How Local Food Traditions Survive in Globalised India
Despite difficulties in retaining agriculture-based lifestyles, residents of Garhwali villages in Uttarakhand hold on to tradition in the form of cuisine.
Just around the bend from the quiet village of Khaddar, Maggi Point hangs off the side of a cliff. Brightly-coloured packaged goods, plastic bottles with fizzy contents, and bags of chips alongside the establishment’s namesake, Maggi, line the shelves of this roadside convenience eatery.
I arrived in Uttarakhand in early June, on a grant to research dietary changes in villages not far from Dehradun. I was excited by the delicate coexistence of both traditional local cuisine and the newer surge of processed foods, most of which were brought in by multinational corporations. What were the causes of these dietary shifts? Had the residents of this region come to integrate, scorn, or glorify these products in relation to the foods of their childhood? Had these new products become synonymous with aspiration for the youngest generation? I found myself in a village on the side of a mountain, to find out.
Walking down the mountainside, following a troupe of uniformed schoolboys, I arrived at the site of my interviews. The women, at first, seem nervous with their guests: two women, one American, one Assamese. When they learn the topic of interviews is close to home, inside their kitchens even, the hesitation quickly melts away. The interviews turn into a village spectacle soon enough; women line a railing to watch and laugh as their sisters and friends answer questions regarding such things as their favourite dishes to cook, the extent of farming decline in the region, and the changes in household expenditure on food.
Harvesting yam leaves for kaafli, a Garhwali speciality. Find the recipe here.
Picture credit: Anna Marsh
Since the early 1990s, India has witnessed an explosion in the processed-food market. In the time immediately following the economic liberalisation, corporations like PepsiCo, CocaCola, and Nestle either entered the country for the first time or expanded their reach under newly relaxed regulations. In the years since its so-called ‘fast food revolution,’ India embraced this food culture with open arms, as evidenced by the 2300-crore rupee profit that Indian branches of these three mega-corporations reported to the Ministry of Corporate Affairs in the fiscal year 2017-18. These earnings were made off the diverse range of snack foods and cold drinks, including Mirinda, Lays, Thums Up, Maaza, and of course, the ubiquitous Maggi.
It goes without saying that diet has been affected by India’s developmental shifts, which have allowed processed goods to become more attractive and attainable. One of the key reasons is that employment in agriculture has slowly declined over the years, with an increased reliance on markets. One elderly woman reminisces of a time when the only food products that her family purchased from the market were oil and salt. Now, everything from grain to rice, and even fruits and vegetables are bought, instead of grown. Another woman, Uma Thapli, says that most of the household earnings goes towards purchasing produce, a reality that would have been unimaginable even a few generations ago.
Gunjan Sugandhi, Rural Initiatives Director of ANKURI, a locally-run nonprofit focused on sustainable community development, explains that the decline in agriculture is the result of the combined effect of changing climate and an imbalance of biodiversity. Both have led to noticeable occupational shifts in the region, which make it impossible to depend solely on fresh produce, and other formerly home-grown products. “The monsoon rains have become erratic, with the rains coming later and for shorter periods of time,” says Sugandhi. The difficulty in timing the rains has led to a reduced crop yield. In turn, many have moved towards more reliable sources of income, such as daily wage labor.
An imbalance of local fauna has also forced people to abandon farming. A once-balanced ecosystem has morphed into one that is unarguably off-kilter, with the swelling of local rhesus populations serving as a prime example. Leftover food is easy pickings for the monkeys who, with a more constant food supply, can spend more energy reproducing and live significantly longer. Chanda Khanduri, a local craftswoman, explains that in previous generations, entire communities were involved in the production of food; members of different households took turns watching over community fields and guarding them from animals. But, as family after family shifted from agriculture to other means of putting food on the table, it became increasingly difficult to keep constant watch over plots of land. This domino effect applied even more pressure on the farmers who remained, and as rhesus monkeys run rampant, it becomes harder to maintain traditional ways of life.
A field of turmeric in Uttarakhand’s Garhwal region
Picture credit: Alice Xu
However, it would be a mistake to assume that local food culture has died out as a result of these challenges. If there is a product that the villagers no longer grow, they now buy it in the marketplace to cook up the community’s traditional dishes. Grandmothers, seated in a circle of plastic chairs knitting scarves, are virtually unanimous in their preference to cook for their grandchildren, rather than giving them pocket money to spend at a local store. Archetypal of the nurturing grandmother, Parvati Devi assures, “Whatever they wish for, I will cook.” A true cornucopia of goods spews from these women’s imaginations as they name typical Indian treats they fashion for their grandchildren: puri, halwa, pakora, arbi ke patode, kheer, the list goes on.
Interestingly, this cultural pride and resilience seems to transcend generations. Upon first glance, I mistakenly think otherwise. Children wear t-shirts bearing Los Angeles and New York City skylines, and are bombarded with advertisements showing glamorous people eating Western takeaway. But it becomes apparent that they have placed the qualities of luxuriousness and desirability on the homemade foods they eat on special occasions, not in Kurkure and Mirinda. It would be a mistake to assume that they hope for anything other than a decadent version of the lives they know right now. When asked what sorts of food they imagine me and my friends eat in America, the children scrunch their eyes in concentration, and rattle off a list of decidedly Indian delicacies. “Pakora, paneer, mutton, biryani!” one exclaims gleefully. This was not what I was expecting to hear, but the thought of my friends and I gathered around a table eating these golden, decadent foods makes me smile. The assumption that food’s ability to embody aspiration, its power to shrink proximity to a desired lifestyle, is only connected to Western food, is wildly incorrect. It is in their own Indianness, not in an abstract sense of the West, that these children see the possibility of socioeconomic mobility for a different life.
And although they do confess to craving the occasional chocolate bar or cold drink, they show staunch loyalty to the food of their heritage. One particularly moxie-filled girl tells me that she loves the ‘simple food’ that comes out of her mother’s kitchen. Not too much oil or frill, but with flavour and substance to spare.
Like the precariously positioned Maggi Point of Khaddar, the local food of the region hangs in a delicate balance, counter to the influx of convenience foods. Some food scholars mourn the loss of local food cultures, convinced by the idea of a globalisation that glosses its indiscriminate hand over small, formerly secluded communities. And there is justification to worry about the future of these enclaves of tradition, but the vigour and resilience of local cultures are often, as I found during my time in Uttarakhand, grossly underestimated. The traditions of generations of village life do not hang unsupported; although there is an undeniable appreciation for new processed foods, traditional recipes and techniques are bolstered by the social fabric of the communities they belong to. The history of the region is infused within its food, each bite reminiscent of bygone times and customs. And although the beloved Maggi noodles or macaroni pasta may occasionally grace the table of a local family, they are prepared with the flair and genuineness of a people used to adapting to the changing world, not succumbing to it.
Sydney Robinson is an undergraduate student at Harvard University. She plans to scope out all of the Indian restaurants in the Boston area upon her return to the United States.
Banner image by Anna Marsh.
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