What we eat is what we are. Does food not then serve as a reflection of life? If our food options are limited, are our life choices restricted too? Can a limited plate – and palette – suggest a limited existence, too? Does a suppressed culinary culture mirror the oppression of its people? This is precisely the inquiry at the heart of Shahu Patole’s 2015 work, Anna He Apoona Brahma, brought into English as Dalit Kitchens of Marathwada by Bhushan Korgaonkar in 2024.
Graciously giving one interview after another at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2025, answering in Marathi, Hindi and English (with Bhushan very happily translating anything and everything, both for Patole and the one asking the questions), Patole himself does the job of the interviewer: he makes you feel at ease immediately. Upon the mention of Scroll, he eagerly suggested I look up the platform’s 2016 review, the first major English critique of his book.
Your brilliant book is, in a way, many books in one: an encyclopaedia, a recipe book, a commentary, a folktale collection, and a social inquiry. (Patole adds, Geography too!). I’m interested in learning about your thought process when you started writing this book. Was its final shape intentional?
No, it was ongoing. There came certain points, for instance, once in 1991, when Marathi newspapers started writing about food for the first time. But there was no mention of our food. So I pitched some pieces to them, wanting them to write about our cuisines as well, but they declined to publish.
Everything remained the same until 2014 when someone asked me to write. There is a tradition of Diwali special issues in Marathi magazines, with 2000 issues coming out every year even now. So, one of those Diwali special issues approached me to write a special feature on Dalit food. I had several Xeroxed pages from when the machine had newly arrived, so I started writing, but their word limit is at most 5000. My friend suggested I write more descriptively and turn it into a book instead of some special feature. So, I kept writing till 2015-16, only researching for the section on saints, for I wanted to learn what place my caste had (in the scriptures). The initial draft wasn’t long, but I rewrote and rewrote until I got the grown-up kid that is this book.
As you rightly point out several times in your book, one of the primary reasons why Dalit cuisines are outside the mainstream food culture is that non-Dalit sources ignore it altogether, and there is a sense of shame that is associated with food for Dalit writers. So I was curious to know your own journey about writing about it, thinking about it, and how that evolved over time.
I was raised in a boarding school, where there were children from all communities, and everyone would share food and plates. And also, there was no concept of untouchability. So, I feel that the government should make it compulsory to send their children to such places so that there is a concept of equality.
Secondly, I’ve eaten every recipe mentioned in the book, and I can cook each one of them if I get the ingredients, that is. It’s not a researched book in that sense, stemming rather from my lived experiences. Only the part about saint literature comes from research, where I searched for myself, where my caste and identity are, and where the Dalit community and food exist in there.
I cannot but ask you about the brilliant title of the Marathi original, Anna He Apoorna Brahma. Was there any journey behind reaching that final title, or was it something you always had in mind?
There is chadrasa, or six rasas (tastes), none of which were there in Dalit food. And how would there be? Everything comes from the top; everyone is eating the pickings; everyone is trying to survive. I had many Brahmin friends, from whom I heard the line Anna He Poorna Brahma (comparing food to God, the “purna Brahma”) all the time. I always thought but our food is not complete! There’s no ghee, no srikara (pepper), hing (asafoetida)… One vegetable comes, one roti comes; they eat and leave!
In Bhagwad Gita, what you eat is what you are. The book divides the grain into three categories: Sāttvic, Rājasic and Tāmasic. We aren’t even Tāmasic; we don’t have any of these three categories. Did anyone give us any choice at any point in time? Without giving us a choice, how can you say what we’ve become? At least give us a choice first, even today! My kids today eat burgers, pizzas, and pasta, but we didn’t have anything. There was no vada pav. Leave vada pav, there was no pav! How would we have purti (fulfilment in terms of food)?
You do a deep dive into several scriptures. At the same time, many folktales are mentioned in the book. What was that research process like?
We are the last generation who care about all those works. I took a year to study the literature of the saints in their entirety. In the book, I stop at 1972. Beyond that, you’re seeing everything on the TV.
About folktales, these are all oral traditions that exist but haven’t been captured so far. The book brings them together.
The Marathi original was published in 2015. Have there been any positive changes you’ve noticed since?
No! None at all. It’s gotten worse, for that matter. Everyone wants to hide. “We don’t eat all that.” “We’re like Brahmins”. See what’s happening in Manipur. I’m also writing a book on the state. Plus, read up on the delisting of castes; you’ll get all the answers.
Would you like to recommend any books from Dalit literature that more people should read?
Read Kalyanilya Resha by Raju Bavishkar. It’s a fantastic book and a very important work of Marathi literature that everyone should read.
First time at the JLF. How has your experience been so far?
I’ve been to the literary festival in Mumbai and to other vernacular fests before this, which are quite different to fests like these. I like how everything is scheduled minute-to-minute here, like these interviews, as I also come from a similar world where every moment is accounted for.
