“The only way out is through” (Dante’s Inferno)
Grandmother Rachel’s Bollywood Story
By Rachel Yona-Shalev*
Scene from the movie: Punarianma. Courtesy of Rachel Yona-Shalev.
Rachel’s Story
There is no one here to talk to, no one to touch with my cold, invisible hands. The unspoken words remain frozen in my defiled body, wherever that may be. Nothing but darkness in every direction. Vast space, and emptiness.
I realize I am dead, but this wasn’t supposed to happen, I was not ready. I was too young! I still have much to say, to share with the world. But all is lost. Ever since that fatal day I am trapped in this enormous void where I have no form, no voice, no way to check on my loved ones left behind. How I ache for them. I have no idea how long I’ve been here and how much longer I shall remain.
I still have my memories, some of them so vivid, I swear my heart thumps with the thrill of them. Others torment me, so I want to wail and stamp my feet like a willful child who cannot get her way. One memory in particular stays with me. Perhaps the atmosphere here is reminiscent of that time and space so many years back.
I am eight years old, tightly holding the hand of my beloved Aya. We are on a long walk, a trek. Our home in Burma was left behind and now there are only jungles and heat and rain, mosquitoes and flies that sometimes get in our eyes and mouths. One step in front of the other. But why? Why did we have to leave the place we loved? Something about jobs for Papa and the uncles. I don’t understand. I’m so tired. The mango tree was full of fruit and my favorite, mulberries were just coming into season! I long to be in my bed with the soft sheets, warm turmeric milk handed to me just as I’m closing my eyes for sleep. The Aya said, ‘Three more hours until the next village where they promise a break for lunch.’ The jungle stretches on forever. I want to lie down in it and never take another step. We are going to a place called India, a big city called Calcutta. Far away. Another country. I just want to be back home.
Conjuring up these memories, sweet and sour from my lost life, pulls me even deeper into despondency. I’m told I must patiently wait my ‘turn’. Me! I was never known for my patience. I loved life, everything about it, even in the trials and tribulations of it. The heavenly scent of spices and the magic of colors, the brighter the better… I can almost feel the silk and satin saris on my skin, the soft, cotton dresses I would wear to the many parties and get togethers. How I long to sit on my veranda in Agarparah, sipping masala tea with creamy, warm dhoot. Yes, I’m ready to go back, to take my chances. I want to go home.
But there is no home to go to. No Rangoon, nor Calcutta or Agarparah, not even the California I never had the pleasure of seeing. There is no body to dress up in Indian dresses and dangling ruby earrings, or to savor the taste of fresh parathas dipped in ghee. Only this suffocating darkness, this dry loneliness, and worst of all, the longing.
Yes, I have my regrets, but who is there to listen? Who can possibly understand what I’ve been through? I find myself envious of the other, disembodied souls blissfully drifting about, their edges soft and unperturbed. How is it they are so pure while for me, nothing has changed?
It seems that even here, I cannot escape myself.
Opportunity of a Lifetime
My name is Rachel, formally known as Arati Devi. Starlet in the late 1920s Indian film Industry. My favorite being Punarianma, of course. I can offer you a bit of everything; glamour, magic, Mother India in all her glory, heartbreak, intrigue, impossible jealousy, even murder. May I go on?
I was always aware of my strong features and fiery passion. They called me a “dark beauty,” despite my light skin. Amongst the native Indians my skin would be considered light, but my olive tones stood out distinctly within our Iraqi community. From early childhood, I remember receiving special attention from the aunties and uncles, even from strangers in town. Comments were often made to mother on my behalf. “Such a lovely face” or “such smooth, fair skin she has, a rare beauty she is, and look at those inquisitive eyes! She must keep you all quite busy with her curiosity, no?”
I tried not to take notice, to retain my modesty, but secretly, I loved it! Little did I know that it was these very qualities which would usher in life-changing events for myself and my family. The arduous trek from Burma eight years back had been full of hope and dreams for my family. It took several years of struggle in Calcutta before realizing that they would not materialize. Father was not advancing in the company as he’d hoped. Having run a profitable business in Burma, he found it difficult to work in lesser-than positions, along with shamefully low salaries. It was a severe blow to our family’s social and financial status.
These were modern times, and life was getting increasingly costly. At the same time, new and exciting ventures were popping up daily, like the silent film industry, which was rapidly gaining popularity in India.
Regardless of one’s social economic status, we were united in our love of cinema. We were a generation obsessed, waiting breathlessly for the next film to be released, idolizing and imitating our favorite movie stars.
One afternoon in May I received the opportunity of a life time. I remember the day well. The monsoon rains had not yet begun, giving us free rein in the bustling Calcutta streets. I was sixteen years old. My hair was dark and wavy, glistening from freshly applied coconut oil, my luminous eyes shining with youth. I had lightened my skin with a soft blush, and tinted my lips with mother’s special, European lipstick. I was wearing a beautiful green silk dress that favored my trim figure. All in all, I was in a happy mood that day, being young and possibly in love. Life was good.
It was in the spice market where I was purchasing coriander, garam masala, and jirah for the evening meal, when I noticed a tall man dressed in fine, Western clothing. He was eying me in a manner that, well, simply could not be ignored. I overheard him inquiring about me to Vishnu, the shopkeeper. Vishnu made introductions, and abruptly, this man asked if I would like to be in a movie! My heart stopped for a split second. Would I like to be in a movie? My entire life up to this moment had been about harboring secret dreams of glory, of performing on stage before adoring audiences. Such an offer in the Calcutta New Market, so close to home, felt like a heaven-sent gift. I tucked his card carefully in my purse and rushed off to share the news with my family.
Mother's immediate response was predictable. “Absolutely not! Under no circumstances will a daughter of mine be paraded about in so public a manner.”
“But mother, he is a top notch, respectable producer of films. There is modest dress code in place, and he promised the girls were to be well supervised at all times.”
“What! To be exposed in public movie houses for men to ogle over would be an utter disgrace to our family. Rachel, you must realize that this is an unreasonable request on your part. Now go to your room and forget such nonsense.”
I was furious with my mother. She had no clue how crushing her words were, nor how outdated her opinions. That she could so flippantly deny a once-in-a lifetime chance to fulfill my wildest dreams! I could not, would not, accept her verdict.
I went to my father in his study. Generally speaking, he was less reasonable and more strict than mother, but I was desperate enough to at least try. After calmly and carefully explaining the situation with all its angles, he sat quietly for a few moments. I was astonished by his response: “I will arrange a meeting with this fellow to hear further details regarding his proposal. Then we can meet again to discuss the possibilities between ourselves.” He paused, eyeing me with his usual, stony expression. “Including your mother, of course.”
This turned out to be a lengthy process, during which time my very breath was held in excited anticipation. My father was to make contact with Mr. Kashi, the film producer. Then there were additional meetings to which I was not invited. My mind was in an uproar. Was I to become a glamorous movie star? I had already created endless, dreamy fantasies which included the fanciest saris, modern hair styles, and debonair male actors as my love interests.
Imagine my shock when I was told that father gave his consent, on condition my mother would be my chaperone at the studio. I was beside myself with joy, with the wonder of it all. Of course, strict rules were to be upheld. For my part, I promised to do my utmost to make my family proud.
Only later was I informed that Mr. Kashi had offered a sum of money per film which turned out to be no small amount. A sum of money which could significantly improve our family's financial status. This was merely an added benefit as far as I was concerned. Not only was I fulfilling my dreams, but I would become an asset by easing the financial burden my poor father has been carrying. Through this chain of events, I got to be beautiful and important!
Please, please do not judge me as arrogant when I say such things. Personally, I did not feel like such a beauty at all. I was insecure like all the other girls my age. However, I did know I was clever and, if the film industry deemed me beautiful, so be it! I was on my way to a wonderful new world. Life could only get better from here. Or, so I thought.
The Film Punarianma: A Divine Life
His mouth is so close I can taste his warm breath on my lips. I try not to move, which isn't difficult with his arms firmly locking me down. I'm completely still except for my breath, which I'm trying valiantly to hold in. I'm supposed to be dead until the moment this majestic prince brings me back to life. I feel as if I could faint at any moment.
Rajiv gazes intently at my passive form. He catches my left eye, which is peering open just a crack, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be dead in this scene. How can I stop myself from getting a glimpse of his dashing face at this critical moment? He grins seductively into my expressionless face. I want desperately to smile back at him, but I remain in character, frozen. How much longer must I contain myself?
I'm a good Iraqi, Jewish girl. This is actually hard work, for which I’m getting paid handsomely. Papa encourages it! I’ve always been labeled the 'drama queen' of the family, and it turns out that I do have some natural talent. And now, with this wonderful, unexpected opportunity, a door has opened. But it can be truly challenging, especially now, as intense heat rises from the ground and into the heavy silk of my sari, dampening my armpits. The hot lighting directly overhead does not help matters, nor does the proximity of Rajiv’s mouth to mine. I’ve never been anywhere near this close to a man. I can hardly breathe. Officially, there is to be no actual kissing on location, but we are to make it look as absolutely real as possible. I am sure that my mother, who is keenly watching my every move, is getting anxious. This is the kiss which will wake me up from my death slumber. I am shaking internally as his mouth faintly brushes the edges of my lips. His mysterious, male scent is directly upon me. I can’t bear it! My lips twitch and quiver. I don’t know if this is pure torment or ecstasy, but I’m suddenly, strangely free. My body becomes liquid in his arms. Oh my! Such a strange sensation.
Finally the moment arrives.
I awaken, reborn by the purity of his love and devotion. I open my eyes slowly, gazing in rapt adoration upon this divine god/prince. My savior. At this very moment, I leave behind the insecure teenager, Rachel Sofaer, fully embracing myself as Arati Devi. Glamorous movie star. My arms and legs remain limp, my head is fixed, my eyes are wide, in gratitude for his life-giving gift.
Cut! Perfect, we'll leave it there for today. Excellent work Ms. Sofaer. You have well exceeded our expectations. Your stage presence is simply magnificent.’
How am I to move? I remain fixed to the bed, part of me still wanting to play dead. I feel a loss, an emptiness without Rajiv’s muscular arms on mine. I’m not quite sure how to collect myself. I need to catch my breath before facing the crew, and my mother.
This was the third attempt at this scene, and I’m relieved to hear that this one works. I was accused as coming off ‘stiff and awkward’ in the previous two takes. What did they expect? I was terrified. It was my first time ever being touched and held by a man. Not to mention, not just any man. A native Indian, with lustrous black hair and gleaming eyes, a charismatic man with stage presence well on his way to stardom in the local film scene.
I remind myself that I am in love with Sunoo Ezra, of whom a mere glimpse has always charged me with excitement. We’ve been engaged for marriage since I was twelve. He would come to our house to help me with my maths homework. How I ran to him, hanging on his every word!
Sunoo has quite the reputation, the sharpest wit in town, and intelligence in spades. But this! This is different. Acting takes my breath away. I’m still lightheaded from the several hours of physical proximity with Rajiv. Is it possible that I’ve already become spoiled for any other man? Am I a doomed woman?
I smile modestly at Mr. Kashi’s and the crew’s compliments, heat rising now into my face. My cheeks turn a deep red. In the pit of my stomach there is a strange sensation. Unfamiliar yet not unpleasant. A crew member hands me a hot cup of masala chai while the driver pulls up in a shiny new Austin.
We are driven to our modest home on Wellesley Street. I sit in the plush seat, sipping my tea like a proper Memsahib. Having travelled only by man-pulled rickshaws my entire life, this experience, in itself, is thrilling. I am overwhelmed by every moment of this day. Most of all, by Rajiv.
In the months following the release of Punarianma, fan mail piles up, glamorous photos of me appear in newspapers throughout the continent. In retrospect, I was living a great fantasy. Though, rest assured, it was not all fun and games. There was no room for mistakes, missed lines or, heaven forbid, tardiness. Every second was money.
In all honesty, I loved every minute of it! I would do it all over again, if only I could. Oh God, how I miss life. Life, in all its messiness. Even when they informed me that I would begin preparations next month to marry Sunoo. It was time, and expected. I had just turned twenty-one years old, and he, now twenty-nine, held a high managerial position in the Agarparah Jute Mills. I’d be well taken care of.
“Rachel dear,” he says to me on the telephone, one week after father informed me of the decision. When he calls me dear I know he has something unpleasant to say.
“I can’t let you go on making pictures. You will be my wife and people will think you’re supporting me.”
“My darling,” I reply, “don’t you know you are all I have ever wanted! Movie acting was fun. But it’s hard work and I am all too happy to give it up for a life with you.”
Yes, of course I had mixed feelings! I had finally found my purpose in making movies, only to be forced to give it up. I loved Sunoo and should be over the moon to be marrying him, but I wasn’t. Worse, there was no one with whom to share my true feelings, particularly about having to end my career just as it was gaining momentum. I hadn’t even gotten around to reading the growing pile of fan mail, or to respond to the latest requests for interviews. As abruptly as it all began, so it vanished. It was March, 1933.
I remember bidding farewell at the studio, tightly holding my best crimson and gold sari from the set of Punarianma, while just as tightly holding back the tears. Such a good actress I’d become. I smiled my best smile while my insides churned with anger and jealousy at the actresses who got to stay. They gifted me with a long, silk scarf embroidered with the initials ARD. Arati Devi. That is who I was. Who I will always be.
Never would I set foot on the silver screen again.
Rachel in front of her grandmother's movie poster.
ANU Museum of the Jewish People, formerly Beit Hatfutsot, Tel Aviv, 2022.
Marriage
The early years with Sunoo were so full and exciting I could hardly catch my breath. Acting in movies was the farthest thing from my mind. I bore him two boys, Abe and Emille. They quickly became center stage in my life, they were everything to me. However, from the tender age of six Sunoo insisted they go to Jesuit boarding school in Darjeeling. There they would get a proper, upper class education, something unavailable in Calcutta. So small, so trusting, I watched them, their sweet faces unchanging as they got on the train with the other schoolboys. The accompanying nuns from Saint Joseph’s rushed them much more than was necessary. They looked back at me for approval. I tried to smile, but couldn’t hold back the tears. They were far too young to be leaving their mother. I would get flooded after every visit, and then quickly get on with the daily demands of life.
Gradually, over time, something in me began to fade. Like a brightly colored sari that loses vibrancy from too many harsh washings. It was a slow, subtle process, and I was able to look the other way.
Don’t get me wrong, I was absolutely mad about Sunoo, the most brilliant, charming man on the face of this earth. Wherever we went, he was praised to the hilt for his cunning business skills and worldly charms. Between you and me, he was also an incurable romantic.
I remember him coming into the house one day after work, loudly announcing his arrival. The boys had left for Darjeeling two weeks before, and we were having people over for a dinner party. We both loved to entertain. He was already getting into the mood, dancing and swaying his hips to a melody inside his head. We were preparing a special biryani with chicken masala and fresh coconut chutney. Mitah, our cook, was sweating over the stove, frying piles of parathas when he grabbed me from behind to kiss my neck. Well, yes, he smelled of whiskey and God knows what else. But it felt nice, nice to be desired. He knew how to make a woman feel like a woman. Was I slightly embarrassed in front of the kitchen staff? Perhaps a bit.
I focused on the dinner preparations and chose my outfit carefully. Sunoo’s colleagues were with us that evening, and after aperitifs and cigars in the garden, an impromptu dance party began. Thinking back on it, I was far from thrilled at seeing him dance so closely with Seema, his main secretary from the mill. She was a just young thing, really. Hardly a threat. Very unsophisticated, from the village. Still, his cheek was close to hers. He had on that European cologne, which clung to his skin so irresistibly. She was laughing and twirling in his arms, clearly enjoying his expertise. He was the most splendid dancer. Still, I remember feeling like the luckiest girl there, married to such a powerful, sought-after man.
Years passed, with the long months of separation from my beloved sons. My feelings became complex, sometimes verging on despair. While I lived a life of seeming luxury and ease, my husband was a stubborn man, developing a laissez-faire attitude which often repulsed me. His flirtatiousness and drinking only increased. I knew that he lived for it, for those moments when his irresistible charm got him anything he wanted. This enraged me further, and in my desperation I would demand he prove that he had eyes only for me. Of course, the more I pushed, the worse he became. I was crazed with love, or so I thought; consumed with a jealousy that drove me to irrational behaviors. I became suspicious of his movements outside the house, downright paranoid. Fearful of anything that was out of my control. One day he even said to me: “This cannot go on like this, one of us has to die.” In a strange way, I knew it was true, but I never thought it would be me. I had children to raise, grandchildren to one day hold close to my bosom.
If I only knew then what I know now, all this family tragedy could have been averted. I could have raised my boys in our lovely Agarpara home. A home surrounded by succulent gardens overflowing with multi-colored flowers in the manicured beds which I designed. I had no less than six gardeners working for me. Those gardens were my pride and joy. And the parties! We would set up festive lights around the gardens, doing the meal planning two weeks in advance. Fresh coconut-papaya curries, beetroot or bamya chattas. This is food you never had the good fortune to sample. The chattas were sweet and sour chicken in a heavenly gravy with beet and okra, garnished with mint or cilantro. The accompanying basmati rice was prepared to perfection, with a touch of saffron. The aloo-makalla was a party favorite. These were whole potatoes deep fried to such a crispyness on the outside that, if you did not take precaution, it would fly off your plate. It was perhaps the tastiest morsel ever devised by Calcutta Jewry. Mouthwatering dishes like panthras, coobas, and mahashas stuffed with tomatoes and minced chicken, seasoned with spices, lemon juice and sugar. Oh goodness, I'm digressing. This is not the story I want to share.
Truthfully, every time my boys got on the train to Darjeeling I was left choking. It was not right. I relied on my acting skills to push my emotions away, to put up a strong front. How could I show myself collapsing in front of the staff? Aisha and Lila my cleaning help, Mita and Lakshmi in the kitchen, Santosh my head gardener, Prima the dhobi girl. I was their role model, their glamorous movie star Arati Devi, their Memsahib.
I was miserable. On top of being increasingly disenchanted with my marriage, I ached for my boys. I longed to kiss and cuddle their delicious skin, to anoint their curly black hair with coconut oil after evening bath. To feed them sweet payasam and parathas soaked in ghee. Instead, they were thousands of miles away, in cold dormitories, perhaps even with stomachs not quite full, sensing that hollow space of motherlessness. I’m convinced that Emille, the younger, more sensitive one, would fall asleep crying into his pillow. It was just unbearable to think of.
I directed my attention to other matters. Assigning jobs to the staff, making sure everything was done just right. The floors were to shine, the daily menu to be set the night before, the gardens to be well maintained, ready for elaborate parties at little-to-no advance notice. There was always so much to do. And of course, watching over that cunning husband of mine. He was prone to late night gambling, drinking expensive, imported whiskeys, smoking his cigars. How he loved his card games. And his women. But that is another story, not for now.
What did I do with my breaking heart? I filled it with bitterness and fear, with finely embroidered saris from Kashmir and Benares, countless in number. The highest quality silks and linens. I spent many, vain hours making myself beautiful with hair and skin products, choosing the perfect colored scarf to match this or that sari. And, whenever possible, I escaped to the theaters in Calcutta to see the latest films. I witnessed my Jewish, Iraqi contemporaries, Paramila, Rama Rose, and Ruby Meyers in their rise to stardom. There, in the dark anonymity of the theatre, I allowed myself to feel the depth of my emotions. If only I had been given more time. More time would have allowed for bigger, more challenging roles, roles which would have enabled my true potential as an actress. Deep down, I knew I would have sacrificed everything to be as revered and successful as the likes of Rama Rose.
The inevitable cheers and applause triggered more pain and loss. It wasn’t fair, any of it. My life seemed so small and lonely at those moments. Why am I not the one being worshipped and adored?
My heart became cold, cold and moldy like the post monsoon walls of our Agarparah home that final summer. It was even worse when the boys came home for summer vacation. The changes over the years were so rapid that I hardly recognized them when they arrived, exhausted from the long, hot journey; their voices were deepening, their bodies growing new muscles and facial hair. It saddened me no end to have given away their childhoods to that damned boarding school.
It was the year 1948, the year of India’s Independence from Britain. The boys were now twelve and fourteen. Most of our community had already immigrated to the United States or England. We were also making such plans, but for after the birth. Yes, I was pregnant, gloriously so! Thrilled to be bringing a new soul into our family, into the ‘new world’. Once again, I had a purpose.
The pregnancy was a gift from God. Quite different in so many ways from the previous two. This time, I was fully ready, being more mature and enjoying my ever-changing body. I was filled with a new-found euphoria.
Sunoo was more loving than usual, more attentive. The very fact that he was agreeable to immigrating to the United States was a miracle in itself. We’d be leaving for California to join the Meyer family approximately three months after the birth.
I could hardly contain my excitement about this imminent move, and all this on top of the new baby! The house and gardens in Agarparah became secondary to fantasies and plans for our new lives in California. Of course, I'd have to manage without the servants, but Sima told me you get used to it, like everything else. It was heartbreaking to think of parting with the kitchen girls, and with Santosh, my right-hand man. He who understood my every whim, rushing to please me at every turn. I'd have to do my own cooking there, which would take some getting used to. I heard it's almost impossible to find authentic garam masala, curry leaves, or even fresh dhanya. We would find ways to modify our diets accordingly, and to manage with what we have. The American school system was said to be top notch, and the children would be living with us full time. The new baby would know nothing about leaving his home for distant boarding schools. He would stay with me all the way through his secondary schooling. A dream come true.
While I was completely caught up with endless ideas and lists for the move, the pregnancy was slowing me down, forcing me back into the present moment, into my ever-changing body.
India, I knew I would miss her terribly. Her vibrant colors and spices, the juiciest pineapples, the sweetest mangoes and papayas, coconut milk straight from the coconut. California had her charms too, so I heard. Shiny clean markets, sidewalks, and organized roads with streetlights. Sima described how the residents queue up politely for public transportation, and how considerate they are of one another. No spitting or thick beedi smells, no half naked men washing themselves in the streets. ‘You can't imagine the quiet here, and no pushing or shoving! You can carry your handbag leisurely without fearing some street ruffian will snatch it from you. Truly a different planet from India!’ She wrote weekly aerograms with the latest thrill. I knew how she missed home, but also how the children were thriving in their new environment.
The doctor strongly advised to take extra precautions, because of my age. He arranged for me to give birth in a hospital. But the Indian hospitals were unbearable, with their backward ways and questionable sanitation. I'd already discussed everything with my midwife, Lakshmi. Despite doctor’s orders, she and I had come to a wonderful arrangement for a home birth.
But when the baby was ready to come out, the timing was all wrong. It was earlier than anticipated. My driver, Vishnu, sped to the village to collect Lakshmi, but she was nowhere to be found. Three weeks before my due date, she had gone to visit her mother and sister in Karnataka. It was either going to the hospital, or taking on a different midwife last minute. A woman I didn't know, Kali, but I heard she had some supernatural powers and was an experienced midwife. I refused to listen to the mounting pressure around me, even the kitchen girls were politely recommending I go to the hospital.
Sunoo was dressed up in his evening silks, cigar and whiskey in hand, ready for a party. I cursed him under my breath. Parties meant pretty young women mooning over him and God knows what. If I went to hospital it could be up to two weeks, and I couldn't trust that man alone in the house.
When my water broke I had them quickly call for Kali. I refused to budge from my house. I was so headstrong, so self-righteous. And such a price was to be paid. Such a price for jealousy and fear. Who could have imagined?
Nothing went according to plan. As the saying goes, 'We plan and God laughs’.
As soon as I set eyes on this midwife I had a bad feeling. But my water had already broken and action needed to be taken immediately. We set up in the bedroom. I tried not to notice her tools, but even in my state I saw the rust and neglect. After several hours of intensive labor, there was no progress. Something was stuck. My pain was excruciating and I began to wail like a wounded animal. The servants rushed around and I vaguely heard Kali yelling out orders at them. I began to scream as the pain became so unbearable I felt my insides were being ripped apart. She tried to hush me but I was like a wild animal. She placed something wet over my mouth with a very strong smell and everything stopped. Then I was drifting away, drifting farther and farther from the bed. From where I was I could see my body on the bed, Kali muttering under her breath with wild eyes. Then she pulled out a sharp knife and began cutting at my stomach. I felt nothing. I was far away. I saw deep red spreading through the white linens. I realized it was blood. Who's blood? If it's mine, I don't care, as I feel nothing.
Then a loud scream. Hysterical screams and shouting from all directions. What is it? I see a baby with a deep cut in its center. She pulls the baby out of my stomach and hands it to Aisha. Aisha is crying like a child. The baby is dead. My baby. Still, I feel nothing. How is this possible? We were going to California. But where am I? I am farther and farther away. My body on the bed getting smaller and smaller, as are all the people in the room. The midwife had gone, run out of the house with flailing arms. Blood was dripping onto the floor and Aisha held a dead baby. I have no arms and no legs. I can do nothing.
* Rachel Yona-Shalev is Rachel Sofaer’s (stage name Arati Devi) granddaughter. The family had originated from Iraq and had migrated to Burma and then India.