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...

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