the Barn of Universe

There is a shopping area very near us-- across two small but frantically busy roads-- called Broadway or Broadway shops or Broadway bazaar. I love this warren of streets and shops. 

They are always packed with people and tuk-tuks and scooters. I have walked through this neighborhood hundreds of times now, but because it is so dense, I still discover something new that I never noticed before. 

I've never been to the middle east, but Broadway feels like my imagination's version of a middle-eastern bazaar. For one thing, there are a lot of middle-eastern people here: it has two very active mosques with dueling, loudly-amplified calls to prayer. (We call it the imam-alarm when they wake us between 5 and 5:30 every morning. Allahu akhbar!) Arab traders have been in Kochi for centuries, and there is still a large presence here. One of our favorite stores sells spices, dried fruits, nuts, and candy, and is evocatively named Palm Tree: the Barn of Universe.

They have sooo many different types of dates there. Eight or ten, maybe? We are trying to work our way through all of them. Many South Indians work in Saudi or Oman, too, so the cultural exchange works both ways. There is an Arab perfume shop that I vow to get up my courage to enter before we leave. 

 

Our favorite restaurant, Punjab House, is also there, down an unpaved, dark alley, in a space that is entirely open on one side (a giant garage door rolls down at closing time).

That's one of our favorite waiters. The waiters write down the things you order on a chalkboard at the cash register, and when you've had enough, you go up and pay for it. 

Have I told you about the South Indian Head Wobble? South Indians do not nod or shake their heads; they wobble side-to-side, which means: yes, got it. It also means: hey, how are you. Also: thank you.

This waiter is a terse man. When he takes our order (in his head), he simply jerks his chin once to the left after each item to let you know it's registered. If there is no chin jerk, you have made a mistake in some way (usually the wrong quantity ordered or wrong combination of things ordered together). So, Michael says: "two tomato fry..." [chin jerk]; "two gobi parotta" [chin jerk]; "eight plain parotta" [pause]; "six plain parotta?" [chin jerk]. 

You can get everything in Broadway. There is a stationery store where we had to get the mandatory thin brown paper to cover the children's school notebooks, and also bought art and office supplies. There's a dispensary where I bought my allergy nasal spray without a prescription for about $4. There's a whole street of goldsmiths and jewelers. Of course a big sari palace, Radhakrishna, with a warren of rear spaces off the alley behind it selling textiles, dupattas, and pre-cut yardage for men's custom shirts. Michael bought a machete on the sidewalk to attempt hacking into coconuts (mission: unsuccessful). I bought shoes. Fresh plantain chips, a sewing notions store where we bought trims and beads, hardware, paint, puja items, electrical fixtures...  

And one day, we discovered a synagogue-nursery-aquarium.

Kochi has a long Jewish history. There is a well-known synagogue in Fort Kochi, on Jew Street (!), that was founded by the Paradesi or "White Jews" that came from Spain and Portugal in the 15th and 16th centuries. But there's one in Broadway that is much less well known to tourists, and belongs to an even older congregation. My colleague at St Teresa's told me that this synagogue belongs to the Cochin Jews or Malabar Jews or Black Jews (!), who have been in Kochi for hundreds or even thousands of years, depending who you ask-- perhaps even dating back to the exodus after the destruction of the First Temple in 587 BC. The two Jewish communities mixed, but also retained separate languages and customs. In the 1950s, after Independence and the founding of Israel, most of the Cochin Jews emigrated there.

We stumbled on the Ernakulam synagogue by accident, just happening to glance down a 10-ft wide walkway and noticing a beautiful building set back from the street. Plants and flowers lined the path, for sale. Inside, there was a pet store selling tropical fish and tiny turtles.

We were interested in the plants and the fish, but when we walked in the proprietress asked, "Do you want to see the synagogue?" Huh? We were stunned to be ushered through into this glorious interior.

The proprietress herself is one of the last remaining Cochin Jews in Kochi. Her daughter is married to a man from North Carolina and they live in Israel. Services are no longer held at the synagogue unless there is a group of Jewish visitors who come specifically for that purpose. But they maintain it as a beautiful space to visit. I learned later from a colleague at St Teresas that the weedy, open plot next to the college is in fact the burial ground connected with this synagogue, so their property once extended for many, many blocks.

 Malabar Tailors is also in Broadway. You get to it down a little alley, and it too is totally open to the street, with five or six men at work at sewing machines late into the evening. They specialize in men's tailoring, and sew a lot of military and police uniforms.

People do not buy much ready-made clothing here. Tailoring is highly skilled and inexpensive, so most everyone has their clothes made to order. The exception is shopping for Western-style gear and brands, such as I witnessed in my friends shopping in Bangalore or you see in street-side stands selling t-shirts and jeans. I tried to explain to my friend Anju that tailoring is rare and expensive in the US, and that I make a lot of my own clothes but that is unusual, and she was so puzzled by the whole thing-- why I'd bother sewing my own clothes but also how people could possibly dress themselves properly off the rack. Yes, exactly. Anyway, Michael went to Malabar and had a suit made!

I was a bit skeptical, because the man just spent a few minutes with us, measured Michael, and listened to me say several times "slim slim! cut slim!" I know how hard it is to get tailoring right. But when we went back a couple of weeks later, there was an absolutely perfectly tailored blue suit. (It is very hard to buy wool suiting here, though, so if you're coming to India and you want a suit, BYO wool suiting.) Now Michael's measurements are entered into their paper log book under his customer number, #863.

He loves the suit so much he went back for a gray one, plus three shirts, two of them from handloomed fabric we bought off the looms in Chendamangalam.

(Now you see who the real fashionista in the family is.)