Jaywant’s new anthology juxtaposes reminiscences of old Bombay, observations on the evolving rhythms of life, glimpses of hospital life, post-Covid truths and dilemmas, as well as lighter recipe verse.  The author recommends that the heady concoction is “meant to be enjoyed in company, read aloud in rhy me and rhythm, with smiles and nods, over beverages and victuals”. She read out the Indlish poems at the Museum of Goa a while ago.

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Jaywant brings out people’s food-connect in varying situations. For instance, the poem titled The Fruit Juice Stall Outside a Hospital evokes the “basics” available in a nursing home canteen—mosambi-ras, milk shakes, samosas with pao, hot chai and coffee, served quickly, anyhow. 

I was reminded of the instances of hospitalisation of my kin, where tender coconut water (tenga-tanni) was “drunk alike by the poor and those with wealth”; patients served the nariyal paani in the hope of quicker convalescence. Patients served “saltless dal” and “sugarless milk” is another identifiable image, more in the recent COVID-struck past.

Jaywant’s poem on the khobrey naarrell vaddee (sweet coconut barfee), made in the holy Shravan month, evokes the discipline of a Konkani Saraswat Brahmin household.  She literally takes you through the ingredients—cup of soi, white coconut flesh, sugar, clotted cream and crumbled bread edges. She factors in the time consumed by the preparation.  “Stand upon a foot, when it tires, change over, to the other/When you get bored and start to sweat, think about your mother. Think about cookbooks, and online groups—when the hour’s up.”

The Konkani ethos once again is evoked, as one poem dwells on the crab curry ritual. In a chef’s blow-by-blow instructional style, Jaywant starts with basics: Discard dorsal carapace, lever out abdominal triangle, cleave thorax, crack chelae a bit/Massage into above g-g paste, haldi-chilli powders, salt. Push aside, let it sit.
She shares a secret too: “blitz the crabs thoracic appendages in a mixer. Strain with care, keep aside.” The poem ends with a fun tip:  “Crab-eating is fine-dining at its worst. If you have a nut-cracker, use it. It’s better than the pincer’s tip, I’m told, to control the splatter a bit.”  Jaywant should have added another cautionary tip: those attempting to eat crabs either need solid teeth or a dentist on call. 

For Jaywant, writing is cathartic, a serious pastime, akin to a long relaxing evening walk. As her poems draw from the Konkani and Marathi sub-cultures, she rejoices in word play, the kind that comes to the fore when verbs and nouns from local Indian lingo are integrated into the English idiom. For instance, the homophonic kace (hair) in Marathi and the case in English bring out amusing scenarios—haircuts given in a lawyer’s chamber or barbers/nurses routinely shaving off bodily hair growth in the pre-surgery case. In the poem titled, A Druck To Flavour A Sweet, she fractures the Hindi adrak (ginger) into “a druck”. Jaywant rests her case in the pun.  It tickles the funny bone, but nothing resonating emerges in the rhyme—“A druck is good for a throat that is sore/ A druck is added to dishes for flavore.”

Recipe verse doesn’t come easily. It rings true when attempted by people who are immersed in the world of food and flavours, or else it becomes contrived.  In Jaywant’s case, it flows well, but the random miscellany in her collection of Indlish poems make you feel as if the host presented the finger food as a meal. 

Sumedha Raikar-Mhatre is a culture columnist in search of the sub-text.  You can reach her at  sumedha.raikar@mid-day.com