It's hard to believe that ten years have passed since our first tour in January 2015.

Our tours have maintained their integrity, dynamism, charm, and passion. We incorporate the same "neshamah," the same soul and spirit that imbued our very first trip, and every tour since. That neshamah is integral to the way we explore India and Jewish India together.

One thing has changed: India’s Jewish communities are getting smaller. That's why we encourage you to join us now to maximize your experience. Don’t miss this chance to explore the richness of Indian Jewish life alongside India’s vibrant hospitality and magnificent sites.

In a world full of chaos, India remains a safe and welcoming destination.

Join our upcoming November tour. Learn more here. Register now!

Freedom—or the lack of it—is on my mind this Pesah.

The tragic state of the world today, ravaged by war and injustice, divisiveness and pain, leaves me with a grieving heart. When 59 hostages remain in captivity in Gaza, when freedom itself in many parts of the world seems to be caged, fettered and ensnared, how can I celebrate it? I feel like the "simple" child, the pure child, who cries out sharply, Mah Zot? "What Is This?" or the child who has no words at all.

The story begins, Avadim hayinu: We were slaves in Egypt. B'chol Dor vador, in every generation we have to see ourselves, we have to show ourselves, as if we ourselves had left Egypt. There are instructions: Kol dichfin yetei v'yachol. Everyone who is hungry, come and eat. There is faith in the face of sober reality. V'hi she'amda, Many enemies have tried to destroy us, but God, Who stood up for our ancestors, saves us.

Embedded in the traditional text, I find space for both sorrow and solace, for hope and balance.

Mitzrayim, the confining captivity of Egypt, is not underplayed. The Haggadah traces the origins of Israelite enslavement. The Children of Israel cry out in agony and terror. After generations of suffering, God redeems Israel "b'yad hazakah u-vizroa netuyah," with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.

Why did God need both a strong hand and an outstretched arm? Wasn't the mighty hand of a victorious fighter enough? No. God reached out to us simultaneously, like a parent or grandparent embracing a inconsolable child, like a lifeguard rescuing a drowning swimmer. God needed to be both powerful and gentle. So, too, in our world today, our power lies in merging courage and compassion.

There are still many reasons for gratitude. Following COVID, it's no small thing to be able to sit at the seder table surrounded by my family of four generations. In no particular order, I'm also grateful for the legacy I cherish; for travel, for music; for friends, for food, for health; for the freedom to pray, to dance, to write; for the ability to give tzedakah. The world is still torn and broken. But for today, dayenu.

Tizkoo l'shanim rabot! May we merit many years in which there are still things to be grateful for.

This interpretation of "b'yad hazakah u-vizroa netuyah, the illustration of the kiddush cup above and the four illustrations below are included in my contemporary retelling of the Haggadah: Why on This Night? A Passover Haggadah for Family Celebration (reissued by Kalaniot Books).  The Haggadah is available on all major platforms, including Amazon; Barnes and Noble; Walmart, and Bookshop.org. Order today!

Winter seems like a funny time to celebrate Tu B'Shevat, our Jewish Arbor Day or Earth Day. It’s a new year for the trees and a time to celebrate the fruit of the earth. In Israel, the rainy season has passed, and the first buds begin to appear around Tu B'Shevat, the 15th day of the Hebrew month of Shevat, which falls on February 13 this year.

Here in New York, bare branches silhouette the sky, and the earth seems to shiver instead of blossom. In Los Angeles, fire has devastated so much of what we hold dear. In Israel, our hostages have begun to come home, but the destruction Hamas sowed before, on, and after October 7 continues to traumatize us.

Several years ago, in the middle of the pandemic, I was privileged to interview Rabbi Jennie Rosenn, who founded Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action, to mobilize the Jewish community to confront the climate crisis on a systemic level. You can read the interview here. Tu B’Shevat, she said, is an opportunity to connect spiritually both to the severity of the climate crisis as well as to the beauty of our earth and humanity. Please read about Dayenu's new endeavors to combat the climate crisis.

One of the most tangible ways to remind ourselves of our obligation to repair our world is to hold a Tu B'Shevat seder. Originally a kabbalistic ritual that combines both the tangible and mystical, it honors the most wondrous of birthdays—the earth’s. A Tu B'Shevat seder is an appropriate way to bless the land, pray for its regeneration, and take action.

Four cups of wine or grape juice represent the changes in the season—white, pink, light red, dark red. Fruits and nuts mentioned in the Bible make a tasty and colorful array, ranging from those with coverings on the outside, like oranges; those with pits, like peaches and olives, and those that can be eaten both inside and outside, like figs and raisins. In India, we loaded our table with over 50 varieties of fruits and nuts! A contemporary seder could pair each fruit we choose with an act of climate change or hesed.

Ladonai haartez um'lo'ah. The earth and its fullness are God’s.
--Psalms 24:1

We are caretakers of the earth. It is up to us to protect and preserve its beauty.

From my earliest childhood, I remember the name Flower. She was a close friend of my father's from India, and often came to visit my parents in Philadelphia. I knew she was an accomplished chef. When I lived in Israel in 1980, I took some cooking lessons with her mother, whom I knew as Aunt Mary. I still use the haggadah with Aunt Mary's inscription every Pesah.

I really didn't get to know Flower that well myself until I began my tours of India in 2015. Jewish groups didn't venture all the way east to Calcutta at that time but I knew firsthand that the city, its Jewish history, and mesmerizing personalities were worth the trek. We had an emotional reunion in the Maghen David Synagogue. Flower graciously invited our groups to her home and delighted us with her spunky, spellbinding storytelling and vast culinary talents. I always looked forward to a good aloomakala, a triple-fried potato specialty of the Baghdadi Jews in India, part of the feast that she set out for us. The group members never forgot her.

Born in 1930, Flower traced her roots to El Ozer, Iraq, the site of the tomb of Ezra the Scribe. The family emigrated to Bombay and worked for the Sassoon family before settling in Calcutta at the end of the nineteenth century. She lived in Jerusalem and Brooklyn before returning to Calcutta in 2009 with her daughter Jael, an author, former associate professor of women’s studies at the University of Iowa, and creator of the digital archive, Recalling Jewish Calcutta. Flower passed away in October. She is the second luminary the Indian Jewish community has lost in the past few months (Cochin's Queenie Hallegua passed away in August.)

Yehi zikhra barukh. May her memory be a blessing.

Read more about Flower in Tablet's article here.
Watch the memorial service here.

Our November group is still basking in the glow of the amazing experiences we shared in India. In the picture above, Barry Kravitz, an avid photographer and member of our group, captured the serenity and sanctity of Calcutta's Maghen David Synagogue, even though it is just a few feet from India's cacophonous street life. That unexpected balance of contrasts IS India.

Hanukkah also celebrates the unexpected—the unexpected victory of an army small in numbers and mighty in faith. On Hanukkah, as we have for over a year, we pray for the safe return of our hostages and Israel's continued resilience. On Hanukkah, we honor the bravery and courage of our heroes both ancient and modern. On Hanukkah, we pray for light to emerge from darkness, on personal, communal, and global levels.

According to Sephardic tradition, after we light the Hanukkiah we recite the words of Psalm 30, Mizmor Shir Hanukkat Habayit L'David. Its heartfelt words are as resonant today as they were centuries ago.

Hafakhta mispedi l'mahol li, pitakhta saki va't'az'reni simhah
God, You have turned my mourning into dancing.
You have removed my sackcloth and girded me with joy.

Tizkoo l'shanim rabot!

Queenie Hallegua, the guardian of Cochin’s Paradesi Synagogue and one of the last Jews in Cochin, passed away on August 11, 2024. Because of her Baghdadi background, she felt like family to me. She welcomed me into her home many times and graciously shared the stories, photos and customs of the community.

I have a distant personal connection to Queenie: my great-aunt Helen, my grandmother’s sister, married Yosef Hallegua (anglicized to Hallen), among the dozen or so Cochini Jews who lived in Calcutta. When I visited Cochin with my parents in 1997, Queenie (her real name is Esther, the queen in the Purim story) and her husband Sammy, who was of Spanish and Portuguese heritage, welcomed us with a Shabbat feast that included pastel, a thin crepe made of rice flour and filled with egg and potato, as well as Baghdadi dishes finished off by homemade apricot brandy, ginger wine, and coffee liqueur.  Sammy’s conversation overflowed with commentary about the legal and historic aspects of Judaism. His expertise ranged from managing the family’s substantial real estate assets to conducting synagogue services and playing tournament bridge. He often burst into song, marking the history of the community by the dates of the musical compositions.
 
Sammy has since passed away, and their two children have settled in the U.S. The stewardship of the tiny community was in Queenie’s hands.
 
On many subsequent tours, I visited Queenie in her home. The main living area was furnished with heavy, carved rosewood settees; a British Colonial plantation recliner with outstretched arms, and chairs with cane seats around a long dining room table. Often, she had just woken from her afternoon nap and was watching a soap opera with her servant, one of two sisters. She always wears the Magen David necklace with a Q in the center, a wedding gift from her household staff. I asked whether the Magen Davids that ornament her windows are a safety concern.
 
“We don’t have any trouble,” she said.
 
She brought out old albums. There she is as a bride in a long brocaded white wrap skirt, matching top, and shawl—the typical Cochini wedding dress. Before the wedding ceremony, she remembered, she walked to the synagogue to kiss the Torahs in the ark, accompanied by twenty Hindu drummers.  
 
“Pesah, oh my God! We used to make our own matza,” she said, flipping to pictures showing friends and family mixing the dough, rolling it out, cooking it on heated griddles, then storing it in huge bins in a special Passover room. “This is Sarah [Cohen], in the plaid wrap skirt,” she pointed out. “She was in charge of giving out the exact amount of water for the dough. This is me,” she pointed to a blurry figure with a brass rolling pin.
 
I wanted to know if she still had the rolling pin. Queenie got up and, after a few moments, returned with it. It was slim and heavy, and when she rolled it back and forth over the table, the metal bead inside rang like a bell.  Its rhythmic peal added to the drama of Matza Day, when the men used to blow the shofar and sing sections from the Haggadah while the matza was prepared. Thicker matzas that would be stacked in a set of three on the seder table were distinguished by designs made with prongs: The matza on the top had two lines; the middle one had three, and the one at the bottom, four.
 
“How do you stay Jewish with so few people here?” I asked.
 
“I pray at home three times a day. Even for festivals, I know how to pray. I learned by going to the synagogue. A Hebrew master came to teach us at home. Our elders passed it on to the next generation. They knew all the halacha and the youngsters learned from them.
 
“This place is full of history. It was really beautiful. It was a little Jerusalem. Now it’s all gone. It’s all gone with the wind.” She sighs. “I’m all alone here. It’s a tragedy that everything is ending here. It’s sad but everything happens like this.”


Yehi Zichra Baruch. May her memory be a blessing.

No matter where we live, Passover has a vast impact on who we are as Jews. Even if we know little else about Judaism, we know something about Pesah (the Hebrew word for Passover).
 
For many of us, Pesah probably means horseradish and gefilte fish, day-dayenu and mah nishtanah halayla hazeh. Sephardi communities worldwide have many different customs that enrich the festive meal, the seder. I grew up with many engaging Passover rituals that I still do today with my family. I also learned about the traditions of the Bene Israel and Cochin Jews as I researched and traveled the Jewish communities of India.

One of the most meaningful customs in Sephardi homes is the following: We
tie the afikoman in a large cloth or scarf, knotted on four ends to create a makeshift knapsack. The afikoman is the piece of matza that is sometimes hidden and is the last thing we eat at the seder. We give the "knapsack" to the youngest child, who slings it over his or her shoulder. The child recites a verse from Exodus:

Misharotam tzerurot b’simlotam al shikhmam.

Their kneading troughs were bound on their clothes on their shoulders.

Later, before Mah nishtnah, the Four Questions, the leader asks the child three questions:
Where have you come from? [Egypt].
Where are you going? [To Jerusalem]
What are your provisions? The child points to the matza in the knapsack.

In a modern take on this ritual, you could also ask kids–adults, too--to fill a knapsack in advance of the seder with things they would need if they were leaving Egypt. They might put their toothbrushes in, or leave it empty of everything except faith.
 
The Bene Israel Jews of Bombay have a special seder plate, with handles on two sides.
When they chant Ha Lacha Ma Anya {This is the Bread of Affliction], they lift the seder plate a little and say, "Bivhilu yatzanu mimitsrayim," in haste we left Egypt. When they reach the end of the paragraph, at the words "bene horin" (we are free people), they put the plate down, and then start again, repeating the ritual twice more for a total of three times. Everyone around the seder plate tries to touch it. If there are many people present, those who can’t touch the plate try to touch the shoulders of the person who’s touching it. The physical contact with the seder plate—even vicariously--contains so much energy!

Preparing for Passover is a challenge for us wherever we live. For the Jews of Cochin, Matza Day was a drama like no other. Women and young people gathered in courtyard of one of homes. They prepared the dough and built a coconut husk fire which heated flat iron griddles. Water was drawn from special purified well to mix with flour. The dough was rolled out using hollow brass cylinders filled with metal beads so they produced a bell-like sound. In temperatures of 100 degrees, matza baked on hot griddles accompanied by sound of shofar and chanting of Pesah songs and sections of haggadah.

Join me on April 17 to explore these and other Passover customs: A Taste of Passover from Baghdad to the Balkans. Through music, food customs, rituals, and stories, we’ll travel across the planet to glimpse the traditions of different Jewish communities, from matza-making to the Ten Plagues. We’ll learn how to personalize and re-enact the experience of leaving Egypt, share global interpretations of the classic dish of haroset; share contemporary ideas for children and families, and more. I hope you’ll be inspired to bring new ideas to your own seder table!

April 17 at 1 pm ET
A Taste of Passover from Baghdad to the Balkans
Melton International, virtual program.
Free.
Register here

Testimonials from our February 2024 Participants:

"For nearly a decade, I’d anticipated joining Rahel Musleah’s Explore Jewish India adventure. The experience has been more extraordinary and meaningful than I imagined, and continues to color my worldview. It is a blessing to have engaged in conversation and song with the vibrant, eccentric, humble, and inspiring Jews remaining in India--there are so few left, most of whom are elderly. Interacting with the history, context, and lives of this remnant within their actual communities was remarkable, and wove unforgettable personal connections while expanding my Jewish horizons. India is a feast for the senses; Explore Jewish India engages all five, plus, most profoundly, the spiritual. –Leah S, Mountain View, CA
 
"Explore Jewish India was the trip of a lifetime. The loving and meticulous planning of our two stellar guides, Rahel Musleah and Joshua Shapurkar, was apparent every day, as they sought to attend to individual as well as group needs and preferences. I found the tour to be a perfect mixture of visits to synagogues as well as to non-Jewish sites. The highlight was getting to daven at Rahel's father's synagogue in Kolkata! Each day was another miraculous blessing. Go now!--Sharon D., Manhattan

 
"Explore Jewish India was a comprehensive, busy, exciting, eye-opening and heartwarming tour. Hotels were lovely and no tour members went hungry. All domestic flights were smooth and the safety of the group was always a  priority.  Rahel is passionate about the country she was born in, and her Jewish heritage is reflected in her knowledge and her magnificent voice while davening in synagogue services or teaching and leading us in Hebrew songs on the bus. Joshua was born and raised in India and is extremely knowledgeable in the history of his entire country. This is the trip to take! –Riva S., East Meadow, NY

"Rahel and Joshua were the perfect guides on a wonderfully planned tour that broadly explores Indian history and culture and takes a deep dive into the rich history of Jewish India.  Visits to historical sights were thoughtfully blended with personal, intimate gatherings and meals hosted by members of the local communities.  An incredible trip!' –Allen E., Manhattan


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I love reading the first chapter of the Megillah. I delight in articulating the word Hodu, the Hebrew name for India, in the very first line. For me, it draws a direct Jewish connection to India that stretches from ancient to modern times.

On Purim, we breathe a collective sigh that we, the Jewish people, were saved from annihilation centuries ago. As we remember the 13th of Adar, the date the lot (Pur) fell on, the date on which Haman planned to initiate the destruction of the Jews of the Persian kingdom, so October 7 is seared into our hearts and souls today. But, the Megillah tells us, the heroism of Mordecai and Esther transformed the 13th of Adar into a date on which the Jews fought back against those who sought to hurt them. They rested on the 14th day, and it became a day of celebration filled with light and joy: Purim.

Over the centuries, special "Purims" were celebrated by the Jews of Baghdad--my ancestors. According to documents in the Sassoon archives, which my father pored over for his doctoral dissertation that was eventually published as a comprehensive history of the Jews of Calcutta (On The Banks of the Ganga), on the 11th of the month of Av, 1638, the Turkish sultan rescued the Jews of Baghdad from cruel Persian rule. A Baghdadi Jew is said to have found secret documents incriminating the Persians and, disguised as a Muslim, risked his life to bring them to the sultan. On reading the document, the sultan gathered his forces and marched on Baghdad. A century later, the Persians tried to retake the city but were repulsed by the reigning sultan, who won a great victory on the 16th of the month of Tevet, 1733.

With anti-Semitism spiking globally today, the Purim story hardly seems ancient. Its contemporary relevance is striking.