Translated fiction: A family grapples with the tension between its Jewish faith and Indian identity

Miss Seema Samuel opens her eyes and looks at the room. Perhaps it is past midnight. The brightness streaming through the window and the skylight has unrolled over the darkness.

Sohrab had come many days before Tahmina committed suicide by hanging herself from the ventilator. Seema had asked him why Tahmina, his aunt, wasn’t allowed to come downstairs Sohrab had remained quiet for long and then said, “She’s mad! Pappa doesn’t come here because of her; Granny cries and insists that she should be taken to Bombay. My Mama doesn’t like anyone.” Then he had become quiet. Seema, too, kept quiet. Then, as if sharing a secret, he had whispered to Seema, “I also don’t like her at all. You know, whenever I go to meet her, she hugs me so tightly that I suffocate. And the number of kisses she plants on my face!”

Sometimes, Rafu, Raphael – Rachel’s son – too, would hug Seema like that. It would make her breathless. He was an adult now and had a great deal of strength. Seema would pretend to cry so that he released her. Then, with the innocent surprise of a child, he would ask, “Why do you cry, Mama?”

Could Seema ever answer him or herself?

Many actions have completely absurd answers. After Bobby’s death, Seema’s mother had almost slipped into a quagmire. How could her educated and sensible mother sink so deep into depression? Who could ever pull her out of that sinking mire?

By that time, Seema had grown up. She was thirty or thirty-two. Her tender dreams were made of little houses, clouds, flames of fire, and sometimes, a snatch of melody. But in the wilderness of Ma’s heart, they staggered and got lost, like Sohrab’s two-paisa brass coin had been lost in the backyard at home. Seema had cried her heart out at that time. Papa had given her a four-anna coin, but Seema had thrown it away – “How does one know where the coin got lost in this huge yard?” Bobby had found the coin and given it to her, “Here! Take your coin.”

“Seema, didn’t Sohrab give it to you?” Rachel had asked while looking for it.

Seema was self-conscious, “Silly, we have already found it. What are you searching for now in the dust?”

Six-year-old Rachel had swung Seema around and said, “I like Sohrab very much. When I am big – as big as Dhanmai – I will make Sohrab ‘papa’.”

Little, foolish girl, Rachel! She thought papa and husband were the same. Seema and Bobby had laughed. But Rachel was on the verge of crying.

That was how she was; pretty but foolish. Papa and Diana Aajji loved her very much. Aajji would copy her and behave like a kid. Ma would get irritated when she saw this – “Old people should teach small children, but look at her spoiling the child by behaving like a child herself. She tells her ghost stories, which will make her timid and meek.”

Faint-hearted Rachel. She saw a ghost in every nook and cranny. Every rustling leaf turned into a thief. As she grew up, that fear added an unknown mystery to her charming face and made her look even prettier. But the things she did remained as silly and childish as before. She couldn’t pedal the bicycle forwards: she could only move the wheels in reverse. Seema learnt to ride with a pillion, but Rachel kept pedalling the wrong way. She would be found crying on the chabutra next door, saying that she had lost her home. She would often doze off while brushing her teeth, a finger still in her mouth. She would be given a front bench in class because of Papa’s status, but she remained a laggard in studies.

Papa always took his timid daughter’s side. Danny made fun of his younger sister.

But Bobby looked after Rachel.

Seema would get annoyed with Rachel when she imitated her. Ma would be irritated by her stupidity and clumsiness. “Uff! Why didn’t you tuck your frock properly? See, there are dirty spots all over! This girl of mine can’t even cross a puddle without soiling her dress!”

And yet, this same girl crossed over that huge abyss of life so easily. Standing on this side of the abyss, Ma and Papa kept calling out to her. But Rachel went away with that same pretty but foolish face of hers.

Papa, Samuel David, Under Secretary. Short-tempered, egotist and religious. Incapable of hearing a word against Judaism. After Rachel died, he would just sit and brood. When Rafu cried to be nursed, he would push the door open and rush down the sixty stairs. Perhaps the somewhat dry and outspoken Samuel David never forgave Rachel till the end. But he kept this fact to himself. He suffered but never mentioned it.

Excerpted with permission from Miss Samuel: A Jewish-Indian Saga, Sheela Rohekar, translated from the Hindi by Madhu Singh, Speaking Tiger Books.