Explained: This article explains the political background, key decisions, and possible outcomes related to Explained : Purity, caste and the politics of the Indian kitchen and Its Impact and why it matters right now.
How is such cuisine cooked? One example it cites is striking: “Smoke a hive of wild kagadi bees. They flee, leaving behind a honeycomb packed with eggs and larvae. Chopped, spiced and simmered, it makes a dish with a sweet and spicy kick.”
The magazine then states what is widely known: “For thousands of years the caste system has divided people into hereditary groups. At the top were Brahmins, or priests; below them came kings and warriors; then traders and farmers. Beneath all were the Dalits, born to do jobs deemed degrading, such as cleaning latrines or disposing of carcasses. Hindu texts explained these divisions through divine anatomy: Brahmins emerged from the head of God, warriors from the arms, traders from the thighs — and Dalits from the feet.”
It adds that Dalits were historically shut out from much of society; even their touch was considered polluting. Their homes were pushed to the edges of villages, and they were barred from using wells from which higher castes drew water. Although caste discrimination was outlawed in 1950, it remains widespread. Many higher-caste Hindus, the article notes, would never eat with Dalits, let alone treat them as equals.
The article then draws a parallel with food hierarchies. “In Hindu scripture food has a hierarchy, too. At the top is sattvic (‘pure’) fare — rice, fruit and fresh vegetables meant to calm the mind. Below is rajasik (‘fit for kings’) food — meat, fish and heavily spiced dishes thought to excite body and spirit. At the bottom lies tamasic (‘sinful’) food — beef, offal and other ‘impure’ meats said to dull the senses and sap energy.”
Claiming that “Dalit cuisine is widely shunned — yet fabulous,” the article suggests that Dalits are less picky about food than many other Indians. Ironically, caste taboos have produced a culinary upside. Food that others avoid tends to be cheaper. Thus skin, intestines, tongues, feet and ears all find their way into Dalit pots. Leftovers from upper-caste homes where Dalits work are seldom wasted. When cows die naturally, no Brahmin would touch their flesh — but for Dalits it becomes an affordable source of protein.
The article notes that many pious Hindus revere cows, so tasks relating to bovine butchery often fall to Muslims or Dalits. This can be hazardous. Cow slaughter is banned in most Indian states. While disposing of cows that have died naturally is not illegal, cow vigilantes sometimes fail to make that distinction.
The magazine also cites Sri Vamsi Matta — known simply as Vamsi — a Bangalore-based theatre and visual artist whose performances explore the history of Dalit food. In a solo show titled “Come Eat With Me”, he weaves personal stories with traditional narratives before inviting the audience to share a meal he has prepared. He finds the rhetoric of “purity” baffling. Speaking of cows, he asks: “How can something so pure when alive become impure the moment it dies?”
Vamsi further argues that upper-caste notions of what counts as “pure” food have seeped into the mainstream, setting standards that others are expected to follow. This can have serious consequences. Landlords, he says, often refuse to rent homes to Dalits or Muslims, insisting that tenants be “pure vegetarian”.
After reading The Economist piece, I searched online to see what more might be available on Dalit cuisine. I found that Patole first published his recipe book in Marathi in 2015. Initially, many Dalits rebuked him for drawing attention to food habits they feared would be ridiculed. However, an English translation published in 2024 drew the interest of food writers and sparked discussions on social media.
The first is “special pure vegetarian” (vishesh shuddha shakahari), whose daily diet excludes ingredients such as garlic, onions and ginger because these grow underground and harvesting them kills the plant, which is considered contrary to the principle of non-violence.
The second is the vegetarian category (shakahari), which abstains from items like onions, garlic and brinjal during Chaturmas but uses them during the rest of the year.
The third category is the mixed diet (mishrahari), whose adherents generally practise vegetarianism but may eat eggs and occasionally even meat stock.
The fourth category is non-vegetarian (mansahari), where some groups turn vegetarian during the entire Chaturmas period while others do so only during the month of Shravana.
Finally, Patole identifies a fifth category — culture-compliant non-vegetarians (sanskruti-palak mansahari). Although classical Hindu texts recognise only four categories, Patole notes that there existed a fifth group: the Shudratishudra, or those considered the lowest of the low.
This group, he says, was relegated outside formal Hindu society. As a result, while it formed part of the social structure, there were no dietary restrictions on its members. However, strict rules governed their social behaviour. Alongside the foods consumed by the other four categories, their diet also included beef and buff (buffalo meat).
“No religious gurus ever cared whether people of this category observed sacred days of non-vegetarian abstinence,” Patole writes. “Their food customs were despised and looked down upon by all other categories. The upper classes had neither time nor interest to find out what this category ate.”
Patole wonders why dominant media and food writers remain silent about this fifth category. “Do they feel that the cuisine of a region is defined and limited by the food culture of the upper classes? Or do they pretend that they have no knowledge about the food history of this fifth category?” he asks.
He therefore seeks to explore what people outside the elite sphere eat every day: their nourishment, delicacies, snacks and desserts. What festivals do they celebrate? What special meals are prepared for those occasions? What do they serve their guests? And why, he asks, do writers, bloggers, columnists and filmmakers rarely ask such simple questions?
Meanwhile, the book has been welcomed by Suraj Yengde, author and activist known for his work on caste and race, and currently Assistant Professor of History and Africana Studies and a Ford Foundation Presidential Fellow at the University of Pennsylvania.
He argues that the book challenges “violent vegetarians” who regard their own tastes as superior and treat meat-eaters as impure. Meat and vegetables, he suggests, should be seen as complementary sources of nourishment.
“However,” he adds, India’s history of Brahmanism and Jainism has meant that meat is condemned and those who consume it are considered inferior. Patole’s book, Yengde writes, looks at everyday Dalit life, where sustainability has long been embedded in practice — not the kind of sustainability discussed in the glass towers of New York or Geneva.
Ray argues that we know very little about Dalit cooking because the dominant idea of Indian cuisine largely comes from upper-caste Hindus — particularly Brahmins — who historically occupy the top of the caste hierarchy and are largely vegetarian.
He notes that upper-caste Hindus dominate publishing houses that commission cookbooks as well as media organisations that produce cooking shows. In that context, Ray says, Patole’s book is “dynamite that explodes the idea of Indian food from the bottom up.”
Dutt writes: “You grow up eating a certain kind of animal, a certain type of meat or just meat in general, and you are associated with being lower caste or being impure.”
Growing up, her Dalit family often pretended to be upper-caste. Her mother did not want her to grow up carrying the stigma of belonging to the Bhangi sub-caste, whose members were historically forced to remove excrement from latrine pits.
According to Dutt, some Dalit sub-castes were expected to dispose of animal carcasses because corpses were seen as impure. Living in poverty, these same Dalits sometimes stripped and ate the flesh of those animals for survival. That stigma lingers. More than that, she writes, “because our entire being is considered impure, the food we eat is also considered impure.”
Thus, for many Dalits, their food evokes mixed emotions — comfort, but also shame. As Dutt puts it: “Joy cannot be separated from the oppression that we experience. It’s always going to be congealed together.”