Waiting For the Messiah

CO-WRITTEN WITH DAVID KLEIN

Waiting for the Messiah

As India prepares for Holi, a small community of Jewish tourists and travellers celebrate Purim at the Delhi Chabad House, hosted by Rabbi Akiva and Mushka Soudry

NEW DELHI – The Hindu festival of Holi and the Jewish holiday of Purim have a few common features: a sense of play, merriment and celebration — and, every few years, coinciding dates. Both religions’ holidays are governed by complicated lunar calendars. In 2016, the two holidays fell on the same day. And this year, they were a day apart, with Purim on March 12 and Holi on March 13.

Holi celebrates the deity Krishna’s love for the divine Radha. Purim, the deliverance of the Jews from the evil decree of an ancient Persian minister. Both are days of excess and, generally, a really good time. While India’s billion Hindus were on the brink of celebrating Holi, a tiny congregation of expat Jews observed Purim at the Chabad House in Delhi’s main bazaar.

In a hectic bazaar filled with signs in Hindi, Urdu and other Indic languages, a large Hebrew sign stands out overhead. It points down a dusty alleyway, where a bored-looking security guard sits outside a door, playing on his smartphone. Up the stairs, Rabbi Akiva Soudry, 30, careens around the room, arm in arm with a younger man, to the thumping beats of neo-Hasidic dance music.

Earlier, Soudry called the room to order for the reading of the Megillah, written, like many sacred Jewish writings, on an animal hide scroll. He rattled through the text at breakneck speed, pausing only occasionally for the beating of drums and noisemakers, blotting out the name of Haman, the villain of the story. To add to the din, a younger man regularly fired a confetti cannon that belched scraps of colored paper around the room.

As the rest of the country stocked up on colored dyes for Holi, the Soudrys – Akiva, his wife Mushka, 27, and their three small children – were hosting a free kosher meal for about 30 people. Chicken wings; chopped Israeli salad; viscous tahina; and a warm eggplant dish drenched in olive oil, stained ruby-red. As Akiva addressed the congregation, swaying backwards and forth, smoke swirled into the room from barbecues at the back, manned by local helpers. Despite the New Delhi heat, Akiva wears the traditional Hasidic male outfit: black trousers, a white shirt and a long black kaftan. His beard hangs down almost to his chest.

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Purim is the most joyous festival on the Jewish calendar. Trying to explain it, Mushka exclaims, “Purim is happiness!” She and Akiva both grew up in Israel. Their English is accented, sounding almost French at times, and as they talk, they make little asides to one another in Hebrew.

“So many times, different nations and different people tried to kill us, and to destroy the Jewish. Us,” says Akiva. “Purim is a great example of how a plan to destroy us and to kill us totally changed. Instead of killing [the Jews], they became respected. And everybody understands that the Jewish are special. This is Purim, from the bottom to very high, because of God’s miracles.” Today, more than ever before, he says, this is a time to celebrate. “Now, we are strong, we are comfortable with our Judaism everywhere in the world. Really, we are now in the Purim situation.”

Akiva and Mushka are members of Chabad, a Hasidic sect sometimes called Lubavitch. “Chabad” is an acronym, standing for the three Kabbalistic principles that Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the first Rebbe of the sect, felt were key to understanding to God: Chochmah (wisdom), Binah (understanding), and Da’at (knowledge). Chabad emissaries go to every corner of the globe to set up Chabad houses — open homes, where affiliated and unaffiliated Jews alike can expect a warm reception and weekly Shabbat services. Chabad estimates that there are now over 3,500 institutions across more than 85 countries. Each is a little pocket of Judaism in some of the world’s most unexpected places.

New Delhi might be a good candidate for one of the more unlikely. Over the last few decades, most of India’s local Jews left the country for Israel, leaving just 5,000 still in the country. Akiva and Mushka minister to a carousel of Israeli backpackers and travelling Western tourists. At their Purim dinner, most people are chattering excitedly in Hebrew, between swigs of whiskey or beer. An English couple are in India to visit the “golden triangle” of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, while a set of identical twins from Canada on separate routes around the country have reconvened here in the Chabad house.

Mushka and Akiva met through a Shidduch, a matchmaking system where prospective spouses are introduced by an intermediary — in this case, Mushka’s brother. The brother and his wife keep a Chabad house in South India — but, before they got married, he visited the Delhi Chabad house for Shabbat, where Akiva was. Akiva brought water and pre-cut pieces of toilet paper to his room (tearing sheets from the roll is not permitted on Shabbos in some sects of Orthodox Judaism). “He liked that,” Akiva says, laughing. “So… this is the payment.” Mushka and Akiva were married soon after — now, they have three children under the age of five.

But being in Delhi has its challenges. Moksha initially says she doesn’t like it — later, Akiva describes her as hating it. She doesn’t correct him. They have very few local friends, maintaining only a loose connection to the very small Bene Israel community, and the difficulties of living an Orthodox life in such a foreign context are considerable. It’s costly, Akiva says. “She is paying every day. Not in money, but in hardness. She don’t have a school to send the children, she don’t have a kindergarten.” Mushka must homeschool their children, and there’s no sandbox, no slides — not even a doctor they can trust. “We don’t have it here. Everything is on our shoulders.” Yesterday, Mushka says, her little boy cut his forehead open. “And… you pray. You don’t know what else to do.”

But Akiva says the challenges and cultural clashes make him a better person. “Before, I was very… let’s say, very easily angered … The Indians, they make me crazy in everything I have to do with them, it’s very hard. But now, I’m much more calm. I take it easy, everything. I think it changed me a lot.”

Chabad has had seven Grand Rabbis, known in Yiddish as rebbes, starting with Shneur Zalman in 1698. Its most recent, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, died in 1994. He wrote extensively – some 300 volumes of published work – and helped push Chabad to the status it has today, reviving the movement in America after the Holocaust. After his death, adherents chose not to find a new leader, instead hoping to continue the work he had begun. Mushka’s full name is Chaya Mushka, named in memory of his wife.

Akiva and Mushka believe that being in Delhi is their destiny — ordained both by God and by the Rebbe. “This is our target and our mission in this world,” says Akiva. “We came here just for three months. And God made all the things for us to stay [for good]. So, we’re here. We can change it very easily, but it is not the right thing to do.” The role is made especially for them, he adds. Anywhere would have its challenges, Mushka offers. “But each place, you have to fight for something. And this is where God sent us.”

They still reminisce about Israel, where much of their family is — sometimes, Akiva admits, he thinks he might be happier if he lived there all the time. “But I know that it’s not true. This is the place where I should be. And this is the only place where I will be glad and I will be happy.”

Chabad seeks to bring Judaism to Jews wherever they are in the world or in their religious practice — those who believe, and those for whom it is first and foremost a cultural identity. Chabadniks hope that, through interaction with Shabbat services, social occasions and other Chabad activities, Jews will find solace in their religion. Chabad Houses might provide everything from classes and religious services to counselling.

Akiva and Mushka Soudry feel a great sense of responsibility to Jewish tourists who may be passing through. “The travellers are our community,” Mushka says. “We look after them.” This encompasses helping them if they get into trouble with the law or simply sharing with them in their experiences. “Everything they need, they come to us,” Akiva says. “Even if it’s a bad thing, or it’s a good thing.” His face lights up as he describes hearing those travellers’ good news – an engaged sister, for instance. “It’s very nice. People are coming to us just to share a good thing.” They use WhatsApp to keep in touch with people around the country, some of whom remain in contact long after they’ve returned home.

But there’s another reason for them to be in India. “The rebbe is saying that part of the redemption is that Jews will go all over the world, and they will be mixed up with the local people,” Akiva says. The very fact of being in India and living a Hasidic lifestyle there takes the whole country to a higher level, he adds. “It makes India a part of the Jewish mission,” Mushka says. They will sometimes go with Israeli guests and dance in public with the Torah. “It makes us feel stronger to be different,” she says. “And being in India, we all feel the specialness of being Jewish. It’s very exciting.”

That excitement may need to sustain them for some time. For, Akiva explains, “we are staying here until moshiach is coming.” Mushka nods. “Until the redemption. We’ve been waiting a long time. More than 2,000 years.” But, she says, the wait for a messiah may soon come to an end. “We are praying every day, three times a day, and we know, every Jew believes, that moshiach is going to come very, very soon. Sooner than soon.” And when that happens, she says, they won’t need to be in India any longer. “So we will be leaving very soon.”

The Rebbe’s teachings place some emphasis on the coming of moshiach — so much so that some of his followers began to wonder if he might be that messiah himself. “In the last few years before 1994, the Rebbe said a few times, in different ways, that we are the last generation of exile, and the first generation of redemption,” Akiva explains. This has led them, among some other Chabad devotees, to believe that Rebbe is the messiah — still alive, and coming back to save them.

Akiva and Mushka say that they remain in regular communication with him, writing letters whenever they have a question or a problem. Regular letters obviously don’t work, he says, so instead they write questions on paper and slip it inside a book of his collected letters. “We believe that the Rebbe is sending us the exact answer, for us. And according to that answer, we are acting.” The Rebbe has been able to tell them what to do in every situation, Akiva says. “He is giving us the power to do things.” Mushka falls silent, then chimes in. “Without this… I am not sure that we would be here.”

They stand together in a pool of yellow light from the Delhi streetlamps. It’s getting late — approaching midnight. Rickshaws hurtle past the turning to the alley, while the security guard continues to text. Upstairs, the party is beginning to tip into a Hasidic version of raucousness. Women and men are separated by a wooden screen — the men, sweating in their black and white clothes in the evening heat, hurtle round in circles, their arms on one another’s shoulders. The women have tied polyester scarves edged with metal coins around their waists. Wiggling their hips, they lipsync into a plastic tulip pulled from a stray vase, laughing until tears pool in the corners of their eyes. Non-dancers lean against the window-frame, drinking cheap whiskey from plastic shot glasses and smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Tonight belongs to Purim, and this tiny expat community. The isolation does nothing to detract from their joy, Akiva says. “It makes us feel Jewish. Lonely between so many Indians, but still happy, still family, still loving one another, and still wanting to be in peace with all the world. This makes us feel Jewish.”

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