Temple of Aaron

A low unpolished jagged board outside an austere single story building facing the Mississippi in St. Paul, Minnesota said, “Temple of Aaron.” One Sunday morning I walked into the temple with my friend Debrah who had warned me that this would be a very orthodox gathering unlike the one I had encountered at a more progressive synagogue a few weeks back. The foyer wore a festive look with festoons and balloons and tables loaded with the most gorgeous looking food.

Inside, the service had begun already and the hall was packed to capacity but Deborah found us a pew that had some vacant seats. I squirmed my way in behind her, gingerly trying to avoid the toes of my neighbor. Before I could slide into my seat, his whisper took me completely by surprise.

“Indian?” he asked looking at the red dot on my forehead.

I nodded, silently, not wanting to draw attention.

Evidently he had no such compunctions and whispered again, “My son is an Indian too.”

This merited a proper look so I turned a bit to take a full look at this portly, obviously wealthy Jewish American gentleman next to me who continued undeterred, “I adopted him 21 years back, a baby from Bombay. He sells pizzas. He has a 10 week old daughter, my granddaughter.” The man beamed with pride convinced that the glory of grand fatherhood was the reward of his   perspicacity of 21 years ago. Meanwhile I was getting thoroughly disoriented about my location. Was I sandwiched in a pew at a traditional Jewish service inside an elite synagogue in St. Paul or was I at a neighbourhood store?

My neighbor proceeded to inform me that it was the Bar Mitzvah* of the cantor’s son. In minutes I had the cantor’s family history and also had all the important people of the parish pointed to me even as everyone else in the hall was engrossed in the happenings on the dais. Apparently the cantor had lost his wife, the boy’s mother to cancer and his parents in law who too were present had insisted that he remarry and lead a full life. How else would he set a good example for his parish as an ideal householder?

It was not easy to apportion my attention equally between the stories pouring into my right ear and the emotionally charged proceedings at the pulpit.

The cantor with the divine voice sang. Beside him his son, just turned man, bright eyed and clear of voice, following convention read and interpreted the Torah while the congregation chanted and relatives read passages of peace:

Let no nation strike against another nation. Let there be peace on earth. The beasts shall be destroyed and peace shall reign.

On that clear Sunday morning not one thought of blood or gore or hatred could have found its way in edgeways as the entire community in full splendour welcomed the thirteen year old into manhood. Further disorientation…

I had difficulty reconciling this reality to the ever present image in my mind’s eye of thirteen year old stone fisted hands whose only initiation into manhood is its end as ruthless tanks crush their homes and lives and futures in the land of milk and honey.**

*A Jewish initiation ceremony for adolescents very similar to the Hindu ritual of Upanayanam except that in the Jewish tradition both girls and boys are welcomed into adulthood with equal ceremony.

**Ref to the Palestinian Intifada.