My friends’ families were so relatable, so wonderful. My own grandparents taught us to be proud of who we are. They regaled us with stories of marching with Gandhi and being thrown in jail by British soldiers for participating in acts of nonviolent civil disobedience. When a section on Gandhi appeared in my sixth-grade history book the year before, I processed for the first time the direct connection between Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.: that King had taken Gandhi’s model of nonviolent disobedience and applied it to our civil rights movement.
We were assigned an accompanying class project, and I jumped at the chance to record a video interview with my seventy-eight-year-old grandfather. I put a glass of water on a beige, oval folding table. Grandpa （Mom’s dad） walked with the help of a stainless-steel cane that had a brown plastic handle. He moved slowly. At five ten, it took him some extra time to comfortably tuck his legs around the chair.
I had heard bits and pieces of the stories as far back as I could remember. My grandparents had a framed photo of Gandhi on the wall of their humble one-bedroom apartment in Mumbai. The house was where my mom grew up with her three siblings. When we’d visit during summer vacations, I remember gazing at the photo as we’d fall asleep under a mosquito net on the cool tile floor of the main room. In the mornings, I’d ask for stories about the man in the photo. When our grandparents stayed with us in New Jersey, their tales of marching against British colonialism were used to coerce childhood-me into eating my vegetables at the dinner table. I thought all of this was just normal. I grew up oblivious to how extraordinary my grandparents were.
This time felt different. I was the one asking to sit down with Grandpa, recording his answers, tying his experiences so explicitly to a history that I was automatically a part of. I asked what it was like to fight for his freedom. And, in a way, for mine. My grandfather lifted his pant leg to show me a long, deep scar from where a British soldier beat him, and broke down in tears. I had never seen him cry before. Fifty-five years on, the emotional marks seemed much fresher than the physical.
It would be decades later, as a young adult, when I’d connect my mom’s father’s sacrifices to those of Bapaji, my dad’s dad, who had not been a freedom fighter. Bapaji was a tall, talkative man with a fascination for travel, riddles, and spelling. When he was ninety-two, I visited him in Ahmedabad, the largest city in India’s western state of Gujarat. Dad’s mom, who we called Ba, had passed away some years prior, so Bapaji lived there with my aunt. On this particular visit, I asked Bapaji if he’d like to come along for a rickshaw ride to Gandhi’s nearby Sabarmati ashram.
The ashram is a gorgeous, well-maintained compound set on the bank of the Sabarmati River. From there, Gandhi led many of the activities that resulted in Indian independence. Today, it includes a museum, a small bookstore, and plenty of information displayed on signs in Gujarati, Hindi, and English.
Bapaji was both fluent and literate in multiple languages, but his eyesight was starting to fade. We walked around the ashram, chatting in Gujarati （a language I can speak, but can’t read or write）。 He pointed to a small sign, asking me to read it to him: “Ah soo lukheloo che?” （What does it say here?） “Bapaji, that sign is in Gujarati. I can’t read it,” I replied. He pointed to the next sign, “Ah soo lukheloo che?” （What does it say here?） I told him, “Bapaji, that sign is in Hindi, I can’t read it.” Bapaji’s frustration was building. He pointed to a third sign and hollered, “This sign is in English. Can you read that?!”
（I aspire to be this sassy when I’m in my nineties.）
I continued to translate signs from English to Gujarati, and as we wrapped up our visit, Bapaji—who was not known for reminiscing—casually remarked, “Well, it was good to see the ashram again. Brings back some memories of when we marched together.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Bapaji, you marched with Gandhiji too? Why is this the first that I’m hearing of this?”
“It was a long time ago,” he replied simply.
I prepared for an unexpected and deep conversation about his role in the struggle for freedom, complete with tears, lessons, and morality, just like all those stories Grandma and Grandpa had told me over the years. I started firing off questions. “Bapaji, I can’t believe I didn’t know this about you. What would you say your biggest motivation was? Why did you decide you had to stand up and make your voice heard? Why did you ultimately march with Gandhi?” Bapaji shrugged his shoulders and, as was typical of his in-the-moment personality, matter-of-factly said, “I just felt like it.”
Many of my Jewish friends’ grandparents taught a similar pride—having been through hell, surviving the Holocaust, showing us the permanent markings of concentration camp tattoos. Some were quite vocal and emotional. Others more understated and quiet. Together, our grandparents were so brave and resilient. They were so strong. And despite their hardships, still so warm and kind. Their presence in our lives was a constant reminder of the need to fight the evil that is inherent in too much of humanity. I revered my grandparents. I loved that they lived with us for long stretches of time. I also loved getting to know other people’s grandparents. And there was no better place to do that than Bar Mitzvah Saturdays.
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Bar Mitzvah Saturdays would begin by mingling with friends’ bubbes before a service at a synagogue. You’d hear from a friendly rabbi, who would make eye contact with every member of the congregation while delivering a usually funny, uplifting sermon. This was different from the impersonal Sanskrit, Hindi, or Gujarati prayers shouted by pious men at our local Jain or Hindu temples. Don’t get me wrong, I liked that our pujas were so casual （literally you could walk around and talk in the middle of it and nobody would think twice）， but I loved bar mitzvah ceremonies for the stories.
One of my favorites was about （you guessed it） someone’s bubbe. A rabbi said that once upon a time there was a sweet, old bubbe who used a baking pan that her bubbe had given her （passed down from the bubbe before that, and so on） to make challah. This prized family heirloom had been moved around the world, through strife and triumph.
Sadly, a scatterbrained granddaughter lost the pan one afternoon, and the family went manic. Nobody wanted to tell Bubbe—she’d be absolutely inconsolable. The family began to mourn. Their ancient challah tradition was lost forever. Everyone kept the sad secret from their family matriarch for weeks, until the day Bubbe set about the entire house, trying to find the pan for her baking. When they finally confessed to her that the heirloom was gone for good, she intensely looked them in the eye, burst out in an elated laugh, and said, “I hated that pan! Finally, we are free of it!” Confusion reigned. “The family challah tradition,” she clarified, “had nothing to do with that terrible pan! I know the recipe by heart, I just didn’t have the guts to throw away what my grandmother gave me. Let’s go buy a nice, new challah pan!”
The moral of the story is that traditions are deeper than a material thing, that it’s okay for them to evolve, that we shouldn’t be afraid to ask questions. Everyone could relate to this because most religion is rarely questioned.6 Like my friends’ experiences in Jewish households, our Hindu and Jain traditions were also both religious and cultural. Every Saturday morning was a chance to hear a new story from a Jewish perspective.