If you zip down central Delhi’s Humayun Road, there is every chance of missing this landmark. A landmark that is as much a shard of Delhi’s history as any monument that it holds on its lap, in spite of this structure being considerably young.
But I don’t zip on Humayun Road, lest my car wheels overshoot. There, hidden under the canopies of old drooping trees, between bungalows with high walls, behind a gate with an armed guard giving me a searching look, I locate it. A hidden slice of Delhi life. The Judah Hymn synagogue. It is not just Delhi’s but North India’s only prayer place for the once thriving Jewish community in the region. The synagogue, established nearly 60 years ago, is functional, even though the exodus of Delhi’s Jewish families to Israel over the years has reduced the community to “just four to five families” today.
The evening that I visit it is special. It is the beginning of the Sabbath weekend. Time for prayers that lead to two days of rest for the faithful.
Ezekeil Issac Malakar, the priest, is a shade busy. With a flowing cloth over his dress, he stands on the podium of the small hall that has rows of wooden chairs which seem to have seen some generations of devotees. Preparing for the prayers.
Time ticks by. There is still no one besides him and me. I navigate my gaze to note the special candle stand used in the Jewish festival Hannukah, the Torah behind the curtains, a shofar — the ram-horn trumpet, a Star of David hanging from the wall.
The door creaks open. Malakar says, “That is my mother, 85-years-old.” With shaky steps a hunch-backed woman walks in, sits on the first row, her head covered with a scarf.
Yet another believer arrives. Malakar’s wife, mother of his two children – Noel, a musician in Delhi, and Shulamit, director with Indian Marketing Research Bureau, Mumbai.
The door opens again. This time it is Rimoni Ben Ezra, a rare Delhi-based Indian Jew. Then comes another faithful. He brings a smile to Malakar who tells me, “He is a Russian, working with their embassy here. Now that he has come, we can have three people leading the prayers.”
Each puts on a Kippah, the skull cap, from a heap kept alongside copies of the Old Testament that Jews believe in bound in deep red and blue.
The prayer begins. In sing-song ways, they recite, from page to page, sinking gradually in the generosity of God, in the bounty of life, in the duty that it brings. Quietly, a couple joins them.
Nearly an hour later, the faithful finish, wish each other “Happy Sabbath”.
The two late arrivals are tourists from America who found out about the synagogue on Internet. The wheels of their taxi predictably overshot and they got late for the prayers.
These first-time visitors to Delhi are full of questions. Who looks after the synagogue? “I am the priest, the caretaker, the librarian, everything here. I live with my family in a two-room quarter within the synagogue,” responds Malakar.
Is it like this every time, no minion (quorum)? “You should see this place during festivals, it buzzes with people. Though Delhi has just a few Indian Jews left, there are about 100 Jewish diplomats who visit the synagogue. On Sabbath, they keep away because most are Orthodox Jews, prefer not to meet people,” explains Malakar. He later tells me, “the presence of 10 men is considered a minion for a prayer. But I count women too.” He also allows non-Jews to attend prayers.
The largest number of Indian Jews is in Maharashtra today, Malakar’s home State. Marathi is his language at home. “Like Hindus or Muslims, we are Jews. But like them, we also belong to different States. I am a Marathi,” says the Pune native. He tells the couple, “There are about 30,000 Indian Jews in Israel today.” He though wouldn’t want to do that. “Israel is in my heart but India is in my blood,” he underlines.
In 1980, he came to Delhi to work for Ministry of Health, thereafter with NHRC. He didn’t leave Delhi after retirement. “Who will lead the prayers here if I leave?” he asks. He has a flat in south Delhi, but “who will take care of this heritage if I stay away?”
After the attack on the Jewish quarters in Mumbai, the Government placed an armed security guard at the gate. Did the Mumbai attack scare him? “Never. Those attacked were not Indians, we have never faced attack in this country,” he counters.
Malakar says he constantly engages with spiritual leaders of other communities and underlines the importance of the basic tenets of each religion — humanity. “It is the same everywhere.” In one part of the library at the synagogue, he points at the awards presented to him for being “the ambassador of peace.”
He also teaches Hebrew to those migrating to Israel; looks after the little garden that has a tree bearing Etrog, a sacred Biblical fruit.
After the prayers, he takes me to his quarters, calls out to his wife in the kitchen. Anything special for the Sabbath meal? No, the usual. The wait is on for the son to arrive home after working at the Delhi School of Music.
Malakar sends me off with food for thought, “Fanatics are there in every religion. Does that mean we stop living with each other, respecting each other’s space?”
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