Dwindling Numbers
- From tens of thousands, the number of Jews in Alibag, Thal, Pen, Panvel and Revdanda has come down to only about 100 people. (Source: the consulate of Israel)
- People left mainly in three phases. After Independence, many took up jobs all over India
- When Israel offered Jews a chance to settle there, many families made the transition
- Since ’70s-’80s families have moved to Mumbai and Thane. Those with land and wadis of coconut, mango and supari trees have stayed back.
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He had often dreamed of a morning like this—the Synagogue bathed in early light, a full quorum in hushed attendance, and him, Jacob Elijah Dandekar, performing the rituals of hazan (cantor) with simple dignity. One day last month, at the Magen Aboth synagogue in the Israel Aali (lane) in Alibag, about 22 km southwest from Mumbai, Dandekar’s wish came true.
Members of the laity started trickling in from nearby towns and villages late at night; by 4 am they were a bustling lot. The occasion: a special prayer for the monsoons. It took families from Revdanda, Alibag and Thal for the quorum to reach above 10 men, as required by the Jewish tradition. Dandekar, the 84-year-old hazan, says he hadn’t seen these many Jews in months. In the last two festivals, he could not display the Torah (Judaism’s most important text) as they couldn’t manage to get 10 people.
Dandekar belongs to the Bene Israelis—the Jewish community who first reached India around 2,000 years ago, and, according to legend, made landfall at a place near Alibag. Nothing much remains of the Konkan coast’s Jewish heritage—a crumbling Jewish cemetery, ‘Jerusalem’ inscribed on its arch. And the ‘Israel lanes’ in villages, with houses crowned with the Star of David. Only a handful of elderly Jews remain in them, clinging to old customs and memories. Most have been taken over by locals, including the famous ice-cream shop of Alibag’s Davis Wakroolkar.
The Konkan’s Jewry has dwindled over the decades—most have emigrated to Israel; others have moved to Mumbai and Thane for better job prospects.
What is left is nostalgia for times wrapped in a certain grandeur. “Earlier, we would have to open the top floor gallery for women and people would not have enough space to sit. Now, some synagogues have been closed—there is no one to perform rituals and prayers,” says Dandekar, who himself migrated to Israel in 1989. “It did not suit me. I prefer India....” Dandekar now lives in small house provided by synagogue authorities with his daughter and grandson.
His salary (Rs 5,000 a month) is meagre, but has left his zeal for caring for the Torah, and maintaining the lights, stained-glass windows and the water tank undimmed. He is easily the most loved Jewish patriarch in the Alibag region.
A devout Jew, Benjamin Waskar from Revdanda looks up to Dandekar. At one time, Jews here were known as ‘shaniwar telis’ (Saturday oil-pressers) as they would not work on Saturdays to observe the Sabbath. At Waskar’s residence, the traditional oil presser is still at work, though the cattle have given way to electricity. He lives with his wife Shoshanna and son Israel, who when he turns 18 would visit the country with which he shares his name. Under an Israel government scheme, youth above 18 are given a three-month tour, then an option to stay back, serve the army for some time and settle. While many return home, Israel remains an attractive option for some.
Benjamin’s brother Ellis has been to the promised land several times. He leads the monsoon prayer along with Dandekar, and tells the congregation stories from Jewish mythology. They say the urge to move to first-world Israel isn’t universal among Alibag’s Jews. “We have everything we need. We are fully assimilated with others.... Jews have been accepted in India, definitely in Konkan. So we don’t feel the need to go to Israel,” says Benjamin. That assimilation in a once foreign land is indicated in their Jewish first names, followed by Marathi sounding surnames like Dandekar, Waskar, Rohekar etc, echoing the family’s first place of settlement—Danda, Roha....
But the younger generation can’t be counted upon to stay. “When I was a child there were 40 families around here. Now it is just us,” says Benjamin. The Bhonkar family from Thal, where two Jewish families remain, echoes Benjamin. “We have been here since 1930 but my son and his family left ten years ago. Opportunities are better there. We do not stop anyone,” says Levi Bhonkar.
“Over the years people have steadily gone to Israel because they offer housing and jobs. Israel accepts Jews from all over the world...,” says Ralphy Jhirad, whose family moved to Mumbai several years ago. He says Thane has the largest congregation of Jews now and they often take the lead at organising events in Mumbai or Alibag. Bhonkar’s other son, a lawyer at the Bombay High Court, is present at all important occasions, such as the monsoon prayer. “We last performed it in 1991-92. By the time we finished, it had started raining,” says Bhonkar with evident pride.
At Jewish festivals like Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur or Hanukkah, Jewish women bestraddle two traditions—Konkani and Jewish. While they wear the sari, they carry an additional scarf to cover the head during prayers. Their unquestioning, subdued role installs them behind the scenes during a festival, often in the preparation of tea and snacks for everyone. Jessica Awaskar, who converted to Judaism when she married, speaks highly of the community.
In 2010, says Ralphy, the 100th celebration of the synagogue drew nearly 900 people from as far as Israel, Mumbai and Thane. Dandekar regularly travels to nearby villages with a few Jewish families to officiate at Bar Mitzvahs, weddings or funerals. “I am the only one who knows how to conduct the rituals. Even authorities are helpless. They cannot employ hazans for so few people,” he says.
On the way from Alibag to Thal is another iconic Jewish-run ice-cream soda shop—Samson Soda. But at the shop with blue walls, two Marathi workers run the show. Framed newspaper stories and certificates speaking of its popularity hang on the wall. The soda factory is right next door. The owners, they say, stay in Mumbai, except an elderly uncle. Laconic to the point of grumpiness, the old man is loathe to speak about the shop, the business or the Jewish community. “No, no there is nothing I want to say,” he says, before hurrying back into a dark room. Unlike others in his shrinking community who clutch at the remains of a cherished age, his remembrance of things past is conducted in isolation.
