were all on the right side (guess where the men were), wore little fabric squares clipped to their hair to accompany their sari. The younger generation of girls wore jeans and blouses and one girl looked like she came straight from school, jeans and sneakers and all. Some of the men wore button downs and nice slacks (including me. [And you’re welcome, Dad.]), while some wore jeans and two my age wore t-shirts. But they all wore yarmulkes (including me).
“Shall we get started?” was the last thing I understood coming from the rabbis mouth. His all-Hebrew service was not only the orthodox version (thus the prayers unabridged) but sang in a totally different tune and away from the thinly spread congregation, toward the arc on what I presumed to be the East side of the temple. His echo and my faint Bar Mitzvah memories and the foreign pace of the service made me try very hard to follow and then give up and only pretend to do so. I had begun a conversation with a guy my exact age I found out and continued it intermittently throughout the service. And I didn’t feel weird because it seemed like about half of the people were in conversation as well. I guess half the people were paying attention just like at services back home, except here they didn’t pretend to be paying attention like we do.
The guy is named Ari Hyam (total J-cred) and after talking for a while and consulting his mother on the other side of the sanctuary after services, invited me to dinner. After a short rickshaw ride where Ari comforted me when saying that rickshaw drivers are all a-holes (something I had been wondering if Indians felt the same way), we arrived at his cozy apartment. He is studying engineering at the University of Pune. His dad, who was not at services, was watching TV when I arrived. He is Robin Hyam and he made Aliyah in 1975 but returned to India on a visit and never left. At the dinner we discussed many issues of common thread between Jews, and I enjoyed discovering the comparisons and contrasts they had to my American Jewish experience.
What I found most interesting was their connection to Israel and their relationship with the goyim in India. For them, India was a nice place to stay and Robin expressed thankfulness that Indians have let them worship freely all these years, yet his heart was in Israel. For such a small community, and for a family that was really attached to their Jewish identity, it made sense that they had such a fondness and closeness with Israel. He said that the Indian Jewish population was much larger before Israel, and that in a series of three major spurts Jews have made Aliyah. First right after creation, second in the seventies, and third around now-ish. The Hyams’ son was in Israel studying Hebrew and Robin served in the IDF. He is now head of a physical security company. They did not seem to mourn what was regarded to them as the inevitable end to the Indian Jewish community, but rather express excitement for Israel. And of course, we had the necessary Israeli politics talk. Indian Jews don’t eat beef (to respect Hindus), do henna on weddings, and intermarriage is not only common but necessary; however, they don’t celebrate Hindu holidays or traditions and can only marry a gentile if he or she converts.
The meal was kosher and goat and I think I ate its liver.
The next morning I thought I was Steve and Louise late (being an hour late [sorry if you are reading this Mr. and Mrs. Gruenembaum, not trying to draw attention to you.]) but I was an hour earlier this time than the majority of the congregants. About twice the attendance of the night before, the service was the similar but they blew eight rounds of the shofar, and there was no contest for longevity, a.k.a. my favorite part of the service.
I spoke with the two other white folks during the snack break after services and the girl grew up in St. Louis Park, Minnesota. Her uncle is from Overland Park (Jewish Geography at its finest). She seemed more familiar with the service and knew what was going on with the whole afternoon water prayer thing which I did not.
I think in the end the Jewish Diaspora experience is pretty varied and we all do things much more differently than we think. The Jewish experience is by no means concrete and clear. But in the end, even the Hyams had hooked noses and an inescapable feeling of being different from their neighbors. Like some I know, they take pride in it. A businessman and family man I met at morning services, who only goes to synagogue five or so times a year however, seemed to reject his religion but not his identity. And in the end, that is all we are, an identity, and it does not matter who you….
Blah blah blah ok, end of Round one. More to come.
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