Indian Jewish/Bene Israel Themes

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Here is a brief history of the Bene Israel--mostly referred to as Indian Jews, and the community which I am from:

There are many theories about the origins of the Bene Israel (called “Shanwar Telis” or Saturday oil pressers) from the west coast of India. The three most well-known ones are (1) they arrived after the destruction of temple by the Romans in 70 C.E., (2) that they were the descendants of the Lost Tribes, who came around the time of King Solomon in the tenth century B.C.E., and probably the one most popular is that they were fleeing from Galilee and the rule of the Greek overlord Antiochus Epiphanes, in 175 B.C.E. Some scholars seem to think it was more likely that they came in the fifth or sixth century C.E. from Yemen or South Arabia or Persia. Sources: The Jews of India by Benjamin J. Israel (Mosaic Books), and The Bene Israel of India: Some Studies by Benjamin J. Israel (Orient Longman).

Jewish Unity through Diversity, a video of my conversation with Professor Shalva Weil explores Bene Israel history, culture, food, and my poems from my new book Sweet Malida: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivy_ACs4jhw

An article in Forward: https://forward.com/culture/617986/indian-jewish-food-poetry-bene-israel/

RIVKUSH, Podcast, Canadian Jewish News, interview with Rivka Campbell:

https://thecjn.ca/podcasts/in-her-poetry-zilka-joseph-channels-the-stories-of-her-bene-israel-ancestors-in-india/

Artwork:

Exodus #2,  the right side panel which is on the cover of In My Beautiful Bones is a painting by Siona Benjamin. Siona is a Bene Israel artist who lives in New Jersey. https://artsiona.com

Two paintings by Raina Ezekiel Imig make up the cover of my new book Sweet Malida: Memories of a Bene Israel Woman. One is of a Malida bowl and the other of the fiery sky and the chariot of Prophet Elijah. Raina's father was Professor Joseph Ezekiel, a member of the Bene Israel community, and brother of the poet, Nissim Ezekiel. https://shamandalaservices.wordpress.com

On this page I share some poems taken from my books Sweet Malida (Mayapple Press),  Sparrows and Dust (Ridgeway Press), Sharp Blue Search of Flame (Wayne State University Press) and In My Beautiful Bones( Mayapple Press), and from the anthology called 101 Jewish Poems for The Third Millennium (The Ashland Poetry Press, edited by N.N. Carlson and M.E. Silverman). My poems reflect all the various influences (culture, religions, music, art, literature etc.) in my life in India and in the US, and some have references to Jewish and Biblical themes and/or are spiritual in nature.

101 Jewish Poems faor The Third Millennnium

101 Jewish Poems for The Third Millennium and Sweet Malida: Memories of a Bene Israel Woman

Sweet Malida

a mix of water-softened 
flattened rdice, sugar,
dried fruits and nuts, 
was a dish made for
Shabbath or for breaking
fasts. Cooling,
light on the palate, and 
to the body and the spirit,
it was welcome in the heat 
of day or night. We, likeFro
our Muslim, Christian and Hindu
neighbors and friends, 
had many foods in common, 
and we often celebrated together
their festivals or ours. I relished 
particularly fresh coconut, 
the regional staple, its milk
or its flesh added to almost
every dish. But this was to me
the best way to eat it,
finely grated 
by my mother’s hands,
left unsweetened
and sprinkled haphazardly
on the malida, juicy threads 
with a fleck of stubborn
brown kernel here and there
that sometimes crunched 
in your teeth like sand, 
and you winced and swallowed it,
knowing that there was no 
simpler or purer 
or truer form than that.

Sweet Malida

a mix of water-softened 
flattened rice, sugar,
dried fruits and nuts, 
was a dish made for
Shabbath or for breaking
fasts. Cooling,
light on the palate, and 
to the body and the spirit,
it was welcome in the heat 
of day or night. We, like
our Muslim, Christian and Hindu
neighbors and friends, 
had many foods in common, 
and we often celebrated together
their festivals or ours. I relished 
particularly fresh coconut, 
the regional staple, its milk
or its flesh added to almost
every dish. But this was to me
the best way to eat it,
finely grated 
by my mother’s hands,
left unsweetened
and sprinkled haphazardly
on the malida, juicy threads 
with a fleck of stubborn
brown kernel here and there
that sometimes crunched 
in your teeth like sand, 
and you winced and swallowed it,
knowing that there was no 
simpler or purer 
or truer form than that.

​

From  Sparrows and Dust

Our Cup Runneth Over

Sometimes on Fridays,
you return. 

We set the table, light 
candles, say Shabbat shalom, hug
and kiss, fill tiny cups with raisin 
sharbath till the burgundy liquid 
spills
into the saucers. 

We drink.
The cool sweetness slakes 
our thirst. And later, we sip
fine scotch together.
We argue 
and laugh loudly. 
Just like we used to.
Raise our voices, raise 
our glasses. 

Roar 
         L’chaim. 

Between Worlds,

and in worlds within worlds,
we live.

Your fingers ruffle my curly hair. Always 
wild. It is longer, more jagged. And has grey 
in it now. Like ashes. 

Junglee, you say, and mum
runs her fingers through its snarly
thickness as she tries to braid it. Which
ancestor blessed me with these gifts?

How could
these bonds 
break, this 
wildness ever 
leave us? 

Now cool winds stir the pond.
Swallows skim 
the surface
of the water. The crows I feed 
gather in yellowing
trees. In the dirt 
at the foot 
of a beech tree—
a chorus 
of chirps. Small clouds 

rise. A curly-haired child
lit by sunset fire 
watches
sparrows bathe
in shimmering dust.

From Sharp Blue Search of Flame

Bird in a Blizzard

this is when you know
you should have stayed home
 

this is when you know this is
not your element

when you know  
you have been blown way off course

that water changes its face every day 
and the faces you love blur 

in that churning
that the whispers in the thick flood of flakes

come from elsewhere
that the ones who gave you shelter  
are gone 

that the cracking of the spine of the frozen river 
will be the last sound you will hear

the thump thump thump you hear in your head
is someone trapped inside your heart

yes this is when you know
your ancestors are wanderers 
singing tunes you never knew you knew 

you remember
every word of the song 
that the wind rips apart and flings

but how quickly your throat fills with snow 
 

and when you turn again                     you shiver as if you are wingless

                                                            wingless
 

you can move 
in only one direction now

                                                            deeper

The Hands that Lit the Shabbat Lamps

My mother’s hands –what did they dream?

Tough and weathered they are,

heavy, thick, square-

nailed, strong; did a lifetime 

of labor

in a man’s world; bore the weight of all our needs, 

the brunt 

of a mother-in-law’s tongue, Dad’s quick temper. How hard

those pale hands slaved –

tinted with turmeric, smelling of garlic, cilantro, 

or cloves, cinnamon and butter on high holidays

and at night Ponds Cold Cream. For special

times she wore 

nail polish for silk sari evenings, or gold jewelry events 

dad’s official dinners, for weddings. The rougher 

her fingers grew, the more 

she slid into her shell,

hiding her true heart. Just as her mother’s  

had even before the fourth, 

the unwanted daughter –my mother,

was born. When did her palms 

turn to steel? Child given extra 

work, less education than her sisters, even less play? 

These hands so old now, so brave, 

what did they dream? These hands that taught us how 

to light our shabbat lamps? When did they have soft 

skin? How wise these hands 

webbed 

with cracks, and curling early 

to fit inside my father’s palms. Now arms weak, 

heads bowed, they both stand by the door, 

reach to touch the mezuzah, 

say Shema, kiss

each other on the lips… Holding 

hands when they leave 

the house, she leads him –

the half-blind head of the house,

and takes one shaky step at a time.

Apples and Oranges

There never were any apples in Eden.

Only oranges –vibrant suns shining,

fruit of dust and heat that warmed to her pulse– 

beating stronger and brighter, 

fruit of earth itself. She was ripe like the sun 

before she even thirsted, reached and opened 

her petals to the radiance fragrant in her palm, 

before the lush fire licked her tongue 

and before the coiled serpent of Creation

threw her into subterranean shadow. 

She knew she would always be the sun

even when the gates closed behind her

and though History would try new tricks,

twist orange to apple,

the men with missing bones,

the snakes, would stay the same.

Where Sparrows Nest

above ceiling fans

and in the cement ventilators mynahs 

sing and screech all afternoon 

like children practicing

scales, here within these sun-filled 

walls, my parents live. This red 

brick building was young once,

banyan saplings now thrive in its cracks,  

and inside, large rooms and high ceilings 

offer spiders a home. The mice 

find ways into the three refrigerator- 

turned- cupboards and the oven 

stuffed with plastic bags and string. Bulbuls,

sometimes a golden oriole still visit 

the small medley of trees in the afternoon.

Crows are the kings 

of the breezy verandah, conquering 

more territory every day, hiding

their bloody treasures even under cushions,

behind old books, the photo 

of Robert Redford, the tiger cub 

poster in my room. My parents keep

those doors closed. They are Adam and Eve,

aged now, amid a forest 

they can’t let go. A ragged Eden

I never left. Where teak 

furniture made long ago to order 

is strong, though the upholstery 

wore away and cotton 

sheets cover it now. It gets a fresh

skin of soot every day. The walls 

have grown darker, but it's always bright 

in the late day sun. Frailer 

than the dust motes, my parents. 

I am already thinking of my next flight,

over the Atlantic, the Caspian Sea,

the Arabian desert, the Hindu Kush

mountains, the holy Ganga,

the rush up two flights of stairs,

mumble a quick Shema –

will I see their faces? Feel their thin  

arms, sweet embraces?  Or find 

empty shells, a handful 

of dusty feathers?

Night Watchmen

On the landing

shifty angels huddle

lovers of cocaine

these half-wraiths hunched 

outside our Kolkata apartment 

on the landing dark

as a young girl I chanted 

when I ran up the never-ending steps 

and before I slept and when I visit now 

Now I lay me down to sleep

they never raise their heads 

or look us in the eye

near the walls in smoky air they melt 

when I ring the bell 

I hold my breath till

mum or dad slowed by age 

will open the door

to sleep to sleep

how I prayed then with folded hands 

the prayer 

my grandma learnt in school

breathe in breathe out

the men shield a flaring match, hold their breath

Now I lay me down to sleep

when the stairs are bright with evening sun

thick vapor fogs the panes

breathe in breathe out

stifling heat 

their candles cast pale waves 

I pray I pray thee Lord

this slender teak door is a veil 

pulled over our small lives our eyes

our trembling in the shadow of our door posts

our trembling like the fingers of these men

starless night Thy love

the match flickers and dies

I pray thee Lord thy child to keep

the light the hallway light we turn off at night

the light replaced a hundred times

O keep dear Lord keep

our mezuzah stolen

the lamp ripped out every night

the broken bulb

swinging on its bare red wire

we bar the door and prepare to sleep 

but the men with slanted faces 

never go never go

Thy love go with

these men who have blackened the walls

with sooty fingers Thy love thy love

made murals of spit and handprints

these shadows of men

hold handfuls of blue flames

Thy love go with me all the night

foil-crackle and white dust

whispers echo in the throat of the stairs

                                                Wake me Lord Wake me 

some men fall at sunrise as if dead

some half-waking stir Thy love

some do not wake do not

Wake me O Lord, with the morning light

and the eyes who watch our helpless door

never sleep never sleep never sleep