BOMBAY DUCK

Ingredients: bombil, oil, chilli powder, turmeric, salt, rice flour or gram flour

Most Bene Israel Jews are very fond of Bombay duck or bombil. It is a small eel-like fish, rather soft and fleshy with a red head, the colour of which indicates its freshness. Bombils are sun-dried, salted and stored, so that they are always handy to make a quick dinner, or as an accompaniment to khichdi on Saturday night, when the Sabbath ends.

This fish has one bone and has to be gutted delicately. The fine white scales have to be scraped and the head can be left on or chopped off; the fish is then halved and salted. Excess salt and water are removed by keeping the fish under a weight, preferably a stone pestle. It helps to flatten out the bombil and squeeze out all moisture.

When dry, the fish is cleaned with lemon and salt, coated with rice flour mixed with salt, turmeric, a dash of chilli powder, and shallow fried till golden brown.

The rice flour coating makes the fish crisp and crunchy.

Rachel felt crushed, like a bombil weighed under a stone pestle. Drained of all emotion, she was feeling depressed and annoyed that Mr Chinoy and the committee had taken to driving around the synagogue. The committee members did not phone her or inform her of their intended arrival as they normally did. They did not even ask her for the synagogue keys. They did not want to see it from the inside; they were only interested in the land. Once they even brought a plan and she saw Mr Chinoy’s engineer making drawings and taking measurements.

Whenever she saw Chinoy’s car, her heart sank. She was also angry that Mordecai and the other committee members did not stop by the house to greet her. From their comings and goings, Rachel understood that something was happening under a veil of secrecy. She was angry at their indifferent behaviour and that they did not even bother to acknowledge her presence. She was certain Mr Chinoy was serving them breakfast, lunch and drinks and sending them back to Bombay in his fancy car.

Much to her resentment, Chinoy would step out of the car dressed in a white suit and dark glasses.

Her eyes followed each and every bend in the road with insult and injury writ large on her face.

At the end of two months, there was a knock at her door one morning. Instinctively she knew they had come visiting. When she opened the door, she saw Mordecai with the whole committee and Mr Chinoy. Mordecai was grinning. Rachel noticed that all his teeth had fallen except one on the right.

There was a woman with Mr Chinoy. Perhaps she was Mrs Chinoy. Rachel understood that today they would make all possible effort to beguile her into selling her property. She welcomed them politely and offered them the chairs she always kept on the veranda, holding on to her own.

Rachel noticed that Mrs Chinoy was stylish but had a kind face. She was wearing sports shoes, a grey tracksuit, a striped magenta scarf thrown over her shoulders and her dark glasses pushed back over her long, black hair. Rachel did not expect her to speak in Marathi, but she did, calling her aunty, appreciating the house and complimenting Rachel on her youthful looks.

Rachel was rather annoyed, wondering why they were making small talk and not coming to the point. It was obvious that it was a business trip. Mr Chinoy sat thinking and did not say anything, while Mordecai sheepishly proposed that if she ever wanted to sell her property Mr Chinoy would happily buy it for his beach resort, as they were finalizing the deal about the synagogue.

Rachel said, ‘Nako,’ rather abruptly and sat straight in her chair, staring into space. Mrs Chinoy noticed her reaction and tried to change the subject by inviting her to their farmhouse in Alibaug.

Sitting still, Rachel did not answer. Instead she asked if they would have some limbu paani.

Mr Chinoy saw the look of determination on her face and accepted her invitation for a drink. She resembled his mother and he did not want to push her too far.

Mrs Chinoy helped her pass around the glasses. When they finished their drink, Chinoysaab bowed and took her leave with an elaborate thank you and Mrs Chinoy held her hands, saying she would return to spend time with her. On her way out, she noticed the sacks of dry bombil kept on the veranda and said, ‘I believe the Bene Israels make excellent Bombay duck.’

With unusual enthusiasm, Mordecai immediately ran back, saying, ‘Yes, madam, Rachel sister’s bombils are extraordinary. When her husband was . . .’ Rachel froze him with a stare.

Mrs Chinoy shook her head appreciatively and asked, ‘Perhaps you could teach me how to make them. I love fried bombils, but can never get them right. I had this friend in school who always brought some for me. Perhaps one day you will teach me. I could come over and watch you cook.’

Rachel gave her a tight smile. ‘I will send you a message when I get fresh bombils, but I don’t have your phone number.’

Mrs Chinoy pulled out a card from her bag and gave it to Rachel. She then pulled down her dark glasses over her beautiful grey eyes and disappeared behind the shaded glass of her air-conditioned car.

As Rachel saw the car disappear, her momentary pleasure turned to anguish. She was consumed by the desire to tell Mrs Chinoy that no amount of maska was going to force her to sell the house and she would save the synagogue at all costs from that shark-like husband of hers.

She was so agitated that she needed to speak to Judah at that very moment. She called him and felt angry with frustration when he said he was with a client and would call her back in an hour.

‘What am I to do for an hour?’ Rachel asked herself and walked the length and breadth of the veranda, till she slumped in her chair, dry and lifeless like a bombil hanging on the fisherwoman’s line.

By the time Judah called, Rachel was at her wit’s end. She gave him the details about the visit. Judah did not say anything. Rachel thought he was not listening and asked harshly, ‘Judah, are you there? I need your advice.’

‘Yes Aunty. I am listening.’

‘This Chinoy-Finoy was here with that slimy Mordecai. He wants to buy my house.’

‘Do you want to sell it?’

‘No.’

‘Did they understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the message is clear.’

‘I am not worried about that.’

‘Then what is the problem? If it is your house, they cannot take it from you.’

‘That is true. But what about the synagogue?’

‘Aunty, I really do not know, but perhaps you could lose it.’

‘How can you say something like that?’

‘Because I made inquiries and the committee has the full power to lease the land around the synagogue.’

‘So, what next?’

‘Do you have any papers?’

‘What papers?’

‘Papers about the synagogue.’

‘No, but there is a big bundle of books in the synagogue, tied up in a cloth and kept in the cupboard. Nobody ever touches them and I am sure they are infested with silver fish and white ants.’

‘Diq the committee ever ask for these books?’

‘No, I think they have forgotten all about them.’

‘Could you bring these books to your house?’

‘I can. When do you want them?’

‘Next Saturday, I will come and go through them.’

‘Can’t you come a little earlier, before Saturday?’

‘I can try, but it looks difficult.’

‘Try.’

‘I will. But I have one more question.’

‘Like what?’

‘Did they ask you for the keys to the synagogue?’

‘No.’

‘Where are the keys?’

‘Right here, tied to my sari.’

Rachel heard a strange sound at the other end of the line. It was Judah, laughing.

With a smile in her voice, she said, ‘You must laugh more often. I already feel better. But tell me why you are laughing.’

‘Because you keep the keys tied to your sari.’

‘Not only that,’ she said, ‘I even sleep with them.’

His voice turned serious as he said, ‘You must really love your synagogue.’

Rachel felt a sob rise in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

On Saturday when Judah arrived, Rachel left him on the veranda with the books she had carried to the house from the synagogue. The pages were tattered, torn, fragile, in fragments and full of silver fish. He went through all the papers, drinking endless cup of tea, until he finally found an old resolution made by an earlier committee, which said that the synagogue could not be sold.

He called out to Rachel, jubilantly waving the paper at her, while she was feeding her hens in the courtyard. ‘Aunty, look what I found. Perhaps we can save your precious synagogue.’

Rachel smiled, ‘If that is true, wait till I finish feeding these silly birds and then I will get you a box of sweets.’

Then, calling out to the fishmonger’s son, she asked him to get her some sweets from Somu, who made fresh coconut chikkis down the road. The boy broke into a run and returned with a packet. Rachel gave a few to the child, offered some to Judah, broke a piece for herself and ate it with obvious pleasure.

But pleasure turned to irritation when Judah looked at her earnestly and asked, ‘But before we go ahead with this, if you win the case, what do I get in return, as my fees?’

‘Fees?’ Rachel was dumbfounded; she had never thought about such practical matters and was not sure whether it was meant to be a joke.

So she said the first thing that came to her mind. ‘I have nothing, but perhaps the children could pay you your fees. As for me, all I have is a daughter. I can offer her hand in marriage to you.’

Halfway through her sentence, Rachel saw a flash of anger on his face and the next thing she knew he had dashed out of the house. She ran after him, apologizing, but even before she could reach the wicket gate, he had climbed in an autorickshaw and disappeared up the road.

With a sinking heart, Rachel picked up the books and papers, tied them up in an old tablecloth and put them away. Then she started wondering what her mistake was. In the old days, if she said a thing like that, nobody would ever take it as an offence.

It was a normal sort of joke. But then she realized that perhaps she had said something she should not have. Even her daughter did not like such jokes. More so because Judah never spoke about himself or even his family. She should not have said something so personal. Rachel was not sure if he had seen her daughter or how old Zephra was when he came to the house with Jacob. She scolded herself for making such a silly mistake, but was nevertheless surprised that he could not take a joke. For that matter, even she was dumb when it came to jokes. Perhaps he was just joking when he asked for his fees?

On his way to the Alibaug harbour to catch the catamaran back to Bombay, Judah regretted his action. He should not have rushed out of Rachel’s house like that. After all, she was a traditional woman and did not realize that he was hypersensitive about a topic like marriage. How was she to know that he did not like this particular subject? He had half a mind to return to Danda, but by then he was so irritable that, when he saw the catamaran, all he wanted to do was go back home.

Rachel snatched a handful of Bombay duck from the sack on the veranda and soaked them in a bowl of water. Then she quickly dressed in a simple sari with brown checks and a black border and returned to the kitchen to make fried bombils for Judah. She knew the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and she would definitely reach it. She had come to love him, like her own son.

The bombil had softened in the water. She coated them with rice flour and fried them to a rich golden brown. Leaving them to drain on a paper napkin, Rachel powdered her face, applied a few drops of eau de cologne to her throbbing temples, packed the fish in a steel dabba and took some karanjias always kept in a tin on the kitchen shelf. On her way out, Rachel picked up the telephone diary and locked the house, found an autorickshaw and requested the driver to rush to the Alibaug harbour. She had to catch the last catamaran to Bombay.

In the catamaran, she sat on the edge of her seat, worried and tense. What if he was not at home? What if she did not find him? Where would she spend the night? Perhaps she would have to phone her Santa Cruz cousins. As darkness fell upon the sea, her heart sank and she covered her shoulders with the end of her sari. Then she felt the warmth of the Bombay duck on her knee and was sure that the fish would lead her to Judah.

During the forty-five-minute ride, Rachel rehearsed her dialogue with Judah. She needed a good opening sentence. She was even willing to say sorry, if necessary.

Soon she found herself thinking about the word ‘Bombay duck’. Why did it have a name like that? Why was it a staple diet of the Jews? Had the ancestors discovered that it was as sweet as the salmon they had known in the Promised Land? Or was it the perfect choice when one needed a quick recipe for a Saturdaynight dinner, when Sabbath ended and heralded the beginning of a new week?

It was dark when Rachel reached Bombay. As soon as she got off the catamaran, she found a phone booth, opened her telephone diary and dialled Judah’s number. He did not answer immediately.

She panicked; perhaps he was not at home. She felt ridiculous, standing there with the box of bombils. Disappointed, she was about to hang up, when Judah answered. Overcome with emotion, she could not say anything as he kept on repeating his hellos, his impatience rising.

With difficulty she managed to say, ‘Judah. It’s me. Rachel.’ She spoke so softly that he took some time to realize that it was Rachel. She was relieved that he did not sound irritable; instead he was worried about her well-being and apologetic. ‘Aunty, I am so sorry I left in a temper. You shouldn’t have come all the way. Please, please stay where you are. I will pick you up in half an hour.’

Sitting on a bench and watching a balloon seller, Rachel was thinking, ‘Now, why did he say he was sorry, when I am the one who should be sorry?’

Judah arrived in his small Fiat, and ran towards her with open arms. She gave him a hug and wiped her tears with the end of her sari. Judah drove Rachel to his flat near Bombay Central. It was an old housing society in a tree-lined lane. As he opened the lock, Rachel stood hesitating, clutching at the box of bombil, and then offered it to him saying, ‘Something I made for you.’

‘So soon! Because I think you took the next catamaran after mine. You hardly had any time to cook. If I hadn’t returned home for a wash, you wouldn’t have found me. And what would you have done in big bad Bombay in the middle of the night? I was about to go out and find myself something to eat.’

Opening the box, he said, ‘Bombil!’

Rachel smiled indulgently as he waved a hand at the mess that was his house. ‘This is where I live, a bachelor’s den. I use the front room as my office. Look at all these papers and files. This one is supposed to be my drawing-cum-dining-room-cum-kitchen, where I just make tea or a sandwich. And that is my bedroom. Pandu comes in the morning to clean and wash my clothes. Sometimes, ifl am sick, he makes me some khichdi,’ he said rolling his eyes. ‘The perfect combination with bombil-batata, nako?’

‘Right,’ said Rachel as she sat down on a chair. ‘Now, will you please allow me to say something?’

‘No, no Aunty, don’t tell me you want to apologize. Because I know you were joking, but I am so irritable about marriage that I react like a madman.’

‘Why?’

‘I will tell you the whole story some other time. But before that let us eat.’

‘If you have some dal and rice, I can make khichdi.’

‘No, no, you must be tired. You have come all the way just to pacify this stupid temper of mine. You stay right here, while I get some food packed from the restaurant downstairs.’

When Judah returned with two plates of bhaaji-pau, Rachel was looking at the photographs on the walls. She had noticed that he had inherited the green eyes from his beautiful mother and his father was a handsome man with a square jaw. His grandfather looked like a small man and his grandmother appeared to tower over him.

Judah introduced each one of them to Rachel and said, ‘All dead.’

‘Any brothers and sisters?’

‘One sister. She lives in Canada with her family. Haven’t seen her in years.’

They had a cosy dinner, sitting in the balcony. Judah was happy and satisfied as he put away the plates and then sat smoking in the dark. He asked, ‘Aunty, what does your daughter do?’

Far away from Danda and Israel, Rachel smiled at the memory of her daughter. ‘Zephra. She is an Israeli. She lives on a kibbutz. I worry about her. But what can I do? Except worry. She is preparing for an exam to study archaeology.’

‘I remember her in pigtails. She was sort of tall for her age.’

Afraid of another misunderstanding, Rachel changed the subject, asking, ‘Tell me, do you think we can save the synagogue?’

‘We will try, nako?’ He smiled.

That night, as Rachel curled up in Judah’s bed, he sat next to her, holding her hand and telling her why he was uncomfortable with Jewish rituals. Since his grandfather had chosen to be cremated, the community had ostracized his family.

Yet, his mother had given him a proper Jewish upbringing by following all the traditions and festivals, which they celebrated at home. Their infrequent visits to the synagogue had left him feeling bitter. He had been in his early thirties when his mother died, leaving him alienated in both societies, Indian and Jewish.

Judah switched off the lights; he did not want her to see the expression on his face. That night, all he wanted her to do was listen.

Then he carried his mattress to the other room and closed the door behind him. Rachel felt comforted to be with him under the same roof. She did not have to be alone with tbe night-sounds of Danda.

The next morning, bathed, dressed and ready to leave, Rachel woke him up with a cup of tea. He smiled, saying, ‘Just like Mama.’

Later, at the Gateway of India, Rachel climbed into the catamaran on her way back to Danda, and turned around to Judah, smiling. ‘And what about your fees?’

‘Bombil-batata and moong dal khichdi!’