Sweet Malida
Sweet malida.
A mix of water-softened
flattened rice, sugar,
dried fruits and nuts,
was a dish made
for Shabbath, or for breaking
our fasts. Cooling, light
on the palate, and
to the body and the spirit,
it was welcome in the heat
of day or night. We, like
our Muslim, Christian and Hindu
neighbors and friends,
had many foods in common,
and we often celebrated together
their festivals or ours. I relished
particularly fresh coconut,
the regional staple, its milk
or its flesh added to almost
every dish. But this was to me
the best way to eat it,
finely grated
by my mother’s hands,
left unsweetened
and sprinkled haphazardly
on the malida, juicy threads
with a fleck of stubborn
brown kernel here and there
that sometimes crunched
in your teeth like sand,
and you winced and swallowed it,
knowing that there was no
simpler or purer
or truer form than that.
The Angels of Konkan
Navgaon, Maharashtra, is where, it is believed, the ancestors of the Bene Israel were shipwrecked, and where a ruined cemetery exists today
From tumbled sands and shattered bark
blurred shadows dragged us (where were we)
who dried our battered bodies
bound our wounds
clothed us in woven cotton
fed us warm food (that we could not name then) with their hands
and as Elijah ate of bread and flesh
the ravens gave him so also we ate
and drank of the cool water brought
from brooks (who were these healers)
then in fields of grass near the sea
we buried our dead the ones we found
(where are they now)
set gravestones to remember
they let us pray as we wished
and giving thanks to Adonai
learned the craft of oil pressers
(did our tribe know it already)
ate what our laws permitted
and praising this vast green land
its rich soil its rivers its ghats
its grains its fish and fowl
we blessed the hearts
the living hands
of the villagers
who saved us
A Chirota for My Thoughts
this fine flaky treat was often made
from left over chironji dough
rolled out in flat circles
ghee smothered with fingers
piled on each other folded and rolled
folded and rolled again
full of hidden “puthers”—feathers
which fluffed up miraculously
as it rose up singing
out of hot oil
a crisp golden disc
delicate as eggshells
dusted with sugar or drizzled with a glaze
then studded with pistas and charolee
eaten so fast even the fine sprays
of crumbs that settled everywhere
like dust I pressed my little index finger
into and sucked
or licked off the old dining table
with my tongue
Some days paralyzed with lost-ness
and weak limbs I pretend
unhealed wounds and home fallen
to ruin are made whole
broken slivers I salvage
from those strong stainless-steel tins
indestructible dubbas we owned
etched with our names
Who are the Bene Israel Jews of India? Where did they come from? How did they survive in India? A moving, multi-layered, richly sensory and informative collection of poems and short prose inspired by this ancient community which the poet herself belongs to. Using various poetic forms, the poet launches on an imaginative journey, delving into the history, especially the food and culinary customs of this small community of Indian Jews, explores its special connection to the Prophet Elijah, while seamlessly weaving in memories, bringing to life the past and lost loved ones as well.
All Images: pixabay.com
