This article is based on a true story.
A heavy silence hovered over the small Indian village. There was no wind, not even a breeze to ruffle the leaves. The palm trees dropped, the large leaves of the banana tree were shriveled and lifeless. Dust filled the air. The skeletal cows wandered aimlessly through the dirt roads. Children stood in the doorways of thatched huts, their eyes black and somber in their dark faces. The sun beat down mercilessly upon the parched village. The fields were empty. There were no men singing as they worked. There was no rain.
The July monsoons had not yet arrived. People lay on their mats, squatted in doorways, waiting for the rain they might never live to see.
Ruchama arrived that afternoon. For years she had come to India to learn the art of native dancing. But this time it was different. She had come to India as a Torah observant Jew. She stood by the hotel room window and looked down upon the village square. How far away Brooklyn seemed from this remote corner of India. It was Friday afternoon, and sunset came quickly. She bent over her knapsack, and took out the two brass candlesticks, the white cloth, the challahs.
She noticed a movement in the square. The aged wise man of the village was calling the people together. Slowly people emerged from the houses and came shuffling toward him. They stood listlessly as he spoke to them. She could not catch his words.
It was time to light the Shabbat candles. She struck the match. The candles glowed in the dusk. Covering her eyes she said the blessing slowly, saying each word with deep feeling: "Baruch Ata Hashem--Blessed are you G-d. May Your bounty be drawn into this world. Elokeinu--our G-d, but also King of the world, King even here, in this starving village at the end of the world, Who has commanded us to kindle the Shabbat candles." It occurred to Ruchama that these were probably the first Shabbat candles ever lit on this spot, that indeed, it must be the first Shabbat ever welcomed in this portion of India.
The Shabbat candles flickered. A small breeze sprang up from the open window. The flames leaped joyfully. The wind began to blow more strongly and the flame grew. The first rain drops fell. Ruchama closed the window against the storm. She watched as the water came down in sheets.
The wise man stood gazing at her window. He walked with purposeful steps to the hotel door, and tapped on it gently. Ruchama opened the door. The wise man greeted her with a warm smile. He gestured with his withered hands at the candles.
"Who are you, my daughter, and what are these lights?" "My name is Ruchama, and these are Sabbath candles."
"And what is the purpose of these candles?" "They bring light and blessing into this dark world."
"Where do you come from and who are your people?"
"I am a Jew."
He spread his hands over the candles in blessing.
"Ah, the Jews. You are a holy nation protected by a Mighty G-d. With these two candles you have brought rain--life--to our village." He bowed, and walked out into the torrents of rain.
Ruchama had a feeling that this would be the last time she would come to India. Her purpose here had been fulfilled.
Reprinted from The Yiddishe Heim.
