Memories of an Indian upbringing - The Keys to the Garden: Israeli Writing in the Middle East

Literary Review, Wntr, 1994 by Ilana Sugbaker, Ammiel Alcalay

Parliament member Eli Ben Menahem unfurls a speech, shooting from the hip. He calls upon the Indian audience to stop "withdrawing," to become Israeli. Hold it, hold it, hold it, hold it just a second. If Eli Ben Menahem is saying something like this, what is he doing here? He didn't even want to accept the flowers of honor, according to the Indian custom (because his shirt would have gotten damp and left spots on it); so let him take it out of the "bonus" they "organized" for themselves. Members of Parliament, corrupt as usual. Or better yet, he shouldn't have even come or done us any favors. The audience is silent, not reacting, waiting. Member of Parliament Eli Ben Menahem finds it necessary to point out the community's mute docility: "They never came complaining and they built synagogues for themselves from money contributed by members of the community and not through aid from the government." Then, as if by chance, he finds it necessary to mention that of course he was born in India but his parents came up to Israel when he was a year old. The hall is silent: automatically those sitting in couples begin looking at those not sitting in couples.

"He's not Benei Yisrael at all."

"His parents came to India from Baghdad."

"From Bukhara."

"He's just cashing in on it."

"Just like Abie Nathan, the Persian born in India."

"The one who spoke well is the guy from Yavne, he was here last year, Meir Chetrit; he said he loves to pray in an Indian congregation."

"I heard that."

"You did? When?"

"At the gathering last year."

"You mean he always says that?"

"Sure, whenever he appears before Indians."

"What a crock."

The audience suffers the torment patiently until the flowery speeches are over. The young people in back clap from a lack of interest, they want to sing and dance, groupies of the Indian band from Lod. Why don't they show that group on TV? They already showed Kiryat Malakhi, so why not Indian dances by ten-year-old Israelis?

The evening is conducted around a competition of singing and dancing, held now for five years in a row at Binyanei Ha-Uma in Jerusalem, always with an audience of thousands. The young men and women reach the competition after qualifying in a first round; five representatives, four men and a woman. Out of the five, four chose sad songs. One of the songs is at least forty years old. And the songs are untarnished--boisterous and full of longing, interlaced with the beauty of childhood. As for hidden regions, it's doubtful there were any. Shlomo Bar says that Indian music is composed for different times of the day. There is music meant for the morning which depicts awakening from sleep to the aroma of flowers in the gentle, sunny air; for early afternoon, when nature is mercilessly laid bare with brazen clarity for all to see, there is different music. And so on for evening and for night. Interesting.

The orchestra comes onstage. Four kinds of drums. A set of tablas, a set of pop drums, two sets of African congas. String instruments: a sitar or buibul tarang, a bass guitar, an accordion and an organ. The crowd reacts with a cheer. Way in the back, like up in the balcony to the left of the stage, young men enthusiastically sing Indian songs. This year the liveliest crew came from Dimona. The ones from Ashdod were quieter. All boys except for a few girls here and there, but they aren't rabblerousers. They just chuckle with excitement. The emcee is charming, polished Hebrew, no sign of an Indian accent: "r," "r," a French "r," pampered. The host is colossal. He participated in the singing competition last year and took second place. Hebrew is foreign to him so he conducts the evening in Marathi, the language of Bombay.