Those days.... Thoughts on a synagogue

A letter by my dear 'akhot' Ranjana....thoughts to be shared with many, felt by few....worth cherishing...Thanks Ranjana...Miss those days....

I remember being confused.

I remember holding Shulamith's palm in my hand as I stepped into Judah Hyam Synagogue, fresh from watching Mr. and Mrs. Iyer. Fresh also, from remembering The Pianist.

And fresh from hearing encores of the Ha Tikavh in my head. In my voice. All the time. And fresh from some (often critiqued) Tagorean ideas on Bramhism, the practice of No God.

Yes, I do remember being confused.

Can one see how many religions had just collided and collapsed and phoenixed inside my head as I stepped into Judah Hyam Synagogue?

I shall not describe what it looks like, because I only know what it looks like to me. I remember its star, the dark hall and the sounds of Ose Shalom. I remember sprinkling toffees on a newly blessed Jewish-Sikh couple. I remember intense personal debates, emotional conversations with a dear friend, sitting on the dark steps of the library. I remember being able to step inside the interiors to meet darling people. I remember the sunset colored Friday evenings where the sunset used to spread inside of me.

And then confusion. Desperation. Who was I? Where was I? Someone asked me if I believed in God.

I realized much later that I did believe in God, but not really in what we take to be religion.

Judah Hyam Synagogue let me be. Often it became the geography that allowed me to suspend other geographies of other struggles and gave me the space (physiographical and emotional) to not try to be anyone.

Or maybe… to learn to be someone.