Between the sprawling slums and the crushing traffic it’s taken us nearly two hours to drive from the north end of Mumbai, near the airports, to the Colaba neighborhood in the south of the city, where the major tourist sites are located. I’ve needed a bathroom for at least the last half-hour and know I won’t make it the further twenty minutes or so to the historic Gateway of India, where we’re headed. Finding decent public toilet facilities in India has proven to be a major feat, but a quick location-based Google search indicates a possible hit–a café in our vicinity. The driver lets M and me off at a plaza of sorts and we ask the first person we see for directions. The guy does the classic Indian head-wobble— indicating a definite yes-no-maybe—while pointing toward a side-street, so we set off that way. While M ambles ahead down the street I notice several young men standing next to a metal detector in front of a building entrance.  These machines are so ubiquitous in Indian cities–and even more so here in Mumbai–that I take no special notice. I ask them if they know this particular café, but they too, are stumped. Out of the corner of my eye I spot it—a Star of David on the jacket of one the young men. I look up at the building and it dawns on me; it’s a synagogue, and these guys are… Indian Jews!  The pain in my bladder reminds me that permanent organ damage is probably only minutes away and I find myself yelling “I’m a Jew!” with a mixture of revelation and panic.

Jacket-guy, who’s been the main talker, is momentarily stunned by my outburst and before he has time to respond I continue in what I hope is a slightly less deranged tone. “I mean, uh, you probably have a toilet, right? Cause I really am…a Jew. Do you think I could…ya know?” I’m jerking my head as nonchalantly as possible toward the temple to indicate what a completely normal, logical next-step this is: Jew.Synagogue.Toilet. I figure there’s no need to disclose that I am, more precisely, an agnostic half-Jew who’s been in a synagogue maybe half-a-dozen times in her life and barely knows a matzo from a mitzvah. I’m in extremis, after all, so I’m sure there must be some kind of amnesty available, like when the Catholic Church pardoned that rugby team that crashed in the Andes and ate their dead people (cannibalism ordinarily being frowned upon by the Vatican).

I obediently dig out my passport for jacket-guy’s inspection. I don’t know how he plans to verify my Jewishness from this document, but I know this is not the time to ask.  He glances at the document and apparently decides that I am unlikely to blow up the building and in unison all three men direct me to go around the metal detector, in the door and then up, all the way up, several floors up, to find the ladies’ toilet. They’re still gesturing skyward as I sprint for the door.

As I begin stair-climbing I see a very few men in traditional Orthodox garb conducting prayers in the main sanctuary, and I realize that the Friday night service is in progress.  I step gingerly on tippy-toes on the old staircase, admiring the delicate woodwork of the banister and the lovely sky-blue and creamy-white color scheme. Abruptly my primitive brain interrupts this touristic reverie with a shrill hiss: “Focus! There’s simply no time!” I re-clench—so hard that I fear I’ve pulled a muscle—before continuing up past the high-altitude ladies’ gallery, where I spot three or four women attempting to keep their passel of hyperactive children under control. Trying vainly to be inconspicuous, I frantically scour every hall and doorway for signs of an impending toilet.  One more set of stairs ascends into semi-darkness, and I know it’s my last hope. On the top floor a barren, sunken hallway leads to the very hind-quarters of the building where two cramped, unlit closets—each containing a tiny 19^th century toilet—beckon. I don’t bother to look for a light-switch or close the door before dropping my pants.

On the way down I have time to consider the serendipity of it all, and to sneak a couple of photos.

I had hoped to visit the town of Cochin—in the state of Kerala—on this my first trip to India, partly because I had heard about its ancient Jewish settlement, but unfortunately scheduling wouldn’t allow it. So to have stumbled upon this beautiful synagogue in the middle of India’s largest city feels like kismet. I recall reading somewhere that Mumbai’s Jewish community—about 250 years old—has been seriously diminished over the years since Israel’s creation, as more and more of its members emigrate; I make a mental note to do some more research when I get home. As I step outside I thank the young man with the jacket heartily. He smiles and sends M and me off with “Shabbat Shalom!” “Uh…Shabbat Shalom!” I reply with only a moment’s hesitation, pleased that I haven’t completely blown my Jew-cred in the end.

We start back up the street and in the fading sunlight I turn to snap a photo. Like the proverbial lotus rising from the muck, the synagogue’s beleaguered sky-blue facade and soaring stained-glass windows struggle to fend off encroaching grime from the street below.

I’m thrilled, moved and a little bit saddened by my unexpected encounter with the Jews of Mumbai, but I know this is one agnostic, secular half-Jew who won’t soon forget the meaning of mitzvah.