“If it’s going to swim upstream, it will happen quickly,” texted Mr F, who also called “it” a “bravery item”. He should know. He met those breathtaking, blustery hills long before Salman Khan and his tribe Mechuka’d their way up to the Lost Frontiers of Arunachal Pradesh. The “it” in question was no upstart carp with Olympic ambitions, but a light, bright, raw fish soup that sometimes carpe-diemed through unsuspecting mainland gullets. Except, it was too late. I was in Namsai and nose-deep in a bowl of brilliance, slurping my way through pasa, a Tai Khampti delicacy that has since become a cold favourite.
The point is, even the best of us, who have—intentionally or accidentally—discovered the joys of eating at indigenous kitchens around the country sometimes find ourselves at the crossroads of a taste test. It doesn’t matter if pig’s trotters or snails, fresh buckwheat leaves or camel milk have been consumed with great relish before. At the pearly gates of new culinary discovery, we may pause, if only for a fleeting second, before crossing over to the ‘Other Side’. But foot-dragging and culinary blindness are not the same dish.
Sometimes, I wonder, if in India we have more culture than is good for us. Consider the stats: We have over 700 indigenous communities, who account for about 8.6 per cent of the population, or 104 million people, outnumbering all other countries at least on one global index. And yet, ask almost anyone at a dinner party in Delhi to name one indigenous dish they have tried, or loved, and most would look stricken; like they had been summoned to gather red ants for a chutney. A quick aside: red ant chutney has become something of a poster dish for the inexhaustible wealth of indigenous food cultures we know so little about yet so crudely and confidently condense into a ‘tribal cuisine’.
So it’s somewhat reassuring to stumble upon more and more conversations in mainstream digital dining rooms today on the virtues of indigenous food in these pandemicked times. From locavore chefs to permacultured farmers, heirloom millets to #UglyDelicious tubers, indigenous ingredients and their InstaChampions are clearly having their moment now. So much so that matrons of the Kurumba community or patrons of the Palghar pendhra (divine jasmine) are virtually reeling in new urban tribes daily.
And then there are those who work closely with forest-dependent communities across India to sustainably harvest and market forest produce to urban audiences; reminding us that conserving local ecosystems, traditional livelihoods and indigenous wisdom go hand in hand. Organisations such as the Centre for Pastoralism (CfP) work with nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes to identify and protect native breeds of livestock, and promote non-bovine dairy—mostly goat and camel milk that seem to have many takers globally, but few in India, where it’s plentiful. Now available in Tetrapacks, camel milk is yet to become Amul Kool, if you will. While weaning Indians off cow and buffalo milk has proved anything but easy so far, Vasant Saberwal, director, CfP, has an appetising plan. With over 30 kinds of high-quality cheeses in the making, he says milk, like wine, should celebrate its terroir, offering a sense of place and taste that distinguishes a Himalayan feta from a Kutchi one, or a kalari cheese of the Van Gujjars of Jammu from the chhurpi of Arunachal’s Monpa tribe.
Tender peepal leaves and Goolar ke kabab
It’s a different matter that each time an ingredient foraged, harvested or milked by a listed tribe finds itself on the High Tables of Urban Tastes, its virtues are almost always yoked to good health and good living. It’s as if anything that lies two degrees south of our comfort zone must always be validated by the presence of Omega 3 acids or polyphenols. If it’s not ‘exotic’ enough, why, it must be superfood, honey! In an experience economy, when gastrotourism is no longer confused for a ramble down the small intestines, why should treating constipation or bronchitis be the only incentive to eat the flowers or fruits of a Mahua tree—an ingredient forest communities across central India favour and savour? Have we ever masticated about the health benefits of meen moilee and alu posto before scubadiving into them at supper?
Growing up in Jamshedpur, I knew more about dhansak—our city and my classroom had a sizeable population of Parsis, thanks to the Tatas—than about dhuska, deep-fried balls of fermented dough. Even my friends, with names that ended with Toppo, Kujur, Murmu or Mahato, brought tiffins that looked exactly like mine. Sandwiches and cakes, paranthas and sabzis…. No one told us that the Mundas—called the Nisha-das or turmeric-eaters in the Vedas—had lent the names to many of the ancient Indian fruits and vegetables that we still find on our plates kadali (banana), panasa (jackfruit), narikela (coconut), nimbuka (lime), haridra (turmeric), and so on. Or that the Santhalis had a sweet or savoury, meaty even, pitha for every season.
And so it was that I decided I liked Aruna Tirkey, a former development professional who set up a rare restaurant in Ranchi four years ago to mainstream Oraon, Santhal, Ho, Munda and Kharia cuisines, and create jobs for local women. She named her place Ajam Emba, or great taste in Kurukh, her mother tongue. The kind of woman who travels 200 km for her foraging adventures, Tirkey talks tirelessly about umbilical connections between taste, tradition and indigenous identity. Her recent foray into the forests near Gumla, in search of kukhri and rugda—seasonal fungi her mother cooked during a 10-day window every June—have only strengthened her resolve to resist the ‘gentrification’ of the indigenous kitchen. A champion of microlocal flavours, she has been building a black book of recipes few have encountered before. Relying on aromatics instead of spices, and seasonal produce, like jute flowers for the kudrung chutney, freshwater fish like buddu and ghetu, and ‘mota anaj’ (or coarse grains, steadily replaced by wheat and rice from the PDS) Tirkey is fiercely traditional in her cooking.
A couple of years ago, perhaps to cure my childhood myopia, or to make the most of a Lockdowned Spring, when the world was busy making banana bread and Dalgona coffee, I made goolar ke kebab from wild Indian cluster figs and a pleasantly sour peepal ki bhaaji. Unlike the Baiga women of Madhya Pradesh’s Mandla and Dindori districts, I had never celebrated the rare, ephemeral flavours of the tender pink leaves of this common tree. But now I look forward to cooking it every March. Not because it cures fever, dysentry, heart disease, constipation, mumps and (but, of course) sexual debility. But because it’s there, and it’s delicious.