Nine years after Shahu Patole wrote ‘Anna He Apoorna Brahma’ in Marathi, its translation in English was published in 2024. In an interview, he takes us through the process of translating dishes that have rarely been articulated in mainstream media, his research methodology, and his favourite greens.
When food columns were introduced in Marathi newspapers in the 1990s, journalist, writer, and government officer Shahu Patole spotted no mention of foods from his life and his community. He found that Maharashtrian food meant onion poha, misal, vada pao, puranpoli, and little else. On the rare occasion the Konkan region was included, the list would grow marginally to include chicken and fish preparations under “non-vegetarian”. Upon sending recipes for dishes cooked in Marathwada’s Mang households—a historically oppressed Dalit community to which he belongs—to publications, he was met with resistance. The courier would return the recipes to his postal address, suggesting that they weren’t accepted for publication.
Dalit Literature—a term “in use since 1958, the year of the first Conference of the Maharashtra Dalit Sahitya Sangha (Maharashtra Dalit Literary Society)”—began being published more fervently from the 1960s onwards. The Dalit Panther Movement in 1972 and women’s movements across India at the time offered significant impetus to Dalit writing. While the works published during this time and right after included searing accounts of hunger, shame, and violence, along with documentation of the foods that Dalit communities were compelled to eat due to scarcity or caste norms, Patole realised there were no vivid descriptions or recipes of what and how Dalit people ate.
In view of this gap, and despite the fact that food wasn’t his “subject,” he wrote Anna He Apoorna Brahma, published in 2015, which captured in rich detail the foods he and others from the Mang and Mahar communities in Marathwada and the surrounding regions ate and continue to eat. In 2024, the book was translated into English from Marathi by Bhushan Korgaonkar (read an excerpt here).
In the following edited excerpts from an interview, Patole shares with us misconceptions about what constitutes his community’s food, the role women from his community play in keeping their families fed despite scarcity, and the dishes he likes to prepare.
The book was translated nine years after you wrote the Marathi text, and more people are able to read your work, now in English. What was the translation process like?
Bhushan, a Goan, and I, from Marathwada, collaborated on translating my book, which presented unique challenges. My language reflects the region’s distinct flavour, with 20-30 percent of the words deviating from standard Marathi. Translating these words into English required creativity, as many conveyed complex meanings and cultural nuances. For instance, the word ‘chani’ has different meanings in our region (dried meat chunks) and in Konkan/Goa (a squirrel). The moment we hear the word ‘chani,’ the entire process (of preparing dried meat) flashes through our minds.
While translating, Bhushan would often call me to clarify meanings of words, and I’d return his calls when I missed them. However, I soon realised that phone conversations weren’t sufficient to convey the nuances. I invited Bhushan and his photographer friend, Kunal Vijayakar, to visit my village, where I showed them local vegetables, equipment, and idols. They met my mother and other folks from the village and spent time chatting with them. This hands-on approach helped clarify many concepts.
Our patience and attention to detail paid off, resulting in a precise and accurate translation. The English version is actually longer, as Bhushan had to elaborate on each word’s meaning. His dedication and heart are evident in the translation, particularly in the beautiful rendition of a lullaby, which reads like an original English poem.
The translation process was filled with fun, laughter, and occasional goof-ups—enough material for a separate article.
What was your research process like?
Although I didn’t conduct traditional research, I spent a year and a half studying the literature of saints. I explored our caste, social position, and food culture through the works of over 52 Vaishnav saints, including Shree Chakradharswami and Shri Niloba. I also read the Bhagavad Gita, Dnyaneshwari, and Shrimad Bhagavat. This part is based on research.
But the major part of the book that chronicles our food culture and recipes is a candid account of my lived experiences. Growing up, my family wasn’t impoverished, thanks to my father’s government job. While I’m familiar with poverty, we never had to face its harsh realities or rely on others for food.
You may think I’m exaggerating, but there is not a single recipe in my book that I haven’t eaten. I can make all those recipes as these are my personal experiences.
You often highlight that the Mang and Mahar communities predominantly consume vegetarian food. However, when discussing your culinary traditions, non-vegetarian dishes tend to take centre stage. Can you shed some light on this apparent paradox?
People who visited the local weekly markets would buy meat if they had some money. Otherwise, meat was available at irregular intervals—only when an animal like a bull, cow, or buffalo died. Some people would buy an old, unproductive animal, feed it, or let it graze freely, and then slaughter it once it gained weight. For many, buying meat was unaffordable, making it a big myth that Dalits eat non-vegetarian food daily, a misconception that persists.
Our diet comprises various vegetarian dishes and vegetables, but these aren’t the kind you would typically find in markets. Instead, they’re seasonal or organic varieties that grow wild, often in areas with leftover farm water. Examples include Tandulja (amaranthus), Chandanbatva (white goosefoot), Ghol (purslane leaves), Chigal (wild purslane), and Paathri (country dandelion)—none of which are cultivated from sown seeds. Umbarachya dodya (unripe figs) were available year-round.
Many of these wild, free vegetables are now available in markets. In my book, I use the past tense when describing our food culture and these vegetables because many have either become extinct or are no longer prepared, even when available. For instance, pumpkin leaves and moringa leaves are hardly prepared in our region anymore. (I am told that Konkani folks prepare these curries even today.)
Women (from the Mahar and Mang communities) have made remarkable contributions to culinary innovation. For instance, during a bountiful groundnut harvest, they would crush fresh peanuts to make pithla, a type of curry. When vegetables were scarce, they’d use jowar flour, red chilli powder, and salt to make a simple yet satisfying pithla. In fact, there are numerous variations—16 types of pithla.
Preparing pithla is straightforward: boil water, add chopped onion, salt, red chilli powder, and besan, stirring constantly. The dish is ready in no time. If fresh coriander is on hand, it’s used; if not, the dish still turns out well. The same goes for turmeric powder – add it if you have it. This resourcefulness and judgement is a testament to the skill of cooking delicious meals with whatever ingredients are available.
Women played a pivotal role in shaping these cooking methods and food traditions. What insights did you gain into their contributions when researching this topic?
Except in a few affluent households, women from all castes worked on farms. Their daily routine was gruelling: rising early to grind flour on stone grinders, cooking, fetching and storing water, collecting firewood, carrying meals to the fields, working alongside their husbands, returning home to cook and serve dinner, and caring for children. This wasn’t just a routine—it was a double burden.
Each morning, women would grind grains while singing ‘ovi’ (songs composed by rural women in a particular metre while grinding flour)—traditional songs that helped them cope with hardships. While some researchers view ‘ovi’ as a valuable cultural heritage, it’s essential to acknowledge that these songs emerged from exploitation. Women sang them not to preserve culture but to momentarily forget their struggles. Singing can be a coping mechanism, but in this context, it was a response to the relentless labour and hardship that women endured.
Except in a few affluent households, women from all castes worked on farms. Their daily routine was gruelling: rising early to grind flour on stone grinders, cooking, fetching and storing water, collecting firewood, carrying meals to the fields, working alongside their husbands, returning home to cook and serve dinner, and caring for children.
If you want to understand the heart of cooking, read the dedication page of my book, where I’ve honoured my mother. Rural women cook intuitively, without measurements or proportions. My mother would effortlessly adjust dishes for unexpected guests by adding water and extra ingredients to already cooked meals. This adaptability meant we rarely had dry curries or fried preparations.
Women would quickly assess the number of additional eaters and adjust the bhakri and curry accordingly. We’d mash the bhakri in the curry and enjoy. Jowar bhakri, in particular, requires generous amounts of watery gravy. Through experience, women develop a keen sense of proportion, knowing exactly how much salt or chilli powder to add. Many ask why my book lacks precise measurements, but that’s simply how we cook—without standard measures, even today.
What did you eat in your household during festivities? Which did you particularly enjoy?
Jowar bhakri and curry were staples in our diet for 365 days, with wheat and rice reserved exclusively for festivals. We celebrated around 16 festivals every year in our region, each marked by traditional dishes like puranpoli (sweet stuffed flatbread), yelavnyachi amti (a curry made from leftover chana dal water; chana dal was used as a stuffing in the puranpoli), gulavani (jaggery syrup), rice, fried kurdaya (crispy wheat snacks), and bhaji (fritters). Our everyday diet rarely included dairy products. Interestingly, our language reflects our reliance on bhakri: instead of asking, “Have you had your lunch/dinner?”, we’d ask “Have you eaten a bhakri?”, equating bhakri with a full meal. When inviting someone to eat, we’d say, “Come, let’s eat bhakri,” rather than “let’s have a meal.”
Do you cook regularly? What are your favourite dishes to cook?
I cook regularly. I love our traditional recipes, which often don’t require oil or tempering—a reflection of our resourceful past when edible oil was scarce. Instead, we’d use crushed peanuts as a substitute. This ingredient is commonly added to various vegetables like shepu (dill), chuka (green sorrel), chakvat or chandanbatva (white goosefoot), palak (spinach), daal-vanga (toor dal and eggplant), kandyachi paat (onion greens), hagrya ghol (purslane), and chigal (wild purslane).
You say that while it is important to remember and document the food traditions of Dalits, the disappearance of many Dalit occupations, due to newer technologies or the Dalit struggle, is not regrettable. Why do you feel this way?
You’re right. Without education, I would have been confined to the village, performing traditional tasks that were unfairly imposed upon us. We would have remained trapped in an unjust social structure that exploited us based on caste. Each community was assigned specific tasks—Mangs did this, Mahars did that, Nhavis (barbers) shaved people, Dhobis (launderers) washed clothes often for little or no compensation, in exchange for a predetermined share of crops. It’s liberating that this system has been dismantled.
The Indian social system in rural areas has two villages and two cultures within the same village: the main one and the one on its outskirts. Although we’d enter the main village to perform our assigned duties, we were never truly part of it. This segregation was reflected in the layout, with specific settlements like Mang Wada to the east, Chambhar Wada nearby, Mahar Wada to the west, and Dhor Wada across a water body—all located outside the main village boundary. This pattern was common in most villages (across Marathwada).
You mention that many ingredients common to Dalit households, such as rakti or wajadi, are eaten and celebrated in other parts of the world. But the narratives surrounding Dalit people eating these ingredients are those of dismissal. What is it about food that brings out such strong reactions?
I’m unapologetic about my food choices. When the state implemented the cow (and their progeny) slaughter ban, no media outlets approached us for our reaction. Even our Dalit leaders remained silent on the issue. Why should I be ashamed of eating food that my ancestors consumed? If it was deemed inferior, who offered them alternatives or access to so-called sattvic food? The blame lies with India’s social and economic structure.
Why should I be ashamed of eating food that my ancestors consumed? If it was deemed inferior, who offered them alternatives or access to so-called sattvic food?
In Hinduism, scriptures like the Bhagavad Gita, Dnyaneshwari, and Shrimad Bhagavat emphasise the idea that “you become what you eat.” You cannot separate religion with food and that’s where all the problems begin.
There are two distinct cultures: one of hardworking individuals and another of those who don’t labour. The latter benefits from the former’s hard work, affording them the luxury of following dietary restrictions like chaturmas (four months of abstinence from certain foods) and vegetarianism. Meanwhile, the actual cultivators—belonging to the lower castes—toil in the fields, growing staples like wheat, jowar, bajra, and vegetables.
The association of food with religion has instilled an inferiority complex among lower castes. But let’s consider this: If I adopt a sattvic diet, abstaining even from ginger and garlic, would my caste change? Would I be upgraded to a higher caste? Our societal structure allows for religious conversion, but caste remains immutable—and this is the root of the problem.
Is it sattvic to name and shame a large community for their food and food culture? To prohibit them from their traditional foods? To dictate what they should eat? What kind of compassion is it that takes away the food from people’s plates?
Bhushan Korgaonkar is a multilingual writer, director, theatre producer, and translator. Celebrated for his engaging stories on Storytel and popular songs on YouTube, Bhushan is also a featured contributor to Loksatta and Mint Lounge, sharing tales of his culinary adventures. He has engaged with traditional Lavani artistes and written the book Sangeet Bari on their lives. As the founder of B Spot Productions, Bhushan directs award-winning theatre productions and aims to foster community storytelling, sensory exploration, and dialogue on taboo topics, while also offering dance and writing workshops as well as food and culture trails. He translated this interview from the Marathi to English.
Mukta Patil is Projects Editor at The Locavore. She works on stories that spotlight the intricacies of our food systems, and how they interact with the climate emergency, the environment, and people. She lives with her cat, Pooki, on the outskirts of Goa.
Oishika Roy is an Assistant Editor at The Locavore. She likes to work on stories that employ food as a lens to understand the world, and enjoys learning dance in her free time.
We would like to thank Maithili Mali (@acidbadak) for transcribing this interview in Marathi.
You can read this interview in Marathi here.
Login with Google