That Bitter Taste: When Food Becomes A Political Weapon

The history of food is mired in politics. Even when it denotes a spiritual message or aesthetic or sensual pleasure, underne­ath it often lies an essential politics, a desire to categorise and control people. When Krishna classifies food into sattvik, rajasik and tamasik in the Gita, the focus is on a higher spiritual order that can be attained through food, but the hie­rar­chy is as much about food as it is about the people who consume it. The elite French words beef and pork came into vogue to denote cuisine, instead of cow and pig, when English was a poorer language. Culinary preferences can instigate a revolt when soldiers rise up against cartridges greased with beef and pork fat. Food is an ethical enterprise when M.K. Gandhi emphasises vegetarianism. It becomes a cunning act when hoarders, with the connivance of rulers, store food to make profits during a crisis. It is a poli­tical tool that figures in election manifestos as the promise of free rice. The market seamlessly segues into politics when harmful chemicals are deployed for farm production, without caring about their impact. And it marks a majoritarian triumph when mobs impose a forcible shutdown of meat shops during Hindu festivals.

The basic biological need is now a weapon to dominate and eliminate the Other. In Au­g­ust 2015, Mohammad Akhlaq was killed by hooligans who barged into his home in Dadri on the suspicion that he had stored beef. Days after the incident, the then Union minister of culture Mahesh Sharma explained the assault in an int­erview to this reporter: “Gai ke maans par hum logon ka… andar se aatma hilne lagti hai (On beef… our soul starts shaking). You can kill other animals… (but) when you name cow…We have linked the cow with our mother.”

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There’s a legitimate ecological and physiolo­g­ical argument for turning vegan or for going organic, and it’s being discussed and debated the world over. But in a country where—accor­ding to the National Family Health Survey, over 70 per cent of the population eat meat—an unhealthy aversion towards meat-eaters has gro­wn in the recent years, it can get converted into hatred if you are a Muslim. For a long time, the campaign against meat was led by a small section of influential upper castes. Few know that over time, a streak of vegetarianism among Dalits has also emerged.

“For at least a decade, the RSS has been spr­e­ading the virtues of vegetarianism in Dalit areas. They visit our homes and tell us not to eat meat,” says a young Dalit scholar who teaches in an Uttarakhand university. The modus operandi, he says, is highly effe­c­t­ive. “Impressed by the RSS, several educated Dalits join their fold. They then become car­r­iers of the Sangh’s message,” says the sch­olar, who himself had been a swayamsevak for several years.

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“The RSS comes to our areas with texts like Hanuman Chalisa and Sundar Kaand, and int­r­oduces Hindu rituals like Satyanarayan Katha. It prepares the ground for their subsequent drive towards vegetarianism,” he says.

This could be a phenomenal turn in culinary habits of Dalits and Other Backward Classes, for whom meat has traditionally been an easy and good source of protein. “The rich have various means to supplement their diet. Vegetarianism may deprive us of nutritional security,” he says. He adds that it shouldn’t surprise anyone because “the Sangh is the only organisation that works in our areas”.

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Ancient Indian texts tell us that all living and non-living beings on the planet are anna (food) in themselves. “From anna (food) are produced all creatures which dwell on earth. Then they live by food, and in the end they return to food,” says Taittiriya Upanishad. One can read in it a brilliant exposition of the food chain as described in contemporary textbooks.

No wonder then that Sanskrit scriptures oft­­en celebrate meat-eating. In the Valmiki Ram­ayana, when Sita and the two brothers cro­ss the Ganga during their exile, she promises to offer liquor and meat to the river upon their safe return. When the Gita classifies food into three categories, it doesn’t prescribe any sanction for eating meat. Even Man­u­smriti, the text that lea­ves many furious, emphatically says: “There is no sin in eating meat... for that is the natural way of created bei­n­gs”. It, however, adds a caveat that “abstention brings great rewards”.

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Food becomes a tool of politics when it no lon­ger remains a biological necessity, but acquires ethical messages of abstention or becomes a culinary aesthetic. Classification of food eventually leads to hierarchy among people, as exotic vegetables and exquisite wines come to define not the product but the consumers.

The issue that one should now be clinically discussing is:  how to consume food and water resources with minimum damage to the ecology, and ensure an equitable production, distribut­ion and consumption of food. The most depri­ved people are often the most affected by any change in food practices. In her classic Silent Spring (1962), Rachel Carson underlined the rapid creation of new chemicals and wrote that men and animals are now required to adapt to 500 new chemicals “each year, chemicals totally outside the limits of biologic experience”. The­se chemicals, she writes, are “the synthetic creations of man’s inventive mind, brewed in his laboratories, and having no counterparts in nature”.

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These are threatening words, but they also make us realise that sermons delivered from boardrooms can look ludicrous before native wisdom. Environmentalist Anupam Mishra once gave me the first lesson in understanding the politics of food and floods. Asked what cau­­sed floods, he replied in poised Hindi: “Paa­ni ki apni smriti hoti hai. Aap usey apni jagah se hataoge, wah laut ayega (Water has its memory. You can remove it from its habitat, but it will return.)”

In stunningly simple and yet profound wor­ds, he upended the prevailing understanding about floods. Textbooks teach us that deforestation and construction along riverbeds causes floods. The emphasis is always on an external factor; humans consider water an insignificant commodity meant to be tamed. In Mishra’s wis­dom, water was the director, humans mere actors.

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Another realisation about the significance of local food came in April 2021, when during a journalistic trip to the majestic riverine isl­and of Majuli in Assam, I met Professor Dambarudhar Nath, who taught hist­o­ry at Dibrugarh University. Textbooks tell us about the devastating impact of the floods, and insist on construction of embankments. But Nath, a native of the island, lamented the lack of floods due to embankments made in recent years. He remembered the folk songs when kids went to the river to watch the floods. “We loved our floods. They brought fertility and fish.” He attributed the loss of soil fertility to dams that were being constructed without considering the local requirements.

We now have movements to protect local food cultures, movements that are an essential part of global food politics. Food is now intrinsically linked with sustainability and climate change. Cultivation of exotic and foreign fruits adds flavour to the cuisine, but it needs to be locally sustainable. Foreign crops may require excessive land and water resources, and may lead to climate change. One such case that is now being debated is of palm oil. According to the Ministry of Agriculture, India imported 133.5 lakh tonnes of edible oil in 2020-21, of which the share of palm oil was around 56 per cent. To meet the shortage, the Union government has launched a Rs 11,040 crore mission for oil palm cultivation and identified around 28 lakh hectares in 284 districts across 22 states, from Tripura to Tamil Nadu, for it. The proposal has seen sharp opposition on the ground that the government should instead focus on native oil seeds. Among other things, that debate—which involves various aspects of life—has been highjacked by the visceral campaign against meat-eaters.

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In this season of assault on meat shops, let me end with an incident when I was perhaps the only vegetarian in a massive wilderness. And yet, I was treated with supreme affection. In February-March 2014, I spent three weeks in the Naxal camps in Abujhmarh forest of Bastar on a journalistic assignment. The reb­els make a provision for a mutton feast once a month; a separate fund is earmarked for the celebration. When the date of my departure arrived, the day of the feast was still away. They wanted to treat me, but could not have withdrawn money from the party fund in advance. The insurgents held a quick meeting and decided that they would talk to their bosses about it later, but they had to give a farewell to their guest. When they gleefully informed me about the feast, I disappointed them by telling them that I was vegetarian.

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They didn’t believe it. How could anyone live without mutton? How do people live in the city? But the farewell had to be organised, so a cadre suggested jalebis. The market was several hours away, but a villager was asked to leave immediat­ely on a bicycle. By the time the jalebis—which were already several days old—arrived, they had turned dry and yellow. We all sat on the gro­und, and, guarded by armed guerrilla fighters, savoured the sweet together. I had spent the pre­vious three weeks with an impending fear of a police attack on the Naxal camp, and my res­u­ltant death by bullets or a grenade. On the last day, my meat-eating hosts ensured that my body and soul returned satiated with jalebis. 

(This appeared in the print edition as "Food Politik")

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