Of food and memories

…I have always seen Kayasth society as Janus-faced: looking forward and backward at the same time. Stuck to some notions of roots while trying to uproot itself to a socially and materially better, more ‘modern’ reality. Having imbibed bits and pieces of everyone else’s culture and lifestyle, the community is cosmopolitan.

But in being fiercely protective of this turf, of this unique Ganga-Jamuni – colonial culture, as also its religious moorings (Kayasths retained their religion despite changing their food habits, customs and language to blend in with the ruling communities of the day, whether the Mughals or the British), in trying to maintain ‘pure’ bloodlines and exclusivist family structures, the community also lives in a strange, complex denial of the very melting pot that has given rise to it.

The melting pot becomes strikingly obvious in matters of food. Pasanda, kofta, kaliya, shami kebab – all the big-ticket meat dishes in the Kayasth repertoire undoubtedly bear a Mughal/Nawabi influence. Thanks to the proximity of the community to Muslim nobility, the preference for red meat became as much a part of Kayasth lifestyle and home-cooking as in Muslim homes.

So firmly was non-vegetarianism embedded in the food habits of the community that most affluent families had at least one meat dish on the table for dinner – very different from the custom of other ‘upper-caste’ Hindu communities of the time. In fact, dishes like the kaliya found exalted, almost ritualistic status. In the home of the LCs, and indeed in other Kayasth homes, to cook meat was symbolic of a happy and auspicious time.

Festive or celebratory occasions generally saw the appearance of richer and more sumptuous non-vegetarian food on the table, usually paired with pooris. Snacks like shami kebabs or fried kofte, preferred with chotta pegs of whisky and sundowners as the Kayasths took on colonial customs, could still be eaten by themselves at tea, but a heartier main meal would see even these paired with fried carbs.

A popular combination was shami kebabs with pan-fried parathas, made almost daily at home for at least one meal. Kebab–parathas worked as a breakfast dish, as a filling evening supper or as a picnicky snack. I liked the last the best. The flat kebab would be wrapped in the distinctive triangular paratha of Kayasth homes and we would happily munch on them in the car or train while travelling, or during picnics with food spread out on durries. …

Although ‘outsiders’, or non-Kayasths, have always seen Kayasths as ‘adhe Mussalman’ or half Muslim, within the community, and in the LCs’ home for sure, there seemed to exist a great suspicion of the ‘other’. For the longest time, Barima did not want to eat out in restaurants where she suspected the cook could be Muslim.

She was not unique in this. It was a common way of thinking, especially for vegetarian Kayasth women who did not usually interact outside religious boundaries. Paradoxically, Mrs LC would be upset if she found that meat had not been cooked on a festive day. Like the ritualistic use of ghee, cooking meat too signified plenty. It was eschewed during times of mourning or abstaining and cooked when you needed to signal the resuming of a ‘full life’.

In caste-ridden Hindu society, different types of meats were traditionally prescribed for different communities. According to some historians, while Vedic texts mention beef being part of the Aryan diet, especially in the aftermath of sacred sacrifices, the Kshatriyas, who were warriors, certainly ate game.

Flavourful venison was prescribed for the royals. Versions of the Ramayana mention Sita, a deity along with Ram to millions of Indians, longing for deer meat while exiled in the forest, according to the redoubtable K.T. Achaya who has researched Indian food history in such depth. It was with the reformist spirit of Buddhism and Jainism, as monastic orders were established that rituals, sacrifices and meat eating in ancient India took a back seat.

Hinduism changed as a reaction to the emergence of these new religions and a more frugal sense of piety took over. Meat eating began to be socially and religiously shunned by the three ‘upper’ castes of Hindu society while those designated as ‘lower-castes’ continued with their cheaper sources of protein and sustenance. All this is fairly common knowledge.

The Kayasths, never part of the strict Vedic caste hierarchy, a made-up community of fused identities, looked at meat eating quite differently. The original strain of ‘upper-caste’ Hindu more, dominant within the community in many ways, may have frowned upon non-vegetarianism, viewing it as ‘unclean’ and ritualistically impure, but with the new rulers from Central Asia firmly ensconced, meat eating became acceptable.

The Rajputs, a community in India that ostensibly traces its origins to the warrior Kshatriyas and which also seems to have sprung up in the subcontinent in medieval times, eat meat as well. For them meat is a symbol of royalty, power and plenty. The Kayasths, affluent by association with the new powerful elite of the subcontinent, the Mughal rulers, treated non-vegetarianism in a similar way.

They imbibed the courtly traditions and dishes, and turned these into rituals of prosperity and plenty. In the melting pot of the subcontinent, as new identities were forged, new food traditions came up. The food culture of the Kayasths is a reflection of the heterogenous identity of the community, assimilating different influences over a period of perhaps a thousand years. The Kayasths may or may not have been ‘tolerant’, but their cuisine has to be one of India’s most ‘tolerant’ foods.

(Excerpt from Mrs LC’s Table: Stories about Kayasth Food and Culture by Anoothi Vishal; published by Hachette; `350)