Fiction

A Ride to the Synagogue

by Vasundhara Singh 

Rauchak, my tuk-tukwallah has started a chatty streak and within the first few seconds, he has already introduced himself: His name is Rauchak and he lives with his wife and two children, a few kilometers from the hotel. He thinks the hotel’s decor has improved since its initial days in the late 90s but the entrance could be renovated. I am nodding along to his remarks, made in polished English with a Malayalam accent. His voice sounds as though it could transition seamlessly into a song, sweet yet strong. That’s why I don’t object to his chatter.

As the tuk-tuk exits the road, an olive green building with an arched gateway advertises the impending happy hour at six in the evening. A few tourists are already crowding the outdoor seating area, flanked by white umbrellas.

Rauchak takes a deep breath and says, “Paradesi synagogue is a very popular tourist spot, ma’am.”

I place my hand on the rod attached to his seat as a speed bump sends us jumping, momentarily. “Yes, I’ve heard that. How much time will it take to reach there?”

“Oh, just five to ten minutes, ma’am. There’s hardly any traffic at this time.”

Another bump and the tuk-tuk slows down and on our right, I see the green and white-domed structure of the Juma masjid. A minute later, we enter Bazaar road.

A white and red transport truck is taking its time, slowly and carefully so as to not topple the mountains of spices laid in front of the shops on either side.

A couple of men donning skeleton caps stand under the shade of a tree, sipping coconut water from long straws. A shopkeeper instructs a boy to shift a sack of red spices from one end of his shop to the other. When the boy stops to catch his breath, the shopkeeper’s command startles him.

A blue vintage car is parked outside a saree emporium where tall pale dummies are adorned with vibrant sarees of flower prints and light borders. The car appears to be abandoned.

The strong scent of spices is omnipresent. So is the sight of exclaiming foreigners and tourists snapping photos of tired locals.

“Is this your first time in Fort Kochi?” Rauchak asks, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yes, first time.”

He tilts his head back to officially welcome me to ‘God’s own country.’ I thank him.

A woman in a cream headscarf stands amongst brown leather bags and suitcases. She smiles as a customer bargains with her to lower the price of a brown tote bag.

“Jew town is nearby. I hope you will be visiting that too.”

“Yes, I think I will,” I reply with my gaze on the busy street.

“Oh, you must. It is one of the oldest streets here.”

“It used to be populated with Paradesi Jews but not anymore. Only a handful still live here,” he explains.

“Why? What happened?”

“Oh, they all left in 1948 for Israel. My grandfather had a dear friend living there. He too left in 1955.”

The stretch of Bazaar road ends with a shop selling herbal tea, two women with mongra in their hair offer samples to passers-by.

“Joseph, that was his name. He had a jewellery store in Jew town. At the turn where The Synagogue lane begins. Though, you won’t be able to see his shop. There aren’t many shops owned by Jews. Like I said, very few are left.”

He ends with a click of his tongue. To my left is the Church of our lady of life. A magnificent structure of white with waves leading to the top cross. A nun in full habit walks out of the main gate.

“Did your grandfather keep in touch with Joseph?”

“No ma’am. There weren’t phones back then. Who is going to send a letter all the way to Israel?”

This time, my nods are genuine.

Rauchak continues, “But in 1974 or 75, Joseph came to visit. He was a very funny man. He brought us sweets and quilts. He had started a quilt-making business in Israel. He said times were hard but it was their holy land. I remember the way he hugged my grandfather like they were long lost, brothers.”

“That’s nice,” I say with a smile. My words encourage him and he goes on, “Joesph was a very charming man. He passed away in ‘92. He had once said to me,” he parks his tuk-tuk on the side of a narrow lane. I hand him a sixty rupee note and get out.

“He said, ‘let life happen to you. If you don’t then, you’ve died before your death.”

The tuk-tuk grinds and makes a U-turn to leave.

About the Author:

Vasundhara Singh is a journalism graduate from Kamala Nehru college currently pursuing a diploma in Creative writing from the City University of London. She writes short stories, poetry, and articles about feminism, current affairs, and travel. Her other interests are photography and crime documentaries. 

Comments are closed.