Buki was the one who introduced my brother to the institution of devadasis. He first learned about them when Rebbie-ji dispatched him to Mumbai to check out the place with regard to the Jewish scene there, in particular the Chabad center newly restored and up and running at last following the terrorist attack and all the subsequent sordid financial fallout. It was a secret mission. Despite his physical conspicuousness due to his height and Hasidic finery, he was still the perfect spy for this assignment thanks to his familiarity with the Chabadnik modus operandi from his time as sheriff in Postville, Iowa, keeping a watchful eye on their slaughterhouses, their meatpacking sweatshops, and all their businesses, on the table and under the table.

Nevertheless, he concluded it would be preferable not to pay an official call on the emissaries, Rabbi Mendy and his rebbetzin Mindy, due to the longstanding rivalry between the followers of the two dead rabbis, the rabbi of Chabad and the rabbi of Bratslav, and in particular the violent feud as to which of the two would rise up from concealment one day and return as the Messiah. On top of that there was his well-known close affiliation with my brother, regarded as an outcast and fugitive smeared with particularly unsavory false accusations, about which the Chabad boys, so media savvy, did everything in their power to keep the world up to date with timely reminders and bulletins. And from Buki’s own perspective, there was also the painful memory of the rumble between the two sects at the National Cattle Congress fairground in Waterloo, Iowa, over which of them could take the credit for his conversion and claim him as their own, as if he were a prime blue-ribbon bull. Then, to cap it all off, in an obvious ploy to humiliate my brother, Shmelke, to reduce him to the level of the dumping ground for all Jewish castoffs and undesirables, the Mumbai Chabad had passed on to him the old lady who smelled of chicken soup, or maybe it was stale urine, about whom no one could say who she was or what she was or whether she was dead or alive, and all the aggravation and guilt that leaked out from that toxic case.

So although it had been customary over the centuries for wandering Jews traveling in strange and hostile places to count on hospitality from fellow Jews, in this particular situation it was impossible. In Mumbai, Buki had to make do with the Taj Mahal hotel, with Charlotte footing the bill, five-star luxury accommodation it is true, but no kosher food, and a truly goyish, even heathen atmosphere. Forgive me, Shmelke, for bringing this up here, you know how much I love you, my brother, my twin. But when you sent Buki to Mumbai to spy out the land, why did you not send him to me? I would have been thrilled to receive him, with open arms. I would have rejoiced to be his Rahab. Why didn’t you order him to check on me too? Am I not also a Jew, brother? I needed him to save my life.