Light
of the Sabbath by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca shares her poems and illustrations by Jael Silliman from her chapbook, Light of the Sabbath.
By Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
I was born in Bombay (now Mumbai) to Prof. Nissim Ezekiel and Daisy Ezekiel and raised in the Bene-Israeli Jewish community, dating back over two thousand years with its origins in the legend of a shipwreck off the coast of the Konkan in western India. The distinctive experience of the Jews in India was that they never faced any discrimination and blended seamlessly into Indian culture. They spoke Marathi and English at home, and prayers were recited in Hebrew and Marathi. In the latter part of the 18th century, many Jews moved to Bombay. The poems are also an attempt to discover my Jewish roots, and the meaning and impact my upbringing has in forming my world view and my life today.
Growing up, Light was an important subject of conversation in my home – how to read in the best light, how to write with proper lighting, opening the windows and curtains to the morning light, appreciating light in all the various forms of illumination that invigorated one’s being. It became something of a sacred consciousness.
By Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
I was born in Bombay (now Mumbai) to Prof. Nissim Ezekiel and Daisy Ezekiel and raised in the Bene-Israeli Jewish community, dating back over two thousand years with its origins in the legend of a shipwreck off the coast of the Konkan in western India. The distinctive experience of the Jews in India was that they never faced any discrimination and blended seamlessly into Indian culture. They spoke Marathi and English at home, and prayers were recited in Hebrew and Marathi. In the latter part of the 18th century, many Jews moved to Bombay. The poems are also an attempt to discover my Jewish roots, and the meaning and impact my upbringing has in forming my world view and my life today.
Growing up, Light was an important subject of conversation in my home – how to read in the best light, how to write with proper lighting, opening the windows and curtains to the morning light, appreciating light in all the various forms of illumination that invigorated one’s being. It became something of a sacred consciousness.
Alibaug
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
(All My Life… The Beatles)
It was a village then
A ferry the only means to get across,
I went there often, even defiant of the Indian monsoons.
My uncle owned a grain mill
He was a jovial man with a rich laugh
The grain poured out of the ancient machines
Like his patient and unselfish love for us.
My aunt was kind, like all my other aunts
She raised chickens, and cooked spicy food
Put ten chillies in the curry when I visited
Her usual was twenty,
She was an older sister to my mother.
She knew we liked the food less spicy
Father had lived in England
We were accustomed to blander fare.
At evenfall we talked in soft voices
The hens were asleep.
Disturbing them meant risking
Breakfast without eggs
Once I watched a cackling hen lay an egg,
In the fields were cows and barking dogs
My cousin wove in and out of them
With me and my screams, on the bicycle,
He teased me because I was afraid.
The ocean lapped at the gates of the cottage
We walked barefoot on the sand
I skipped, he held my hand tightly
So I wouldn’t skip away.
My cousin caught the Puffer fish
That looked like pregnant women,
We must cook before nightfall
The lantern light was the only electricity then
A rat bit my cousin’s toe once
Paraffin was the cure, as I remember it.
Still we got there defiant of the rains
It was home and very sweet.
Holding umbrellas over our heads
Willing the rocking boat
To land us safely ashore.
I had heard of Jesus in school
Of how He walked on water
And His command to still the storm,
I remember praying to have that kind of faith
The kind that stills the storm
I cannot swim, though,
I want to walk the earth with grace.
Alibaug is a village no more
My uncle has passed and the grain mill
Has passed on to new owners
I guess technology has replaced
Those ancient machines.
I read of the great developments there
Of hotels, rich residences, and tall buildings
You can get there by car or luxury bus.
I miss Alibaug
The flickering lanterns, sleeping on mats, eating from *thalis
I miss Alibaug
The hushed whispers between cousins
I don’t know when I can return
To the land of my ancestors
The land of the Shanwartelis, the Oil pressers,
I yearn for the unsullied rustic scenes,
The dotted fields of cows and the music of their bells
The hush of the chickens settling down for the night,
And I don’t know where the fish sleep
In the folds of the waves
Or in the folds of my memory.
Note: Alibaug, also spelled Alibag, is a coastal town and municipal council in Raigad district of Maharashtra, India. It is the headquarters of the Raigad district. Alibaug and its surrounding villages are the historic hinterland of Bene Israeli Jews. There is a synagogue in the "Israel Ali" (Marathi इस्राएल आळी meaning Israel lane) area of the town.[1] A Bene Israelite named Ali used to live there at that time. He was a rich man and owned many plantations of mangoes and coconuts in his gardens. Hence the locals used to call the place "Alichi Bagh"(Marathi for "Ali's Garden"), or simply "Alibag", and the name stuck.[1] Wikipaedia
*Thalis – stainless steel plates in which meals are served in Indian homes.
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
(All My Life… The Beatles)
It was a village then
A ferry the only means to get across,
I went there often, even defiant of the Indian monsoons.
My uncle owned a grain mill
He was a jovial man with a rich laugh
The grain poured out of the ancient machines
Like his patient and unselfish love for us.
My aunt was kind, like all my other aunts
She raised chickens, and cooked spicy food
Put ten chillies in the curry when I visited
Her usual was twenty,
She was an older sister to my mother.
She knew we liked the food less spicy
Father had lived in England
We were accustomed to blander fare.
At evenfall we talked in soft voices
The hens were asleep.
Disturbing them meant risking
Breakfast without eggs
Once I watched a cackling hen lay an egg,
In the fields were cows and barking dogs
My cousin wove in and out of them
With me and my screams, on the bicycle,
He teased me because I was afraid.
The ocean lapped at the gates of the cottage
We walked barefoot on the sand
I skipped, he held my hand tightly
So I wouldn’t skip away.
My cousin caught the Puffer fish
That looked like pregnant women,
We must cook before nightfall
The lantern light was the only electricity then
A rat bit my cousin’s toe once
Paraffin was the cure, as I remember it.
Still we got there defiant of the rains
It was home and very sweet.
Holding umbrellas over our heads
Willing the rocking boat
To land us safely ashore.
I had heard of Jesus in school
Of how He walked on water
And His command to still the storm,
I remember praying to have that kind of faith
The kind that stills the storm
I cannot swim, though,
I want to walk the earth with grace.
Alibaug is a village no more
My uncle has passed and the grain mill
Has passed on to new owners
I guess technology has replaced
Those ancient machines.
I read of the great developments there
Of hotels, rich residences, and tall buildings
You can get there by car or luxury bus.
I miss Alibaug
The flickering lanterns, sleeping on mats, eating from *thalis
I miss Alibaug
The hushed whispers between cousins
I don’t know when I can return
To the land of my ancestors
The land of the Shanwartelis, the Oil pressers,
I yearn for the unsullied rustic scenes,
The dotted fields of cows and the music of their bells
The hush of the chickens settling down for the night,
And I don’t know where the fish sleep
In the folds of the waves
Or in the folds of my memory.
Note: Alibaug, also spelled Alibag, is a coastal town and municipal council in Raigad district of Maharashtra, India. It is the headquarters of the Raigad district. Alibaug and its surrounding villages are the historic hinterland of Bene Israeli Jews. There is a synagogue in the "Israel Ali" (Marathi इस्राएल आळी meaning Israel lane) area of the town.[1] A Bene Israelite named Ali used to live there at that time. He was a rich man and owned many plantations of mangoes and coconuts in his gardens. Hence the locals used to call the place "Alichi Bagh"(Marathi for "Ali's Garden"), or simply "Alibag", and the name stuck.[1] Wikipaedia
*Thalis – stainless steel plates in which meals are served in Indian homes.
Chain of events
For my aunt Hannah, who loved me like her own and who made Aliya to Israel.
Three nieces were given three gold chains
For the three children they might have had
If fate or circumstance had not intervened.
Ours the choice of design
The quantity of the gold and the price
Gently stipulated, we became designers of love.
Believing mine to be lost
Somewhere between my Grandmother’s house
And my parents’ home during the backing and forthing between
My mother mourned the lost gold,
While I lamented an aunt’s lost love.
Then came the move to another home
Cleaning out the cupboard
Mother saw a gleaming object among the clothes.
Hard for her to admit a daughter’s truth.
The first time the missing chain had played
The lost and found game of childhood.
The second gift was for the son
leaving for another country, a token of our bond.
Inquiring for it from him one day,
He said he had returned it,
This time, my turn to scold him.
Life is full of ironies, the missing chain
had something else in mind.
I lamented its loss to my daughter.
She said matter of factly I had placed it
in the little black owl box given her for safekeeping.
Incredulous, I searched for the Owl Box
Reluctantly opened the lid found it there
where it remains to this day,
As gleaming as when it was first gifted.
I will wear it to a loved one’s wedding,
look back fondly to
Loving hearts that
gave the gift,
For the children they might
have had,
If fate or circumstance had
Not intervened.
These are the chains that bind
Twenty-two carat gold
into bonds of love.
And every now and then
I open the Owl box
Just to make sure
The chain has not played yet
another
Of its own
Whimsical games.
For my aunt Hannah, who loved me like her own and who made Aliya to Israel.
Three nieces were given three gold chains
For the three children they might have had
If fate or circumstance had not intervened.
Ours the choice of design
The quantity of the gold and the price
Gently stipulated, we became designers of love.
Believing mine to be lost
Somewhere between my Grandmother’s house
And my parents’ home during the backing and forthing between
My mother mourned the lost gold,
While I lamented an aunt’s lost love.
Then came the move to another home
Cleaning out the cupboard
Mother saw a gleaming object among the clothes.
Hard for her to admit a daughter’s truth.
The first time the missing chain had played
The lost and found game of childhood.
The second gift was for the son
leaving for another country, a token of our bond.
Inquiring for it from him one day,
He said he had returned it,
This time, my turn to scold him.
Life is full of ironies, the missing chain
had something else in mind.
I lamented its loss to my daughter.
She said matter of factly I had placed it
in the little black owl box given her for safekeeping.
Incredulous, I searched for the Owl Box
Reluctantly opened the lid found it there
where it remains to this day,
As gleaming as when it was first gifted.
I will wear it to a loved one’s wedding,
look back fondly to
Loving hearts that
gave the gift,
For the children they might
have had,
If fate or circumstance had
Not intervened.
These are the chains that bind
Twenty-two carat gold
into bonds of love.
And every now and then
I open the Owl box
Just to make sure
The chain has not played yet
another
Of its own
Whimsical games.
Saying Twilight in Two Languages
The darkness always knows it is winter
It possesses intuition and wisdom
It enters my home earlier and earlier
Silently
Shortening the days, balancing on the edge of night.
I miss my mother, though not just in winter,
She turned on the lights
At the first hint of twilight,
She called it ‘TeenieSanza’.
This T is soft, not hard as in English
It’s a *Marathi word, our first language along with English.
Try saying it, ‘Teeniesanza’
Put your tongue against your front teeth
It will automatically soften the T.
Twilight is the soft light
The separation of day from night
Spoken with a hard T,
‘Teeniesanza’ is the soft T
It also means Twilight.
The light is the same though
Just uses a different language
To call it by its name.
I’m trying to teach my daughter
To say ‘Teeniesanza’
Marathi is not her first language
She can say twilight comfortably
With the hard T
She obliges me by practicing.
Either way, still, it will be twilight
when it’s time
For the light to change.
* Marathi is the language spoken in the state of Maharashtra (India), and of the Bene Israel Jews of Bombay, the community to which I belong.
The darkness always knows it is winter
It possesses intuition and wisdom
It enters my home earlier and earlier
Silently
Shortening the days, balancing on the edge of night.
I miss my mother, though not just in winter,
She turned on the lights
At the first hint of twilight,
She called it ‘TeenieSanza’.
This T is soft, not hard as in English
It’s a *Marathi word, our first language along with English.
Try saying it, ‘Teeniesanza’
Put your tongue against your front teeth
It will automatically soften the T.
Twilight is the soft light
The separation of day from night
Spoken with a hard T,
‘Teeniesanza’ is the soft T
It also means Twilight.
The light is the same though
Just uses a different language
To call it by its name.
I’m trying to teach my daughter
To say ‘Teeniesanza’
Marathi is not her first language
She can say twilight comfortably
With the hard T
She obliges me by practicing.
Either way, still, it will be twilight
when it’s time
For the light to change.
* Marathi is the language spoken in the state of Maharashtra (India), and of the Bene Israel Jews of Bombay, the community to which I belong.
