Mayuree Bankar
In India, food is never just nutrition. It is caste. It is a hierarchy. It is violence. And for Dalits, it has long been the most visible and visceral reminder of social exclusion.
Historically, sections of Dalit communities in specific regions have not had the right to choose what to eat or how to eat it. Instead, food has been imposed through leftovers, restrictions, and stigma. It is not coincidental that entire Dalit castes are labeled by what they are “allowed” to eat. Mahars, for example, have been associated with consuming carrion; Musahars with rats; Valmikis with jhootan-leftover food considered polluted by caste Hindus.
This is not just a matter of poverty; it is a matter of power.
For Dalit communities, food has historically been a site of violence as much as a source of sustenance. It has been used not only to separate but to shame, to draw boundaries that could not be crossed—not just between people, but between what was considered clean and what was condemned as polluted.
The caste system institutionalized this violence. The Manusmriti, an ancient Indian scripture, provides guidelines on who can eat what, how, and with whom. In that script, the top of the hierarchy belongs to Brahmins, who claimed a monopoly on notions of purity, not through spiritual practices, but through culinary practices in the Indian landscape. This meant Dalits were often pushed to the very margins of what was edible, surviving on leftovers, spoiled grains, or foods considered “impure” (Tannahill, 1988). It was not just about being poor—it was about being seen as untouchable even in hunger. Communities like the Mahars, Musahars, and Valmikis were not only denied food dignity—they were reduced to what they ate. This idea that caste can be tasted, smelled, or prepared in a kitchen continues in ways many urban spaces still fail to see.
Many will point out that this does not belong to modern India, and things are changing. Yes, things are unfolding, but the caste on plate, marking the image of mobile India, ordering sushi in Delhi or brunching on avocado toast in Bengaluru, hides something more complicated because behind this so-called cosmopolitanism lies a quiet exclusion. Social media, with its obsession over “clean girl aesthetics,” “gut health,” and “sattvic diets,” has simply found new words for the old practice of caste. These food trends, often backed by influencers from dominant caste backgrounds, invisibilize cuisines from marginalized communities—foods like dried fish, fermented rice, millet rotis, smoked meats, or foraged greens—labeling them not as “heritage,” but as backward, rustic, or unhygienic.
This invisibility is not accidental. It is built into spaces that pretend to be neutral. When lensed through the spaces of modern landscape, we can start with imagining the spaces of colleges, workspaces of more uplift through cafes, boardrooms, and office meetings, the menu does not manifest its preferences given by people, but comes with power. Formal and informal outings with colleagues assume a family with global gourmet cuisine and fusion in cosmopolitan – cheese platters, exotic salad, ramen bowls, beverages from all over the world, etc. While in such spaces, the assumption of knowing how to pronounce or enjoy such foods is seen as markers of class, caste, taste, and even competencies. For many, this brings a painful reminder that they do not belong, the first-generation learners and professionals from historically marginalized communities. Their lunchboxes filled with home-cooked fish curry or millets are often hidden, ridiculed, or silently judged. Not because of what the food is, but because of what it signals: caste, region, and history.
The idea of choice in food is often romanticized. But in a caste society, choice is a luxury. Migrant workers in cities are still made to eat separately in many homes. Domestic workers are asked to bring their own plates. In rented flats, beef or even eggs are banned—under the guise of “community rules”—but these bans align perfectly with upper-caste vegetarian sensibilities. This selective purity is also economically hypocritical. India is one of the largest exporters of beef globally, and the profits from this trade go disproportionately to upper-caste-run corporations. So while Dalits are punished or even lynched for consuming beef, the same meat becomes acceptable when it flows through the market system controlled by dominant groups.
Caste and hunger are intertwined. The assumption of neutrality and acceptance of keeping vegetarian food on state-run campaigns such as mid-day meals in Anganwadis, serve only vegetarian food. The ‘neutrality’ itself erases the food culture of many. For children who grow up eating meat or fish, this erasure is a daily reminder that their identities do not matter in the eyes of the state. In this context, to hear elite discussions on “intuitive eating” or “food freedom” is false.
Yet despite all this, cuisines from the thousands of marginalized communities have not disappeared. They live on—in recipes passed down through grandmothers, in foraged ingredients, in communal meals, and increasingly, in the voices of chefs, writers, and researchers from Dalit Bahujan Adivasi communities who are now reclaiming what was once dismissed. From tamarind-and-ant chutneys in Odisha to fermented bamboo shoot dishes in Chhattisgarh, these foods are rooted in survival, memory, and resourcefulness. They reflect a deep knowledge of the land and the seasons. They are also acts of resistance.
Even today, India’s national identity in terms of food is crafted mostly by dominant castes. Television cooking shows, food festivals, and diplomatic banquets proudly showcase paneer, dosas, biryani, and thalis—but where is the jaggery bread of Tamil Nadu’s? Where are the foraged greens of Bundelkhand? Where is the smoked pork of North-East tribes or the chutney of dried fish that sustained so many families in drought-prone regions? The answer is clear: not being there is not an accident. It is an erasure.
Until foods from Dalit, Bahujan, Adivasi communities across religions are accepted as cuisine, until they are cooked on stages and not just in silence, until the plate reflects the real India and not just the imagined one, caste will continue to show up at every meal, every wedding, every café menu. Food justice, then, is not only about access to calories. It is about dignity, memory, and the right to be seen.
References
Freed, R. S. (1970). Caste ranking and food transactions in a North Indian village. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 26(1), 57–67.
Parul, A. (2016, August 8). Caste on your plate: A tale of food snobbery in India. The Quint. https://www.thequint.com/news/india/caste-on-your-plate-a-tale-of-food-snobbery-in-india
Tannahill, R. (1988). Food in history. New York: Crown Publishers.
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Mayuree Bankar is a Program Officer with The Antara Foundation in Madhya Pradesh, she comes from a background where food was never just food—it was a story of where we stood in society.
