Chanukah in Kolkata

Exile

An Israeli traveler, who I met here in one of the traveler cafes here in Kolkata/Calcutta, told me that the Jewish community here still ran a Erev Shabbat service in one of the synagogues. She tried to go but could not find the building in this packed city. That Friday I decided to go check it out. I left at 3pm to give me enough time to get there. I trusted her dubious internet source.

I walked north from BBD Bag square, quite shocked at seeing the grand Victorian architecture that I am so familiar with in London surrounded by the rush and madness of an Indian city. So many people. I have never seen so many people. I arrived on Old China Bazar Road and made towards what was once the Jewish area of town. Every inch of space on this road was taken up by a market stall, selling everything from combs to colanders; any remaining room was full of people. Each step had to be carefully navigated and each small opening between people quickly utilized.

I walked round the block that Magen David synagogue was supposed to be on. I asked several people the way. They all knew how to direct me there. It was clearly a well known landmark but it remained aloof. Eventually I was directed through a tiny gap between two market stalls to the gate of the synagogue. There I looked up and saw the huge red brick, ornate building whose design was dominated by a church-style steeple. The entrance was hidden by the market and the front was obscured from the main road – formerly called Synagogue Street – by a huge concrete monstrosity. I looked at it and wished that planning permission had come to India. The synagogue was large and splendid; the community here must have been pretty prosperous.

In the courtyard I met the Muslim caretaker. I was not allowed to enter. Apparently all visitors needed a letter of permission from a certain Nahoum, who owns a bakery in Kolkata’s Newmarket. I was informed that no services took place and that there were only 30 Jews left in the city. Oh, perhaps they still run a service at the other synagogue round the corner, I thought naively. I listened to the directions and taking a deep breath dived back into the throng.

I found myself on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. I was sweating, thirsty and tired from being on this crazy street. Suddenly I would find myself face to face with a rickshaw, hooted at by a taxi or growled at angrily after bumping into a man carrying a ton of goods on his head.

With the walk taking triple the time it should have done, I found myself on the same block as Beth El synagogue. I caught a glimpse of the shul at the end of an alley of market stalls. It was blocked. I went round and arrived at the gate. Exhausted and emotional, I pushed open the gate and entered the Shabbat peace of its courtyard, away from the busy week of the street.

On the left of the large but slightly plainer shul there was a grandfatherly looking old man sitting under a shelter finishing off some street food out of a leaf bowl. I rushed up to him nearly crying: was he perhaps one of the last Jews of Kolkata…

“Are you Jewish?”

“No.”

“Can I go inside?”

“No; letter, Nahoum, letter.”

I could not hold it in any longer; I walked sullenly to the entrance foyer, sat on a step and cried. I cried for the beauty of the buildings now empty. I cried for the prayers that no longer fill their halls. I cried for the generations that lived here, the memory of who is hidden, unseen from the street. I cried for the Shabbat arriving at that moment but with no one to greet her. I cried for the loss to India of one colour in her diverse tapestry. I was angry at the Indians on the street for not knowing and caring and at the community for leaving.

Only I wasn’t allowed to cry. The caretaker came along and gestured me to move to the bench on the far side. I went.

“Where are you from?

“Uk.

“Why you cry?

“Because there are no people here. Do you live in Calcutta?

“Tomorrow 10 o’clock you go to Nahoum.

“Did you know any Jews here?

“All Jews left. To Israel. You go to Israel?

“No.

“Why not? Jews go to Israel.”

“This one doesn’t.”

“Only 12 Jews. Old men.”

“What you do in UK? How much do you earn? 5,000?”

“No.”

“10,000?”

“NO. Go away, I want to sit here on my own.”

“Tomorrow you go to Mr Nahoum. Now you go.”

He gestured with a trace of aggression towards the gate. I got up and walked at morosely. He locked it behind me.

I sat on the floor and cried some more. Really I was crying for myself: I missed Shabbat with family, in the house or on an RSY event. In a city of 15 million people, sitting there on the road, exiled from the courtyard, I felt like the only Jew in the world.

In that moment I realized that I finally understood the emotion of Tisha B’Av, of the loss of the glorious past, of practices no longer observed, of being shut out. When I saw empty shuls in Poland I had not felt quite like this. I had been there with a group of other Jews who seeing the Jewish past were also living a Jewish present and creating its future. Here in Kolkata, from where the community had left voluntarily hoping for a better life in Israel, the UK or the US, it was seeing these empty buildings and feeling loss, loneliness and a sense that something was now incomplete and missing that caused this emotion.

I opened my siddur and began to sing Kabbalat Shabbat to myself. Midway through a 10 year old boy asked why I talk to myself. Soon a small crowd gathered round.

“You cant sit in the road.”

“Why? May people sit on the road in Kolkata.”

“You can’t sit in the road.”

“I want to.”

“What you read?”

“It is Hebrew. You see this building? This is a synagogue where Jews pray. Like mosque. Today is special day, like Muslim Friday.”

“You don’t sit in the street!”

“I want to pray here. Did you know Jews lived here? Thousands of Jews for three hundred years?”

“You have a rupee? Two rupees?”

The old man returned and stood on the inside of the gate. A conversation in Bengali ensued. I returned to the psalms.

“I mean no dispresect but you cannot sit on the floor. I respect you and what you do but you cannot sit in the road.”

“Ok.”

“Two rupees? One rupee?”

I got up, said goodbye and walked down the street into the madness singing Lecha Dodi. At least I was there to greet her.

Operation Chanukah

Chanukah was going to work; I was not prepared to take any risk. So I skipped volunteering (sorry!) and put Operation Chanukah into action. The plan was as follows:

1 Locate fellow Jews.

• Go to Internet café and look at the list of names on the door, checking for Jewish sounding or Israeli names
• Go to all the traveler cafes and look for Jews/Israelis

2 Go to Nahoum’s bakery.

• Try to meet Nahoum himself
• Leave a note there with my number for anyone that goes in and asks for the letter

3 Go to shul

• Get there at 3pm to be sure to intercept Shalom Israel.

1

• Negative. No Jews found in the Internet café. Internet café owner convinced that I am a stalker.
• Success. I went to Blue Sky Café and immediately chanced upon an Israeli. I informed him of Operation Chanukah asking if he wanted to be my accomplice. Gal readily agreed.

We went round the corner from there to sit at one of the many chai stalls on Sudder Street. And there, what do you know, we found ourselves sitting next to an Israeli couple.

“Are you Israeli?” I asked, over excitedly.

“Errr… Yes” she replied uncertainly.

“Great! I should tell you about my mission! I plan to find the last Jews in Kolkata and celebrate Chanukah with them….” I quickly paused for breath. “Wait, you know that Chanukah starts today!?”

She looked at her boyfriend, he looked away from me. Disinterest shone in their eyes.

“Come on guys it’s Chanukah!” They looked bored. Her expression asked “Who is this guy? There’s Chabad in Kolkata?”

I had been thwarted by my own exuberance. I’ve been warned of this.

Gal returned, exchanged a few words with them in Hebrew and as we walked away he sighed, “Israelis”.

2

• Look Daniel, I don’t know what you were thinking, this guy is 84 and probably dying!
• We got our pre-written letter of permission from one of the staff at the bakery and left a note about Chanukah celebrations for any other travelers who might come along.

Accompanied by Christmas music and decorations we bought some macaroons at Nahoum and Sons bakery and sat with chai in Newmarket.

I promise that it was not only me who initiated the conversation; it was just as much Gal’s idea! We talked about Israel, politics and all. We were sitting only three metres away from where I had sat with Eduardo, an intelligent photographer from Spain who had spent a year working for an NGO in the West Bank, only two days before and had had a pretty disturbing conversation about the situation. Several hours later I understood why Gal had voted for Netanyahu. Reflecting on those two conversations, days apart on the steps in a square in India I realized that I could go anywhere in the world and would not be able to get away from thinking, talking and feeling strongly about Israel/Palestine.

3

After my failed visit the week before I had done my research. There is an article online about Shalom Israel – the youngest Jew in Kolkata. He lives on the grounds of the Jewish cemetery where he is the undertaker, superintendent and all round mensch to the remaining community. Every Shabbat he goes to each of the synagogues to light the Shabbat candles. I had missed him last week; I was not taking a risk this time.

I got to Magen David synagogue at 3pm and went inside. It has a huge, stunning interior of pillars and arches with Hebrew inscriptions across them, an ornate ark, a grand bimah in the centre and an elegant sprinkling of colour all over. It was clean, well maintained and empty, cleared of chairs. There was a framed letter on the wall from the American Jewish community thanking the synagogue for looking after US Jewish soldiers serving in Asia during the war. The three caretakers followed me around everywhere.

The interior of Beth El synagogue, only a five minute walk away, was older, simpler and much less ornate, but inviting and homely.

There I met Shalom. He was a gentle, warm, smiley, cuddly man and could answer all our questions about the community.

I hadn’t noticed but directly next door to Magen David synagogue is another shul (not open to the public) called Neve Shalom. During the planning of Magen David, there was a broyges and half the group split away to build a separate shul. They split the site in half and so two synagogues came to be built next door to each other. The wealthy people stayed with Magen David and Neve Shalom became the poor man’s shul. No one remembers what the disagreement was about.

The planners of Magen David employed a British architect from London who was famed for his churches. No one checked the plans and the building was completed true to his style, complete with a tall grand steeple.

There are in fact 26 Jews left, the rest of the community migrated over the years.

Gal and I listened attentively to Shalom and took a look in the ark at the two remaining Sifrei Torah in their traditional Baghdadi solid silver cases.

It was Chanukah. There in this large, empty synagogue hall a British, an Israeli and an Indian Jew stood together, sang the Chanukah blessings and the shechechianu; we remembered the wondrous and heroic acts done for our ancestors in those times at this season and we lit the chanukiah together. As we sang Maoz Tzur I looked at these candles as their light shone out to fill the large, glorious room. I felt like I was one of the Macabees, entering the Temple from exile and rededicating the space. The three of us there that Chanukah Shabbat, were marking out the synagogue as holy through light; we were honouring the history and heritage of this once great community; and for the first time in my life not just celebrating Chanukah but truly experiencing its essence.

The mission had been accomplished. Happy Chanukah!