Within a country where the religious and social divide is increasingly violent, food is just another fragment that is appropriated to oppress

- Saachi D’Souza

I understood the violence that unfurls around food in Ahmedabad when I brought non-vegetarian in my tiffin to school.

I have lived in Ahmedabad for almost 19 years now, but much of my experience has been limited to my home. I come from a Goan and Maharashtrian family, so meat-eating was natural to my upbringing.

Meat-eating here is like a drug deal; everybody knows who you are and what you want, but the waiter who brings you your order, covered, is not the culprit because what he’s carrying is hidden. When he leaves the order on your table, the responsibility is no longer his. The food was delicious, but eating it felt criminal.

But it was also what alienated me from the city. At school, I was the only ‘Christian’ in my class, and for some time, I think the only one in my entire batch (or, at least, that's what it used to feel like). The stares and groans I experienced when I opened my tiffin during lunchtime contributed to how little I shared with this city.

More often than not, my ‘religion’ was made to stand up and face a captive, judgmental audience with statements like, “Ma’am, I think Saachi should talk about Christmas and Jesus because her surname is D’Souza.” In reality, my knowledge of my own religion was as limited as the Gujarati student who pointed that out. With every tiffin, my peers were compelled to ask questions about my background that I could not answer, and I was more inclined to stop bringing food I liked to school.

When I did bring such food, I had to hide and eat. There is a certain environment that consumes you when you grow up as a meat-eater in Ahmedabad, and it makes itself noticeable in small, subtle ways. It is the girl who interrupts your birthday - just as you are about the blow the candle on your cake - to ask loudly, “Aunty, isme egg hai?” (Is there egg in this?). It is vegetarian families hesitant to allow their children into your homes. Sometimes it is Jain friends who ask the waiter not to make their food in the same utensils as yours. And sometimes, it is vegetarian sushi.

In Ahmedabad, food is almost geographically divided among the Hindu and Muslim areas. On the East lies the Old City, where my father would bring me often for maska bun and chai at Lucky restaurant - the iconic place where M.F Hussain is believed to have spent time painting. As you walk further in, past the Mosque, shops, and hustles, tucked away in the by-lanes are laris of food, displayed as though liberated from the eyes of vegetarian morality. Chunks of chicken are unapologetically devoured and mutton curries are served table after table. There is an air of defiance in the preparation of meat - there is more focus on the meat, unlike culinary traditions in other parts of the city that ‘add’ meat to dishes that are (or can be) vegetarian. The Goans, Bengalis and other meat-eating communities of new Ahmedabad carry the weight of a colonial, ‘moral’ food-eating lifestyle and leave it behind as they touch the Siddi Sayyed Mosque. There are no doors or windows. Every turn you take in the Old City smells like meat being freshly cooked.

The ‘New Irani Restaurant’ is one such treasure. I sit down and immediately order mutton curry; my friend orders the chicken masala, and we share. The mutton and chicken curry at Irani are specifically meat dishes; the meat cannot be substituted with paneer because the curry is cooked for the meat, not the meat cooked for the curry. My friend and I almost always eat meat together, but there is a certain release to ordering it in the Old City that cannot be felt in the newer parts of the city. There is attention to the meat that translates to attention and sensitivity to your choice.

A couple of years ago, my mom and a friend of hers took me to a restaurant that is historical to Ahmedabad and is situated in a rather popular area. They told me they were taking me for a non-vegetarian lunch, but there was no evidence of meat anywhere. Mum’s friend took the waiter aside and whispered something in his ear, and the waiter promptly seated us at a dark corner towards the end of the restaurant. Only one waiter catered to us.

There was an unnerving silence at our table, and a couple of non-stares our way. Everybody seemed to know who we were and what our purpose there was, but everybody wasn't 'supposed' to know. Our waiter came and whispered to us the non-vegetarian menu for the day. Turns out, this restaurant used to be a meat lovers’ delight but turned into a vegetarian restaurant, reasons for which are still unknown. Meat is still prepared there, and served on the down-low. The dishes come to you covered with layers and layers of plates that block the smells and hide the smallest hint of a leg sticking out. Meat-eating here is like a drug deal; everybody knows who you are and what you want, but the waiter who brings you your order, covered, is not the culprit because what he’s carrying is hidden. When he leaves the order on your table, the responsibility is no longer his. The food was delicious, but eating it felt criminal.

Ahmedabad is a city that has seen some of the worst kinds of violence between Hindus and Muslims. And in many ways the Old City, in every day, is still navigating the trauma the riots left behind. My psychology teacher in school - when talking to us about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) - gave us accounts of the violence and displacement her family faced at that time, but all the while also - with a glimmer in her eyes - shared with us the food she prepares with her children during Eid. Somehow this was enough.

The conversation and inquiry around food are not new to the Indian state. It is, in fact, an important dialogue on nationalism and religious extremism today. Food in India is a relationship of multitudes - of love, identity, faith, and belonging. Its significance spans millennials and is central to the history and the building of communities and cultures.

Today, however, it is a sensitive topic to bring to the table. Within a country where the religious and social divide is visibly violent (and increasingly so), food is just another fragment that is appropriated to oppress. Food is a political issue today because of its domesticity and also because of its exchange. Within the exchange of food does lie the existence and the voice of a community, and it is in the exchange that a community is allowed to continue.

Food practices are at the foreground of an introduction into a community - the mannerisms practiced around food depict structures of caste, gender, and class at play and how involved they are with traditions of food. The oppression of a community can be enforced when the continuation of the agency provided by food is hindered; as is the case with the long-standing control of vegetarianism in India.

Plant-based diets are on the rise and, inspired by the West, there is a widespread increase in the need to ban all animal products. The argument towards a vegan lifestyle is that the utilisation of animals or the killing of animal life, for any purpose, is not ethical, and markets should not be profiting from the loss of life. But to place this in an Indian context requires the navigation of how this is an opportunity for the Hindu population to direct this narrative on meat-eating communities that make for the minority section of Indian society. The insistence and the intimidation from vegetarianism holds meat-eating communities accountable for ‘barbaric’ practices and a lifestyle that to the Hindu upper-caste has always been untouchable. There are several facets to this, especially the hypocrisy in the argument that meat-eating is unnatural and the belief that Indian cuisine can be homogenised.

In a story that became popular across India, one of the main triggers, some sepoys believed, for the First War of 1857 was that the British army had coated the cartridges used for new rifles with pork and beef fat. This inevitably offended both Hindus and Muslims and led to a revolt. As perhaps one of the earliest examples of the political nature of food, India has a long history of traditional meat-eating practices and evidence to indicate that the call to restore Indian culture to a time of the Gods (when alleged purity was of utmost importance and mobilised into every aspect of human lifestyle) is in fact wrought.

It is invariably casteist/classist to enforce vegetarianism on, say, Adivasi communities that have practiced meat-eating for several centuries. Take Jharkhand for example, a state that has witnessed some of the highest number of cases of mob lynchings. Here, the Santhal tribe follows traditions of food with barely any restrictions, and are liberal with their cuisine. Distraught between a constant battle with the state for resources of land, water, and minerals, the Santhal tribe engages in food practices that are inclusive of meat and seafood.

The project ‘Adivasi Lives Matter’ covered by ‘Youth Ki Awaaz’ posted a food tutorial on their social media - by a man belonging to the tribe - of crab vadas, more traditionally called Katakom. It was an interesting deviation from conventional food tutorials that rely on aesthetics and an upper-class practice driven by a taste narrative and the civility of table manners and plating. The dish required only a few ingredients and utensils; it was not abundant in spices or aesthetically plated, but served as an indigenous dish popular to the tribe and relished by many. In May 2019, a Jharkhand professor was arrested for allegedly writing a social media post, two years prior, supporting a ‘beef party’ organised by IIT-Madras students. Tribal life in Jharkhand, typically that of the Santhal tribe, in contrast, is characterised by a variety of meat-eating practices - animal sacrifice is traditional to religious occasions and meat-eating a staple diet.

Mob-lynchings and the control on food practices in such regions, then, are performances of oppression, through food, over minority identities, and an attempt to erase the ‘untouchables’ (this is important because until now such social hierarchy was ‘embraced’ as a way of Indian culture). Adivasi food practices are specifically attacked by the upper-class Hindu dialogue: with food being so integral to a community, non-vegetarian food or meat-eating practices are reduced to filth and dirt, otherwise rendered a taboo. This becomes a marker of a community on a national level - when its social practices are considered offensive or filthy, so is the community at large.

In 2015, the enforcement of a beef ban was tried in the state of Jammu and Kashmir. It was seen as a pan-India Hindutva agenda and was argued by High Court advocate Zaffar Shah to be a blatant attack on the lower class. “Beef is a poor man’s food. We cannot impose financially burdening mutton-eating habits on the entire population.” He told ET magazine.

Economic infeasibility concerning the preparation and exchange of food is another level to this dialogue, as is in the case of Dalit cuisine. In the book Anna He Apoorna Brahma, author Shahu Patole describes Dalit cuisine as the embodiment of socio-cultural/economic displacement and oppression. The book consists of food practices and traditions in the author’s community, the Mangs of Marathwada, where beef is part of the diet. This book serves as an important voice in the time of the beef ban.

However, the book was not written explicitly for the ban. Patole’s account of the cuisine he has grown up with is ‘an acquired taste’ that is a commentary also on the discrimination faced by the community - with dishes that use minimal ingredients and are born out of necessity, not luxury. For example, instead of oil, beef fat is used in the making of dishes. Puran Poli, a popular dish in Maharashtra, used to be made from buttermilk and not ghee (as it is conventionally prepared). Patole also emphasises on the collaborative nature of food - how it is in the social exchange of food practices and the sharing of meals that culture is passed on or made to exist.

Adivasi food practices are specifically attacked by the upper-class Hindu dialogue: with food being so integral to a community, non-vegetarian food or meat-eating practices are reduced to filth and dirt, otherwise rendered a taboo. This becomes a marker of a community on a national level - when its social practices are considered offensive or filthy, so is the community at large.

In a piece written in Express Foodie, Patole mentions a friend who otherwise enjoys the food prepared at his home but asks him not to mention outside that he dined in the home of a Dalit. The friend - and neighbour - sends across delicacies but is not comfortable, yet, with the exchange being mutual. The extension of a bond that lies in the sharing of a home, when unrequited, leaves - in this case - Dalit cuisine a desolate space.

On 4th December 2019, Finance Minister Nirmala Sitharaman became subject to controversy when she stated in the parliament that she “doesn’t eat much onions and garlics.” Her response was to Congress MP Supriya Sule’s question, “do you eat onions?” - with regard to a debate on the rising onion prices in the country. Sitharaman’s response was a commentary on her Brahmin background - where onions, garlic and meat are not consumed. But adding to the narrative on economic infeasibility, this incident certainly contributes to the dismissal of local, indigenous practices. Perhaps Sitharaman was merely answering the question, but there was a lack of accountability of the struggles of a class that is depending on the production and consumption of onions. The rise of onion prices does not affect the Brahmin community, as most food production and practices today don’t. But this adverse effects on communities that require leaders to recognise their choices - since not all of them are based on luxury, but a necessity. Why was she asked whether she eats onions? Because it is exactly the lack of experience that dictates discriminatory economic decisions and socio-cultural practices.

The redemptive qualities of food are seldom appreciated and, by way of that, disregarded in the political upheavals surrounding food. Food serves this purpose when it brings normality to a home threatened by conflict (Indian festivals have always been about food), especially concerning the disassociation from identity, the displacement of homes and the trauma that settles in every corner. Food becomes the meeting point, the juncture of hands, the therapy for broken hearts and the comfort of identity otherwise (by the state or social structure) ‘other-ed’.

Regardless of the politicisation of food, or the ethical dilemmas surrounding some traditions, the relationships shared through food within different cultures is one of defiance and agency. It is through food, then, that a community perseveres, reaches closure and continues one generation after another. And despite political debates, It is this nature of food practices that will outlast all those who come to destroy.

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Saachi D’Souza is a freelance writer and research intern in Ahmedabad. You can follow her at @saachidsouza

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