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Some invitations come unannounced. And, this was one such reason to take-off to Manipur. This years, my trips to Assam and Mizoram, made me aware about North-East India. I was to participate in an event in Imphal, Manipur. It was a short trip; but exhilarating. Before, the aircraft landed on Imphal’s table-top runway, I saw that the airport was small, homely and had a Pagoda-style roof. Before, we touched the runway; I had a grand-stand view of Loktak Lake. This sweet water lake is also used as a source of potable water, irrigation and livelihood for fishermen and their families living in the surrounding areas, in huts, shacks or homes built on the lake’s floating islands, where rain-water harvesting is also done. It is an amazing expanse of water, divided into artificially created circles, squares and rectangles for fish-farming, which is done by co-operatives. These islands are created by soil, organic matter, overgrown mass of vegetation, wild rice, floating plants, which almost reach the base of the lake. Innumerable islands are spread over Loktak Wetlands, as they remain stationary or float over the water. These islands are homes to families, who live on the islands in shacks or stilt-huts. They make a living by rowing canoes in the lake, catching fish or fermenting fish on home-made coal or wood-fire stoves and sell, both fresh and fermented fish to vendors of Imphal, while keeping some for their own kitchen, as their homes rock, lightly on the lake. Fishermen row their canoes over the lake; to reach the banks of the river, if they have errands in neighbouring villages or Imphal. Loktak lake has floating villages, with fishing nets and canoes tied to the hut, along with defined circles for fishing. In fact, they appear to be sailing like magical islands on the lake, which also has the only floating wild life sanctuary of the world, known as Keibul Lamjo National Park. As the vegetation in Loktak lake is dense and holds everything together, the park looks like a dense forest, which rests on the lake and is home to the endangered Eld’s or Brow-Antelered-Deer or Sangai Deer, which is also known as the Dancing Deer and is a protected species in Manipur.  A motif of the Sangai Deer also appears on Manipuri shawls. This deer is a little smaller than the Sambar, as the male has a brown coat, while the doe is smaller. Herds of Sangai Deer live on Loktak Lake along with Sambar, Barking Deer, Wild Boar, Gibbons, Macaque, Civets, Marbled Cats, reptiles like Pythons, water birds, migratory birds; like ducks, Teals, Cranes, Ibis and Geese. While some birds fly over the lake or up above in the sky, often swooping down to capture a fish from the lake and take wing.

The entire panorama of Loktak lake looks like a magical world. One often assumes the floating world is up and above in the skies, somewhere above the clouds, here. Hut, here it sales on the surface of Loktak lake. Everything moves here, as the wild life sanctuary appears to be anchored almost at the base of the lake, which is not so, and lends a fascinating dream-like quality. It is an Utopian world, where nothing needs to be anchored, yet lives and survives during various seasons; the various seasons, like a beautiful mobile landscape, which appears to be rooted, but is not, yet it roots the people, animals and birds living on the lake…forever moving, floating; as the waves carry them forward; into a dream world…which has all the elements of a fairytale….

When Juliet Abraham, who is Jewish, has a runaway marriage with Rahul Abhiram, a Hindu, their families are initially furious but soon relent. They buy the couple an apartment in Shalom India Housing Society, Ahmedabad. However, once the couple leaves for Israel, they rent out the apartment to a series of tenants from the Bene Israel community, for each of whom it becomes the venue of an unfolding love story.

Myra comes to India from America to teach the Torah to Indian Jews. Wooed assiduously by Ezra, she instead escapes into a new life with a Hindu guru. Ruby rekindles an old flame, only to find out too late that men betray. Ilana, a strict and uptight police officer, is forced to meet potential grooms by her parents and realizes that it’s good to let loose sometimes. And Bollywood-crazy Sangita has many adventures in India as she tries to trace her grandmother’s grave. The mischievous Prophet Elijah, benevolently presiding over the small community, occasionally creates havoc but finally makes sure that peace prevails.

Bombay Brides is about home, heritage, rites, rituals and roots. It offers the delights of SahityaAkademi Award-winner Esther David’s exquisite light observations on what it means to be the last surviving members of a diminishing community, accompanied by her marvellous, evocative illustrations.

March 24^th 2018

Jewish New Year – this year is 5778

In a few days, Jews all over the world will be celebrating the festival of Passover – literally meaning Pass-over from the Red Sea, when the Jewish patriarch Moses led the Jews to freedom from slavery when they were in Egypt, as graphically seen in the film The Ten Commandemnets and other films. After that, Moses received the Ten Commandements, which is celebrated with the festival known as Shavouth. But, after a series of events, God banished them to the deserts in the Middle East, where they were in search of their Homeland, which they eventually found in a land, close to today’s Israel.

This is how, the concept of the wandering Jew is connected to Jews and was like a thin streak within me. It was a feeling I never understood for a long time, till I was almost in my mid-forties and became conscious of my Jewish traditions.

During, my first avatar as an artist, art critic, I was already writing as a columnist, first about art, then the old city of Ahmedabad, because, I grew up there and am attached to it.

I am a Bene Israel Jew. There are five Jewish communities in India. As, most communities have immigrated to Israel, the largest group is the Bene Israel Jews, who live in western India, Mumbai, Alibaug, Ahmedabad and Pune. Cochin Jews came from Spain and  live in Kochi and Kerala, Baghdadi Jews came from Iraq and live Kolkatta, Bene Ephraim Jews are from Andhra Pradesh, Bene Menashe Jews belong to Mizoram. There is also a small Synagogue in Delhi, for a few Indian Jews and Jews from other countries who work in the embassies.

Bene Israel Jews are known to have come to India, some two thousand years back, as they were fleeing from Greek persecution and after a shipwreck, landed on the coastal region of Alibaug in India, where they worked as farmers and oil pressers and also added the name of the village they belonged to, so that their names had an Indian ring, like those from Navgao had a name like Joseph, Samuel, Benjamin Navgaokar.

Being a columnist for a long time, helped me develop my skills at writing and led me towards my first novel THE WALLED CITY. It was an abstract search about being a Jew, with a name like Esther, which is often pronounced in different ways. I titled it as the walled city, as that is a place I know best.

Another similarity is that, when we came to India, so many years back, after the fall of King Solomon’s second temple. I have read, it was like a walled city.

Jews still worship at the last wall there, known as the Western Wall, which is also known as the Wailing Wall. Jews from all over the world pray at this wall. Between the rocks of this wall, Jews insert slips of paper or letters to the Lord asking him to fulfill secret wishes.

Later, I wrote BY THE SABARMATI, a collection of short stories, which were based around the lives of women, while working on the theme of Intuitive art or Outsider Art with uneducated artists living in underprivileged areas.

The city is almost like my grandmother, I lost long back. She taught me many lessons about life and heritage, not only about cities, city stories, family stories, but also food, she forced us to help her, when she made various foods for Jewish festivals. When my grandmother died, our joint family in the old city disintegrated and was divided into nuclear homes. Our family was no longer religious, but once in a while, we all did go to the Synagogue, that is when I was at a loss, as I could not understand the prayers which were in Hebrew. Actually, they were beautifully sung and somewhere stayed within me. But, I still have difficulties in following Hebrew prayers. I prefer my English prayers books.

During various periods of my life, I often attended prayers at the Synagogue, but when I started writing BOOK OF ESTHER, I often went there to research and study, tradtions and rituals from Joseph Pingle, whom I call Johny bhai and understood the Kosher dietary law from his wife Julie. With her, we set up a stall of Jewish food at IIM’s Satvik food fair for three years and it was a success.

We do not have a Rabbi, but we have a cantor, known as a Hazzan, as any elder in our community, who has had a Bar-Mitzvah, can lead the prayers.

Book of Esther is about five generations of a Jewish family living in India. To research for this novel, I went to Alibaug, my native place to understand the landscape and meet some Jewish families, who still live there. As, soon as I landed there, I felt at home. I have the same feeling, when I am in the walled city of Ahmedabad. This was the beginning of trying to understand the concept of Homeland, as since a young age, grandmother, would hold us in her arms and whisper in our ears,

“Next year in Jerualem.”

Later, even, if we were not religious, there was a certain pressure, that we live Jewish lives and leave for Israel.

I never understood, How? It unsettled me.

Even today, Indian Jews always say, India is their Motherland and Israel is their Fatherland or Homeland. In this context, the Mother-Tongue of Bene Israel Jews is Marathi and in Israel they have a newsletter in Marathi known as Mai-Boli.

Today, there are 145 Jews in Ahmedabad. Maybe 2000 in Maharashtra. So, there are 4000 Jews in India and 80, 000 Indian Jews in Israel. Indian born Israeli Jews know Hebrew, but older people have difficulty with the language.

Yet, Bollywood is a bonding factor amongst all Indian Jews and also Indophhile Israelis and have a large scale Bollywood festival known as Hodu-Yada, as according to the Bible, India was known as Hodu and shows both countries had connections since ancient times.

Long back, when I showed the manuscript of The Walled City to the poet Nissim Ezekiel, he explained to me, that as Jews living in India, we do go through moments of a certain cross-culture conflict. Suddenly, everything fell into place. Yes, I am very Indian, and very Gujarati, yet there are moments, when I am invited to various religious events held by different Indian communities and am not always comfortable. But, then, it is the same, when I am amongst Jews at the Synagogues in India and abroad. The reason being, that these Temples, as Jews also refer to their Synagogues as Temples are orthodox, while in some western countries, there are liberal Synagogues, where I am comfortable.  Yet, in India and elsewhere I discovered that Jews have a right to question about some laws or traditions and that we are a Matriachal society, where the women have a certain power about making decisions, are respected and important in preserving Jewish rituals in family and community.

My journey as an author began with The Walled City, when it was launched, it reached out to readers in India, abroad and the Jewish Diaspora. Then, the French translation was launched in Paris and when people came to see and meet an Indian Jew, I became known as an Indian-Jewish-Author. I suddenly felt comfortable and in a way, ‘At Home.’

With this novel, the concept of homeland was getting clear.

By then, I was educating myself and studying the Jewish way of life, rituals, traditions, artefacts and food. I also realized that, I belong to a community, which is on the verge of extinction. So, I became part of a team when a small section of Jewish objects were to be displayed at Sanskar Kendra’s City Museum and also made sure that the Synagogue was listed as a heritage monument in Ahmedabad. Then, I was also part of a citizen’s initiative with the FRIENDS OF ISRAEL and Times of India, so that we could save an old Jewish cemetery in Vadodara’s Nizampura area; from real estate agents who wanted to make a mall there. But, we were not successful in saving the Surat cemetery. These are some of the ways, I participate in the community, as form of a “Mitzvah,’ which is the Hebrew word foor doing a good turn and am always present for any other difficulties, which the Jewish community maybe facing.

With the launch of BOOK OF ESTHER, I received emails and letters from a Pakistani journalist about a certain Aunty Rachel, who lived in Karachi and protected the cemetery there, as the Synagogue had been destroyed.

She was a Bene Israel Jew, a school teacher and spoke fluent English, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarati. When, she was very old, with help from the American embassy, she was flown to Israel, where she died and the cemetery in Pakistan was taken over by others. With the Vadodara story, Aunt Rachel and some unused Synagogues I had seen in Alibaug, these became the seed of my novel BOOK OF RACHEL. In Alibaug, I had been invited to many Jewish homes, where I discovered food, which was similar to the food my grandmother used to make. Somehow, these fragrances came back to me; and I included them in BOOK OF RACHEL, starting each chapter with an old Jewish recipe, which we rarely make today. This is how Rachel became a realty for me, as she preserves the heritage of Synagogues and food.

In continuation, another publisher suggested, I write Jewish short stories, I agreed, but, while working on this collection, I set the characters in a housing society, confronting the various social problems and cross cultural conflicts faced by a mini-micrcroscopic community living in India, surrounded by so many attractions and yet trying to preserve the Jewish heritage. This is how SHALOM INDIA HOUSING SOCIETY was created, where the protagonist is Prophet Elijah, whom I discovered in Alibaug.

Bene Israel Jews believe in the Prophet and it is said, on his way to heaven, Prophet Elijah passed through India, Alibaug on the Konkan coast and left a mark of the hoof marks of his horses and chariot wheels on a rock. So, Bene Israel Jews start all events as a thanksgiving to the Prophet and ask him to fulfill secret wishes and once these are realized, that particular person or family, holds a Malida ceremony and feeds the entire community. So, in my novel SHALOM INDIA HOUSING SOCIETY, the Prophet visits Jewish homes, during the festival of Passover, all over the world. During a certain prayer, a chair is kept aside for him, and he is offered a goblet of wine. I loved this concept and belief and enjoyed writing about it. In Gujarat, he is offered black currant sherbet, as Gujarat is a Dry-State.    

Indian Jewish life has many Indian influences, like the offering of a Malida is made with flaked rice or poha mixed with sugar and grated coconut, dates, petals of red roses, apples and bananas. A Mehendi or Henna ceremony is also held and garbas have been recently included, but during a wedding bride and groom wear western clothes.

A word about the Jewish dietary law or Kosher – the Law says, “Thou shalt not cook the lamb in its mothers milk.” And, so in the absence of Kosher meat, which is available only during festivals, Jews prefer to remain vegetarians almost the whole year around. The same with wine, in the absence of kosher wine, we make a sherbet with black currants, which looks similar to wine.

And, to keep the law, Indian Jews use coconut milk instead of dairy, so there is a Maharstrian and Konkani influence in our food habits. We also love Gujarati snacks.  

We have a lunar calendar, so our festivals arrive during Indian festivals, like Purim is on Holi and our New Year Rosh Ha Shana is celebrated during Navratri.

After writing Shalom India Housing Society, I could work on the documentation of the Jews of Gujarat and now I am studying Jewish cuisine. And, as I have a collection of old photographs of my family, I also studied these photographs, interviewed Jewish women of Gujarat and Mumbai and wrote a chapter, SARI-SUTRA for a friend’s book on Indian Jews.

This is how my journey continues, but, before I end, I would like to say the old city of Ahmedabad is equally important to me. I use Ahmedabad as a stage on which, I set almost all my novels. Eventually, I wrote AHMEDABAD:A CITY WITH A PAST.

If you saw me in the street, you would not believe that I am a Jew, but once at the Synaagogue, we cover our head, men wear prayer shawls, with skull-caps or kippas and we say our prayers in Hebrew, so, I refer to our Jewish life, as a secret life…

This is how created my Homeland, as now, I just have to open my books and I know, I have reached my homeland….

For years, words, forms and images have been my saviours, leading me towards creation.

This is my world.

A world where I exist.

A world, which has no definite boundaries.

But, much before that, I had already created my own literary world.

In the library of our ancestral house in the walled city, the only child of working parents, the library was my keeper. Here, I had three story tellers feeding my imagination – the library where I read all that I was not allowed to read and which I did not understand. The library gave me a heritage. My grandmother gave me family stories, as I lay in her lap and Mani the cook regaled me with folk tales wrapped in her sari which was full of flavours of garlic, curries and a fertile imagination.

In my first novel The Walled City, she appeared in this form – “Mani surprises everybody by having a bath under the garden tap, an old sari wrapped around her thin frame. She lets me watch while she puts on a freshly washed sari and also permits me to look into her tin box. It has broken mirror, two saris, a torn petticoat, a multi-coloured poster of kaaba, and a small wooden perfume box lined with velvet, holding a little cut glass bottle of jasmine attar, the only remaining keepsake to remind her of her family. She opens it allows me to float in the fragrance for a moment, and then closes it again. There is no reason to wear perfume.”

But, before that, as a sculptor, I discovered that the sculptural material has its own limitations. It allows you to play with it, up to a point. After that the physical aspect of the material somehow controls you. I was always restless with the size, format, and felt a certain resistance from the material.

I felt the physical material was always dominating me, almost telling me what to do. The only aspects of art, where I was comfortable and at ease, were art history, art appreciation, sketching and drawing.

But, sculpture was my profession and I had to make a living out of it. After working in almost all sculptural material like clay, plaster, stone, metal and wood. I preferred wood as it seemed to listen to me, sometimes. After all, a block of wood had gone through various phases of growth, from seed, plant, tree – nurtured in the dust of the soil of the earth, where dust turns into dust.

As I later wrote in my first novel THE WALLED CITY – “Mysterious dwelling places of my ancestors. I am just a seed of the buried tree.”

Whenever I worked on a form, my sketch books were full of words and sketches. Sometimes the words and forms were connected.

I also realized that as a sculptor, I was feeling imprisoned in the block of wood. Only words seemed to liberate me.

I was not at peace with myself.

The medium of sculpture as my creative language was becoming a burden.

I did not want to be the chisel welding super woman.

I just wanted to be who I was. I wanted to go further, perhaps with words, with a voice of my own.

I wanted to be in control of my creativity.

How and where I was to accomplish this desire, I did not know.

I was feeling imprisoned in the blocks of wood stacked in my back yard. I was feeling suffocated. I wanted to break free and create for myself an endless landscape, where I could work freely with words, forms, images.

At the same time, I believe that today all those different fragments of painting, sculpture and writing have merged together into my books. Much of my academic training as an artist has helped in creating images while I write and my writing helps while I draw. Words become lines and lines become words

While reading R.K.Narayan, I was enchanted by Malgudi and decided to use the old city of Ahmedabad; like a stage, on which I set most of my novels. In my columns, Ahmedabad emerged in many ways and it was with great pleasure that read it was declared a World Heritage City. It is almost 607 years and has a living heritage in its various nooks and corners.

It was just by chance that I discovered the Chandi-Temple, a few kilometers from Chandigarh; in a tree-lined forest; full of birds. I had not expected that the name of this very modern city designed by famed Swiss architect could be connected with the Mother Goddess. According to the plaque affixed there, it is said that after the Goddess had defeated the demon, she had stopped in the vicinity, where the temple stands now and was spotted by a ‘Rishi,’ who made a small temple for her. Later, it is said, a local ruler made a walled city nearby, with a fortress meaning ‘Gadh.’

After India became independent, it was decided that Le Corbusier would build Chandigarh.

Excavations in this area have revealed that objects from the Indus Valley civilization have been found and exhibited at Le Corbusier Center in Chandigarh.

Last month, while I was at IIT Ropar also known as Roop-Nagar to give a lecture, I discovered another Indus Valley site there, which has a very well maintained small museum.  On the way back, I saw a narrow gauge station, from where a tiny train can take tourists to Simla, passing through winding hills, tunnels and forests. This charming railway station reminds one of a Bimal Roy film-set, like the one in Bandini.

When, I was there, preparations for Baisakhi were under way, so I decided to spend my evenings at the Tagore Auditorium with its brick and glass façade, where I saw Bhangra,  heard vocal and instrumental music with other dance forms.

This lush green, well planned city of gardens and manicured trees also has a National Museum, which houses an amazing collection of miniature paintings, sculptures and a few pieces of modern Indian art.  

While I was in Chandigarh, Le Corbusier Center and Chandigarh Lalit Kala Akademy inaugurated the “Open Hand – Art Studios,” to commemorate Corbusier’s cousin’s Pierre Jeanneret 122^nd anniversary, as he was architect, designer  and close associate of Le Corbusier on many projects. His chairs are on display at the center. The air was festive, as installations were displayed on the lawns, like a painted auto-rickshaw and many more. So, I went to see

Le Corbusier’s; “Open Hand Sculpture,” which can also looks like a bird.

It is a mobile and according to the wind direction moves slowly in all directions, standing amidst mango trees, as the fruit was just beginning to ripen, the most tantalizing moment was at sunset, the golden orb of the sun, could be seen suspended on the horizon from the tall rectangular pedestal of the Open Hand.

On the way back, I stopped at a sector known for its “Phulkari” shops and saw a Corbusier bus-stand. I marveled the use of verticals and horizontals, which are a beautiful mix of art and geometry.

Right then, a bright magenta-pink car overtook my cab, I noticed it was painted in floral designs all over. A young woman was in the driver’s seat and on her car door, there was a yellow signage, “CAUTION-WOMAN DRIVING.”

They say; Assam’s river Brahmaputra is one of the longest rivers’ in India and known to be one of the few male rivers, as most Indian rivers have feminine names. On landing at Guwahati airport, one could feel the whiff of fresh air and, while driving to the hotel, we saw colourful houses with sloping roofs on hillocks, as some women and school girls could be seen on the winding streets; dressed in the Assamese two-sari ‘Mekhla.’ Reaching the hotel, from the large glass window in my room, I could see the river flowing bank to bank, almost resembling a sea dotted with boats. One can take rides on barges from the many jetties and remember scenes from Satyajit Ray films, set against hills, mist, a light rainfall and beautiful landscapes. From here, it is important to see the Kamakhya Temple. It is said, when Lord Shiva was in a fury, he salvaged the body parts of Sati, his wife, who had immolated herself. He threw these all over India. And, it so happened that her pubic or ‘Yoni’ fell; where the temple stands. So, in a way, the temple resembles a womb or ‘Garbh-Griha.’ The temple winds downwards, like an inverted well. The temple is on a hill top, which can be reached by driving through winding roads, which have stalls, from where women buy bamboo articles, ritualistic offerings, along with red and white bangles.

We were in Guwahati for a literary event, where we were greeted with ‘Gamchas,’ white stoles woven with red designs, as a mark of respect, these were draped around our shoulders. Everywhere, there were conical ceremonial objects in metal, accompanied with statues of Rhinoceros. So, we made a quick trip to the Zoo, where we took a buggy-ride and saw Indian and African Rhinoceros, Thamin Deer, a white Tiger, Gibbons, massive Assamese Bisons known as Mithun and innumerable birds. Back at the conference, we had a taste of Assam with chicken curry, brown rice, parval cooked in a light sauce, crispy fried karelas, Rosogollas and red-Assam-tea. In the market place, we saw bamboo hats, brown poha or flaked rice, fresh vegetables and mounds of gourds; amidst Momo-stands. But, I could not take my eyes off, a fabric shop, where a sari border was woven with designs of Rhino and Deer.

At that very moment, I understood how art, life and nature can be woven together by an imaginative artisan.

Last week, most Jews all over the world celebrated Passover, in memory of the Exodus and freedom, when they were slaves in ancient Egypt. Most Jews all over the world remember these days by laying a Seder table, specially with unleavened bread and retelling the story of the parting of the Red Sea. And, as it often happens in the Jewish calendar, festive occasions are followed by memorial services like Yom Hashoah, meaning Holocaust Day. The word Shoah in Hebrew means calamity and is almost always referred to the Holocaust memorial day by Jews. It is observed by saying the Mourner’s Kaddish, in Hebrew, which means prayers to the dead, a solemn remembrance day, when memorial candles are lit for those who perished during the Holocaust. Today, observing this day is done in different ways by Jewish communities all over the world, like reciting poems, reading letters, diaries like that of Anne Frank, narrating real-life stories of survivors or families relive the happenings in the lives of relatives, like grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, friends or neighbours, they lost in the Holocaust, when six million Jews were persecuted or died in Nazi Germany under the dictatorship of Adolf Hitler.

In my younger days, I remember, my grandmother, uncle and some others of the family fasted, wore white clothes, as though they were in mourning. In the evening, they lit a candle and said the Kaddish. As Primo Levi said, “…it happened, so it can happen again… this is the core of what we have to say. It can happen and it can happen anywhere.” Those who followed Levi’s work know that he could bear his own dark inner labyrinths of terrifying memories.

The scars remain.

While traveling abroad, often one meets Jews, whose families were victims of the Holocaust and slowly, like old books, whose pages have either been torn or stuck together with their tears, they remember those who were theirs but had never met or do not even know what they looked like. Often, they try to trace resemblances in the physique or facial features of those they lost and are now part of their nightmares.

I have also known some old friends, who try to understand themselves and why they behave in a certain way, wondering if this is how one of their ancestors was, could have been. And is that why they are who they are?

In France, I befriended a survivor, a woman, who was hardly five or six years old when she lost her entire family when the ghetto they lived in was burnt down. Somehow, she was taken to safety and is a grandmother with a large family. Yet she lives in two worlds, of darkness and light: When the memories crowd her, of the yellow star stitched as a patch on shirts; of how she would often dig for potatoes when hungry, which her mother roasted or made soup with, and feels she is falling into an unknown void, from the balcony of a burning ghetto.

Or meeting an old friend, when he came to Ahmedabad and over dinner, told me, that he was a young boy when Hitler hoisted the swastika on the Eiffel Tower. His family had left for America. He was to follow them with an aunt in a car via Portugal, from where they were to take a ship with their meagre belongings and some valuables, abandoning their home, business and everything they owned. He was afraid and felt greatly responsible for his aunt’s safety. On reaching New York, they realised that all their valuables were stolen. They had to start all over again and the trauma of those days never left him, although he has done very well in his profession and is a great-grandfather. But, all his life, he was haunted by his cousin sister, shot in Belsen. He always had nightmares of seeing her in a ditch, face down, legs drawn up, arms outstretched, mouth open, dead, the yellow Star of David stitched on her breast like a wound. He told me that he had spent a lifetime trying to wipe out that particular image from his mind, but could not. Much later, he had read about Dachau, Treblinka, Wolzek, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, Ravensbruck, Mauthausen, Belsen and Auschwitz, looking for her.

Then, I have also met some readers from western countries, who came to meet me, first on the pretext of meeting an Indian Jew, to understand that India was the only country in the world where Jews had not faced any form of persecution. After long conversations, they opened up, just to tell me that their ancestors had gone through the horrors of the Holocaust and had dropped a curtain upon the past. Yet, oft and on, they wanted to return to an area of Jewish life they had denied for themselves. Sometimes, they wanted to see an Indian synagogue, sometimes wanted to be there for the Friday evening Shabbat and participate in a festival, as they felt comfortable. On return to their countries, sometimes they went back to a liberal Jewish community or did not, but stayed in touch with me.

This evening, as I sit writing about Holocaust Day, from my window I can see the waning moon rising and I would like to quote a line from a psalm. “… they walked through the valley of the shadow of death…”

So, let us remember, “…lest we forget…”

Courtesy : Indian Express

(This chapter appeared in the book CREATING CITIZENS: Fr. Ramiro Erviti in Ahmedabad, India. 1956-86. Eds: Howard Spodek, Fr. Chakranarayan, SJ, Vanessa Nazareth-Dalal)

Illustrations by Esther David 

Years back, even before, I went to study art at Vadodara’s Faculty of Fine Arts at Maharaja Sayajirao University, I liked to watch our sweeper’s son, who looked after his siblings, while his mother swept the garden. While sweeping, she collected flattened out tooth paste tubes, empty cartons, colourful plastic bags or pieces of scrap, which she gave her son, who fashioned toys out of them to amuse his brothers and sisters. My heart went out to children who could not afford toys, but made their own in clay or other found-objects.

As an art student for the annual art-fair, my Guru Sankho Choudhuri encouraged us to invent new forms with various materials, to help us de-learn some of our education in art.

Later in life, as a practicing sculptor, this formed the base of my work with Outsider Art. I started questioning whether it was possible to be creative without formal education. I felt the spontaneous images of untrained artists were original and intense.

For example, as an only child of working parents, our cook Mani, told me the most fascinating stories. She was a natural story teller. Much later, I was to meet, many more such men and women, who were to strengthen my beliefs in natural artists and intuitive art, because they had no conditioning in art, yet surprised me; with their unusual creations. 

So, I did a small art project with Majoor Mahajan Sangh and SEWA in the early seventies. I worked with children from the Devipujak community. The response was enthusiastic and it was fascinating to see the clay toys made by them. Often, their parents helped them to make the forms, but were shy to admit that they; as adults had made toys, although their hand was visible in the clay modeling, so  daringly spontaneous. 

It was while I was searching for a potter on the riverbed to fire the toys, I met Lavingben, a widow with eight children. She made a living by selling old gunny bags, but her tin shack was decorated with masks of Tiger-heads. During the festivals she sold colourful clay bowls. She had learnt the technique from her grandfather of making a mixture of clay collected from the Sabarmati riverbed, cardboard soaked in water, ashes, powdered crystals of glue and ground fenugreek.  After a lot of persuasion she agreed to make masks for me in the same technique that she made clay bowls. She also made, mini boats, small figurines of animals, birds, scorpions, reptiles, fish, crocodiles and Elephant God Ganesha,

An exhibition of these works was organized at an art gallery and Father Erwitti of St. Xaviers Social Service scheme had seen it. The next day, he came to meet me and asked, if I would like to organize women’s activities at the Community Center at newly constructed Sanklit-Nagar for flood-hit hutment dwellers.

I agreed.

On day one, as I opened the window of the office allotted to me and I saw a veiled woman standing there asking me, to find work for her. All I had was paper and paint, so asked her to paint. Slightly raising her veil, she said, “How can I draw, when I cannot write.” I have often heard this term in villages and slum areas.

This was Pushpa Rajaram, from Mathura, who had come to live in Sanklit-Nagar with her handicapped husband and four children. Her husband had lost an arm in an oil-pressing machine in Mathura and they had come to Ahmedabad, looking for work.  Her husband sold assorted snacks at the Lal Darwaza bus-stand and had set up home in a tin shack on the Sabarmati riverbed. But, after the floods, they had received alternate accommodation in Sanklit-Nagar.

In our weekly meetings, I discussed Pushpa Rajaram with Father Erviti. He encouraged me to use art for development, make a group of women artists and also help them learn other skills from the tailoring teacher Kalaben, which would lead them towards economic independence and empowerment.

I started work with Pushpa and twenty other women of all communities living in Sanklit-Nagar, which is now known as Juhapura.

Pushpa was a natural artist and worked with me for many years.

Slowly, I gained a greater understanding about untutored art, which led me towards my passion for Outsider Art.

Pushpa is the perfect example to showcase Father Erviti’s vision. She started earning well by transferring her paintings on fabric with appliqué-work. Her designs were used by other women of the group, which was growing, and Father Erviti decided to pay Pushpa an extra amount for her designs. In a few years, she started doing well, became self-sufficient, went to craft workshops, craft-melas, attended adult education class, opened a bank account, took a loan and bought two sewing machines. Eventually, she returned to her village with her family, where she started her own unit of tailoring and patchwork.

Father Erviti commented that through art, she went back to her roots. Pushpa’s forays in the art world had strengthened her; she no longer covered her face, learnt to read, write, sign her name on application forms for loans and was respected in her society as a Mastrani or teacher. With this success story, in a few years, I started a small association to promote Outside Art, which was known as Action through Art.

My interactions with Pushpa, Lavingben and many other women artists, inspired me to write a collection of short stories, which were published by Penguin India, titled By the Sabarmati. 

The illustrations in this book are interpretations by the women and their daughters who worked with me at Sanklit Nagar. They depict Father Erewetti’s work, personality and vision, as seen through their eyes…

(Written for Prof. Sankho Chaudhuri’s centenary year celebration was held in Varanasi at Ram Chatpar Shilp Nyas Museum by sculptor Madan Lal from 24-26 February 2016. His family donated 100 sculptures and 70 drawings to the museum, as a permanent gallery will be made there in memory of Sankho Chaudhuri

( 25 February 1916 – 28 August 2006)

It is said in the Bible, that in times of difficulty ¨…help cometh from the Lord …¨ Something like this happened to me, when I was a student at Vadodara’s Faculty of Fine Arts and was denied admission to the painting department . I was in tears. My drawings were spread out in the studio and while I was collecting them, I saw a thin middle aged man, maybe a new professor; with a bird like face entering the room. He was looking for a cigarette, as his packet was empty. He borrowed a cigarette from one of the professors, lit it, stood there, smoking thoughtfully and looking at my drawings. Then, with compassion writ large in his be-spectacled heavy lidded eyes, he said. ¨You have a good hand.¨

My spirits soared. But, I did not even know who he was.  He asked me, ¨would you like to study sculpture.¨ In a shaky voice, I said, ¨when, I cannot be a painter, how can I be an artist of any sort.¨ He burst out laughing. I looked up startled, as I had never heard such a happy, loud, resounding laughter. He smiled affectionately; saying, ¨come with me, I will make you an artist.¨

He led me to the sculpture studio.

I hesitated.

Reluctantly, I stood there, saying, ¨…But, I don’t want to be a sculptor.¨

Tears were running down my face, so he asked the peon to bring service tea from the canteen, sat on the steps leading to the sculpture studio, telling me, ¨you don’t have to be a sculptor, just learn the basics and you can become an artist like Tagore.¨  Surprised ; I sat down on the steps opposite him, as he told me about his years in Santiniketan. By then, the tea had arrived, so with great finesse he poured it and offered me a cup of tea, which calmed me. I listened attentively, as I had grown up reading Tagore. He referred to Tagore as The Poet and patiently recounted events from his life, which cast a spell over me.

That day, I came to know that he was Professor Sankho Choudhuri, the head of department of sculpture. As, he was friendly; I took courage in my hands and told him, that sculpture bored me. So, he decided that besides the syllabus, I would have to write a diary with 500 words a day and as I was interested in reading, I had to spend all my spare time in the library. He also asked me to become a member at a cine club in Vadodara, where I saw films about the Holocaust and Satyajit Ray.

And, he also gave me the profound sermon, which I follow to this day, that – ¨Creativity is like a room with many doors, open any door and you will find it…¨

He came into my life at the most unexpected hour and feel blessed that I met him, as today, I can lead a life, where art is my soul and writing is my life.

Soon, I realized that Sankho Choudhuri was my Guru, as I believe that one always needs a Guru to guide us, when we are confused.

He was a fascinating, interesting and whimsical human being, who could laugh suddenly; while stamping his feet, then roll up his trousers, jump into the clay pit and knead clay with his feet, sit in silence for hours, contemplating about his next work, over a cup of tea or have animated conversations with guests like Mulk Raj Anand or other well known artists and writers who may have come to Vadodara, then decide to sculpt a portrait in clay, like the one; he made of my father in an hour; working with thumb and side of palm; creating an incredible resemblance in a technique similar to Rodin’s impressionistic application of clay; as he was a master of portraits. Sometimes, he liked to sit on a packing case in the foundry with his tea tray and tell me about his trips abroad, when he had met Henry Moore and Giacometti. He often talked about the time he had spent in Paris, where I was to eventually write my first novel and organize an exhibition of untutored art at Unesco.

He also knew how to celebrate life, as he made the campus lively, with his rendition of Rabindra Sangeet, encouraging students to play Holi, asking Kumudben Patel of the pottery department to teach me Garba steps and planning study tours along with the Fine Arts Fair.  And, whenever he did bronze casting at the foundry in the sculpture department, which went on till late night, Iraben brought us tiffins of home cooked food.

In today’s world when student-teacher relationships are indifferent, I was lucky to have been in Vadodra in the sixties, during the era of the Gurus.

Sankhoda, as I affectionately called him was a dynamic live-wire human being, who touched my life and gave me the gift of the Tagorean Path.

Often, I go to a Café near my home, for a cup of tea with my Laptop, where I write for a few hours. Sometimes, when it is crowded, I go to another coffee-shop, which is known for its cakes and chocolate dishes. One day, on my way to this cafe. I noticed that, another auto stopped there, and as I went inside the café, I saw that the auto-driver of the rickshaw also entered the same café. He looked like a simple man; and this café had a smartly dressed clientele, so, I assumed he had come there to pick up a cake for someone else. I found a table for myself, opened my Laptop and noticed that he was a young man, sitting at a table, telling the puzzled waiter that while driving past, he had been fascinated with the image of a certain chocolate dish, displayed on the hoarding, which he wanted to taste.

I was interested.  

I ordered my regular masala tea and watched this amazing scene being enacted in front of me. The auto-driver was uncomfortable, as rather impatiently he sat there, waiting; while watching a Bollywood song on the TV in the cafe. When he saw the waiter approaching him with a chocolate pancake in hot chocolate sauce, he gave an ethereal smile and ate hastily, as though he was in heaven. Then, stopped; as he could not finish it, so leaving behind a large portion in the plate, he stood up, to leave with a sad face, maybe he did not quite like the rather bitter taste of dark chocolate. He asked for the bill. The kind-hearted waiter saw the look on his face and with bill in hand, said that he could pack it for him. The auto-driver waited, till the remains were packed. Then, with a victorious look, he left with the packet and a big smile on his face.