I had the pleasure of spending Yom Kippur of 2008 at the Chabad in Mumbai. As I returned to the U.S. a few days later, I looked back on the experience with joy and gratitude. Little did I think that a mere month later, those memories would change to sadness and pity.

He eagerly invited me not only to attend services at the Chabad, but to stay overnight there as wellDuring the summer of 2008, my boss asked me if I would be willing to go to India to speak at a conference in his place. It was a great opportunity, so I immediately said yes. He told me he would give me the details later, but that the conference was on October 8. I didn't think anything of it, as the High Holy Days were usually over by then. When I did check the calendar, I was surprised and upset to learn that the conference ended just before Yom Kippur began. I would not be able to fly home.

My sister looked on the internet for a synagogue in Mumbai, and found the Chabad. She emailed the rabbi, and he responded saying that they would be happy to welcome me there. They did welcome me, with open arms. Once I arrived in Mumbai a few days earlier, I called the rabbi. He eagerly invited me not only to attend services at the Chabad, but to stay overnight there as well. He even spoke to my cab driver, giving him detailed instructions on how to find it in the back streets of the city.

When I arrived, I felt welcome. Other visitors included an Italian graduate student studying finance in Madras, an Israeli security specialist who had lived in Florida for 10 years but now was working on airport security at the Mumbai airport, about a dozen members of the Israeli philharmonic orchestra who were touring India, and a young woman from Brooklyn who had moved to India hoping to become a famous Bollywood actress but who was currently working as a vitamin sales rep.

He discretely searched the entire bookshelf and found me the one prayer-book that had English translationThe rabbi and his wife welcomed us all into the Chabad with an exquisite pre-holiday meal. I don't know how they found all the staples of American Jewish cooking, but they did. Both the rabbi and his wife did everything they could, even in the midst of holiday madness, to make us all feel at home. What I remember most was having difficulty following because both the service and the prayer-book were entirely in Hebrew, not a word of English, and my Hebrew is not the best. Without interrupting the service, he discretely searched the entire bookshelf and found me the one prayer-book that had been brought over and donated by an American, and had English translation.

I remember the horrible images I saw on television. But I am fortunate that I also have the positive memories. I remember the smiles of the rabbi and his wife as their baby crawled all over the place. I remember the food before the holiday, and to break the fast. Most of all, though, I remember the kindness.