More than marginally delicious: Dalit food

Beef tongue. Thanks to MasterChef Australia, we all know how long it takes to cook this cut of meat. And just how risky it is to attempt it in a one-hour challenge. But we also know, because of the comments of judges—Matt, Gary and George—that when cooked perfectly, this dish is delicious. But do we know a version of the dish also exists back home?

It's one of the many lesser-known Dalit dishes you'll find in Shahu Patole's book Anna he Apoornabrahma. He's now working on the second edition. In fact, thanks to the promotions for his Dalit thali baithak organised by Kali Billi Productions last Sunday, the sale of his book spurted such that it got sold-out before the event and has now gone into a second print run. The baithak itself saw some 50 people at the Kala Studio in Santacruz.

Left: Book cover. Right Top: Shahu Patole in discussion with Nandita Patkar at the baithak. Right Below: Audience prepares kothimir mutke using Patole's recipe at the baithak.

While Patole says he worked with one simple aim in mind — documenting recipes, food traditions and the culture of his ancestors — his book does more than simply document. Its title, for example, turns a popular Marathi aphorism on its head. If anna (food) is thought of as poorna brahma (all life-force and universe), what does this conception leave out? It raises vital questions. What is Maharashtrian cuisine? Is there one Maharashtrian cuisine? Who holds the mantle of its authenticity? Why are certain dishes and food traditions more acceptable and popular or considered superior?

As Dalits, who were historically assigned the task of skinning dead cattle, the Mang-Mahar community occupied the margins of society. It was their task to clean up the carcasses — a job considered 'polluting' by the upper castes.

Patole, who like Ambedkar belongs to the community, observes in the book that "the food of the marginalised also undergoes a process of marginalisation." By way of elaboration, he gives a five-fold, diet-based scheme of our society. The first are 'pure' vegetarians who also abstain from onion, garlic, etc; the second — vegetarians who practice chatur maas (four month fast) that coincides with the holy period beginning with shravan; the third may consume certain 'impure' things such as egg and meat stock; the fourth eat meats such as chicken, (goat) mutton, fish and crabs; and the fifth have the meat of animals such cows and buffaloes.

Of these, the first four find some or other form of representation in cookbooks, cookery shows or food festivals. You'll often hear of Kokanastha Brahmin, CKP or Pathare Prabhu food festivals. But ever hear of a Maang-Mahar food fest? There is an anxious silence around a topic such as this because the very roots of the caste system can be found in this segregation of food cultures into 'pure' and 'impure', 'inferior' and 'superior'. Ambedkar notes in The Untouchables, "The touchables whether they are vegetarians or flesh-eaters are united in their objection to eat cow's flesh. As against them stand the untouchables who eat cow's flesh without compunction and as a matter of course and habit." It is this silence that the book attempts to fill.

Inventions in the kitchen

While beef is an important part of their diet, there's so much more to it, all dictated by the kind of lives they lead: limited resources and time and hard labour. At one point in the book, Patole asks: How many of the communities that observe chatur maas are involved in physical labour on the very fields that they have to thank for their superior diet?

In Mang-Mahar homes, bhakri is the most important part of the meal, generally accompanied by preparations of greens, pulses and meat or vegetables such as radish, onion, dill, etc. The use of expensive foods like dairy or oil is rare. But as the old adage goes, necessity is the mother of invention. "The concept of fodni (tadka) is barely used. Instead, our dishes include a lot of groundnut to impart flavour," Patole says. And the community's closest cousin to the traditional fodni applies what the community had at hand: animal fat. When added to a hot tava, it liquefies like oil and is used to fry and roast spices, herbs and so on. Animal fat also offers a "timepass snack"— chunchuna. Heat the fat till the solids rise up to the surface and turn crispy enough to munch on. Similarly, instead of boondi laddoo, which requires a lot of oil, they make thick sev, crush it and mix it with sugar syrup to make laddoos. Puran poli, usually had with either tup (ghee) or milk, is eaten with gulavani — a syrup of jaggery and water.

Using animal fat to generate oil required for tadka or to fry vegetables

But it's not in the everyday food that the weight of a culture resides. It resides in 'traditional' food made on festive occasions. At such times, the skill of a cook is usually measured by how well s/he executes certain delicate details such as how neat the ridges of a modak are. But the Dalit kitchen has no place for such delicate tasks. With so much work, and so many mouths to feed, who has the time? (Incidentally, from where Patole hails, modaks are not the traditional dish as Ganpati was not revered in Marathwada.)

So the next time someone talks about the authentic or traditional way of eating certain dishes, stop dead in your tracks. Turn around. And ask, whose tradition? What authenticity?

This danger of universalising food is something Patole remains alive to throughout his book. He warns that what he has documented is only what he has seen. Hence, it is perfectly possible for Mahars from other regions to find that their food is not reflected in the book. If that spurs them to document their own food traditions, he would be more than happy.

After all, that's what this book is about: an exploration of his own identity, hitherto neglected, through food.