‘FOOD’
is – and always has been – one of the most suggestive four-letter words
in the vocabulary of cultures. If it is widely reported, for example,
that Uma Bharati among our politicians loves a good spread, then it is
also understood that this is not all she loves. We are meant to infer
something of her essential character from the detail. Ambition, caprice,
lust and various other emotive adjectives are all implicated – although
not necessarily with any degree of truth – in that apparently bland description
‘food-lover’.
Or consider another case, which also falls within the
public/political sphere. I understand that the President of India, superbly
benign, still employs in his high office, an official poison-taster. Not
to put too fine a point on it, the task of this poor unfortunate is to
taste the President’s victuals before the great man partakes of them and
to die, if need be, in the pursuit of his duty. But are there not more
scientific ways to test food in this day and age? Yes, certainly, and
I’ve little doubt that most people, if polled, would agree that ‘poison-tasting’
is a ceremonial continuation of a medieval and barbaric custom that any
nation with a claim to being modern should abjure. Why then does it continue
unexamined in our polity?
Well, the fact is that the metaphor of eating is so central
to our processes of moral reasoning and so deeply embedded in our language
and customs that it is almost impossible to excavate, and then to rationally
assess its impact on our ‘sense of self’. When we unselfconsciously describe
ourselves as a ‘vegetarian’ culture, for instance, are we not – despite
all evidence to the contrary – patting ourselves on the back for being
a wise and tolerant nation state, miles ahead of everybody else in our
ecological awareness? Likewise, if fasting, a traditional means of displaying
superior self-control, was fashioned by Gandhiji into a political weapon
with a moral edge, did it not constitute an instinctive appeal to age-old
cultural memory?
In this essay, I attempt to re-examine some aspects of
that ancient instinct which propels all cultures to make food and access
to food such an awesome instrument of political and social power. After
all, upwards of 800 million people still starve in the world today, despite
the fact that, contra-Malthus, food production is well ahead of population
growth in the 21st century. And virtually all these malnourished and starving
peoples come from Africa and Asia where an alarming 24,000 people die
every day from hunger – three-fourths of this number being children. Simultaneously,
the deliberate wastage of surplus among the rich nations of the world
and draconian trade barriers continue to ensure uneven food and calorie
distribution – all of which signal a more general inequity.
While
these facts are well known, however, it is important to reiterate that
they are not ‘facts of nature’ but emerge out of a political history of
systematic exploitation. Africa was not always hungry, nor was America
always well fed. Yet, there is no denying that today the figures at the
lower end of the food-index attest to terrible disparities not only between
America and Africa and between urban and rural populations but within
the rapidly expanding world-metropolises as well – where the phenomenon
of McDonaldization is most apparent. As Jorge Pina, quoting a report by
the FAO, wrote in 1998: ‘In 2005, more than 50 per cent of the world population
will be living in the cities and food insecurity will become an increasingly
urban problem.’
Now at the
beginning of the year 2005, when culinary aromas from every corner waft
towards us on the wings of globalization, it might therefore be moot to
reassess the social anthropology of food and the literal part it plays
in governing our consumerist appetites and cruelties.
Cultural
attitudes towards food and issues of human survival are, in short, as
fundamentally linked in the trendy 21st century as they ever were and
that is why it could be interesting to observe how food research in current
socio-biology intersects with the classical insights of literature, anthropology
and psychology. So, in the first part of this essay, my strategy is to
consider certain theoretical aspects of the great food debate, while in
the second half, I analyze cultural representations focusing especially
on the figure of the Bengali Hindu widow and her unique relationship to
food and cooking.
Beginning
with psycho-biology then, some of the most exciting research now being
undertaken in the area concerns the so-called basic ‘food-related emotions’
such as disgust, greed and sexual arousal. Indeed, food preferences, we
might say, constitute a ‘red hot topic’ within what has been dubbed
the ‘hot topic’ of emotion studies today!1
One man’s
meat is indeed another man’s poison in this domain. In effect, conjoining
an analysis of ‘human emotions’ with the analysis of ‘food typologies’
enables a return, in these milk-teeth years of the 21st century, to that
hoary ‘nature versus nurture’ anthropological debate in a pointed fashion.
Since food is very literally nurture, studying food sensations
allows us to ask:
To what
extent is our desire for, or conversely, the disgust we feel towards certain
food/food habits innate, a part of our biological survival kits?
In this connection, we might make inquiries such as: is it truly ‘instinctive’
across all cultures to reject food-items into which we have observed another
person spit, or foods with a decaying shitodour, blue-hued foods or foods
which feel gritty to the touch? And if so, what specific brain functions
turn on these ‘revulsion’ or ‘greed’ buttons?
On
the other hand, we might prefer to approach the desire/disgust food continuum
via the cultural route. That is, we might begin with Levi-Strauss’ classic
premise that food-emotions are just a learnt aspect of cultural
conduct and member-shipping which, however, contribute powerfully to the
creation and maintenance of social boundaries, kinship systems and power
hierarchies. I quote below from an essay by Edmund Leach which comments
trenchantly on the Levi-Strauss paradigm:
‘What Levi-Strauss
is getting at is this. Animals just eat food and food is anything available,
which their instincts place in the category "edible". But [amongst]
human beings, it is the conventions of society, which decree what is food
and not food and what kinds of food shall be eaten on what occasions…
There [may be] very little overlap between the shopping list of an English
housewife and the inventory of comestibles available to an Amazonian Indian,
but the English housewife and the Amazonian Indian alike break up the
unitary category food into a number of sub-categories: food A, food B,
food C etc. each of which is treated in a different way, but at this level
the categories A, B, C etc. turn out to be remarkably alike everywhere.
They are in fact categories of the kind that appear in Levi-Strauss’ diagram’.
Leech adds:
‘And the significant thing about such categories is that they are accorded
very different levels of social prestige. Some foods are appropriate only
to men; other only to women. Some foods are forbidden to children; some
can be eaten only on ceremonial occasions… Cooking is thus universally
a means by which nature is transformed into culture and categories of
cooking are always peculiarly appropriate for use as symbols of social
differentiation.’2
Yet
all this is familiar turf. The question is, nearly half a century down
the line from Levi-Strauss, is not his structural representation of the
food hierarchy now wholly outmoded in an era of mix-and-match fast food
cultures?
The best
way to answer this question, in my view, is to bring Levi-Strauss’ ‘universal’
hypothesis right up against the equally universalist claims of current
socio-biological theory, as well as confront it with cultural paradigms
with which Levi-Strauss was blissfully unacquainted. For instance, if
there is indeed a hierarchy by which human cultures transform the ‘raw’
into the ‘cooked’, then it ought to be possible to connect this practice
to a general desire-disgust scale of feelings, as 21st century socio-biological
research on ‘food related’ emotions seems to advocate.
Alternatively,
we might seek to reassess Levi-Strauss’ work by doing the opposite – that
is, we might choose to look at his raw versus cooked dichotomy from the
perspective, not of the latest, but of early theorizing about the emotions
in a prototypically ‘non-western’ culture. Here, we could, for example,
try to push the Levi-Straussian triangle far back into the unfamiliar
terrain of the 1st century AD, when Bharata allegedly laid out the elements
of the famous rasa theory. But before I attempt this exercise,
let me remind readers that the word rasa itself is of gustatory
origin. A term of great antiquity and mentioned in the Rigveda, rasa refers
variously to the sweet, intoxicating juice of the sacred soma plant,
the juices secreted by the body, to essences as well as to taste and thus
literally drips with tropological significance.
Given
this elementary reminder, we can now get back to the alimentary, so to
speak. My initial suggestion in this regard is that, in cultures where
cooking is a crucial quotient of ‘civilization’ a logical, and
testable, conclusion with regard to the emotions follows. Raw foods
served absolutely raw, and without garnish, should then evoke the greatest
emotional revulsion or disgust (roughly corresponding to Bharata’s
bibhatsa rasa). Such foods would include not only raw meats
with the fur still on and the eyes still glazed, but also raw vegetables
pulled straight from the earth.
Consequently,
I’d argue that the social pressure from within a society might result
in outcast groups like Hindu widows being pushed to the right hand
side of Levi-Strauss’ triangle (the ‘boiled/rotted’ side). Foods which
command the greatest emotional respect, on the other hand would be located
on the opposite side of the map to the left (the ‘roasted/cooked’
side) where the ‘best’ most satisfying emotions would cluster and be associated
with a certain type of food. In order to illustrate how this hypothesis
of mine works, I will now apply Levi-Strauss’ analysis to the following
anonymous 21st century extract – culled from the Internet – of an old
Indian myth familiar to all of us, from Uma Bharati to President Abdul
Kalam.
‘Krishna:
(running towards Sudama) Oh, Sudama, where have you been all this
time. I missed you. How are you?
Sudama:
(with tears of happiness) Oh Krishna! (hugs him) I have
been thinking of you all the time. How are you? It’s been so long. My
eyes have yearned to see you…
Rukmini:
I have never seen Krishna so happy before!
Krishna:
Come here, my friend, please sit down…
Narrator:
Krishna and Rukmini with great devotion and love wash the feet of Sudama
and give him refreshments, while Rukmini fans him. All the courtiers wonder
why Krishna gives such special treatment to a ragged old man.
Krishna:
(teasingly) What have you got for me? What is that in your hand…
Sudama:
(shy and surprised) Where… no…nothing…
Krishna:
I know you have something for me… Give it to me. (Krishna takes the
bag of puffed rice from Sudama) Ah… you got puffed rice for me? (opening
the bag and eating all of it) This is so good! I have never tasted
such good food in years.
Rukmini:
(with concern) My lord, don’t eat everything now. It is not good
for your stomach. Keep some for tomorrow.
Narrator:
That night Sudama slept like a king in Krishna’s palace. Next morning
he bade his friend an affectionate farewell. His heart overflowing with
love, Sudama proceeded on his journey home.’
In this
rendition, certain cultural features immediately come to the fore. They
are: (a) the intense range of emotions depicted (sringara, hasya,
vira, etc), (b) the connection between ritual, emotion and
food, (c) the intertwining motifs of the ‘friendship’ between poverty
and great wealth, (d) the role of the narrator, and (e)
the supportive figure of the wife.
While
space does not permit me to go into all the aspects I’ve listed of the
Krishna-Sudama narrative, I want to draw attention to the most striking
feature of this conversation from the food and cooking perspective – namely
the part played by puffed rice. Such ‘puffed rice’ would naturally be
assigned to the ‘good’ left-hand side of the Levi-Strauss diagram since
it is ‘smoked’ and thus ‘uncontaminated’ by water – which seems to function
as a universal structurally transformative agent in this context. That
is, water or the presence of moisture can induce rotting in cooked food
(i.e. food which has undergone cultural processing), even as it performs
a cleansing and purifying role in its natural ‘non-food’ context, as when
Krishna and Rukmini lovingly wash Sudama’s feet. Hence, in the diagram
below, I – very tentatively – replace Leach’s western ‘oysters’ and ‘stilton
cheese’ examples with the indigenous examples of emotional interplay just
discussed – symbolized by a puffed versus boiled rice continuum.
In other
words, I would argue from this particular application of the Levi-Strauss
model that the puffed rice motif, which seems to play such a minor role
in the story, turns out in fact to be central from an emotional and psychological
point of view. It becomes a utopian emblem of love, brotherhood, and the
transcendence of class barriers. Yet, make the simple move of substituting
the smoked ‘puffed’ rice with ‘boiled’ rice and it is my contention you
would get a very different narrative, a different mythology.
It
is to that cultural narrative where boiled rice plays a large part that
I move now. When she loses her husband, as we know, the traditional Hindu
widow is transformed overnight into a living ghost, literally deprived
of many of her human rights. Her hair has to be shorn, she must dress
in the strictest white and she is allowed to eat only the most limited
of vegetarian fare – epitomized by ‘boiled rice’. As a current text on
the internet by Swami Nikhilananda (1994) kindly informs us: ‘Through
these strict disciplines imposed on widows, the Hindu lawgivers constantly
reminded them of the ideal of chastity, which is deeply ingrained in the
Indian mind.’
Historically,
the tough conditions imposed on widows ensured that they remained focal
in many of India’s most crucial social reform debates, such as the ‘widow
remarriage’ movement and laws passed against ‘suttee’ in the colonial
period. Yet, shockingly, perhaps because of that ubiquitous ‘ideal of
chastity’ cited earlier, India has the highest prevalence of widows in
the world – between 35-40 million – most of whom are destitute, severely
ill-treated and outcast. Gender discrimination, food taboos and emotional
trauma thus conjoin in a dramatic fashion when we fix upon the figure
of the Hindu widow. Radhika Sachdev writes: ‘The problem of India’s widows
is not confined to Vrindavan, Mathura, Tirupathi and the other holy towns
(ironically places of pilgrimage dedicated to the god Krishna, lord of
carnal love) where widows have traditionally congregated. In every
fourth household in India there is a widow. 50% of [these widows]
are over the age of fifty… So many are the deprivations that a widow faces
that the mortality rate for widows is a shocking 85% higher than it is
for married women.’3
With
this documentation as background, I return to the matter of the food taboos
placed on the Bengali widow in particular – as a 21st century case study
in the anthropology of fear and disgust. I have already outlined some
of the notorious social aspects of the ‘inauspicious’ state of widowhood
but I shall now try to link these affective clues to the actual food
cooked and consumed by widows.
Bengali
haute cuisine is, as connoisseurs know, elaborate and eaten in slow stages,
beginning with teto (a bitter flavour) and culminating in mishti
(a sweet taste), with a range of salt and tart tastes in between.
Bengal also prides itself on its amish ranna or non-vegetarian
cooking, for it is among the few parts of India where high-caste Brahmins
have no qualms about eating meat and fish. But of course, a patriarchal
system decrees that widows of all castes are forbidden spices, meat and
fish, in Bengal, as elsewhere in India. However, my argument seeks to
go beyond that apparent, if convincing, connection to be made between
appetite and affect.
Specifically,
I wish to ask: How does an individual Bengali widow deal with the Darwinian
socio-biological catch-22 of surviving in a suddenly harsh and de-familiarized
world following her husband’s death? And how do Bengali widows, as a group,
escape from that corner of the Levi-Straussian triangle into which they
have been so heartlessly corralled? And my answer, in brief, is that they
contrive to ‘beat the system’ by exploiting the very food taboos
placed on them – given that restrictions are placed on their eating,
but not on their cooking. Their ‘survival strategy’
lies in turning themselves into an indispensable, if invisible, presence
in the family kitchen.
Traditionally,
the Bengali widow is offered a handful of uncooked rice and lentils as
her meal for the whole day. The culinary challenge before her then becomes
to transform this bare structure into something desirable and ‘civilized’
once more. So, the route out of her culinary imprisonment for the Bengali
widow, my argument runs, is a classic structuralist one. It is to cleverly
substitute the onion, garlic and all the spices she is no longer
allowed with invisible elements from the spectrum of throwaway foods –
‘valueless’ vegetable scraps in particular.
My contention
is that the appearance in the elaborate Bengali cuisine of lots of utterly
delicious items made from vegetable odd-and-ends such as chorchori,
chechki, etc. was, ironically, a direct, recuperative contribution
of the brutally treated Bengali widows to Bengali cookery. Although I
have not yet historically researched this hypothesis, I find that it receives
enthusiastic anecdotal support from many Bengalis, as well as indirectly
from Chitrita Bannerji’s perceptive 1995 piece on Bengali widowhood, where
she writes that:
‘It is true
that despite deprivations, household drudgery and the imposition of many
fasts, widows sometimes lived to great old age, and the gifted cooks among
them have contributed greatly to the range, originality and subtlety of
Hindu vegetarian cooking in Bengal. A 19th C food writer once said that
it was impossible to taste the full glory of vegetarian cooking unless
your own wife becomes a widow. And Bengali literature is full of references
to elderly widows whose magic touch can transform the most mundane and
bitter of vegetables to nectar, whose subtlety with spices cannot be reproduced
by other hands.’4
That
is, despite – or because of – the severe food restrictions placed
on them, it may be that the widows of Bengal contributed in a subterranean
but spectacular fashion to a certain distinctive congeries of delectable
niramish or vegetarian cooking in Bengal. The points made in the
second part of this essay thus repeat in obverse the five cultural themes
outlined in my earlier sections insofar as they are about: (a)
emotional stigma and taboo, (b) ritual as well as ‘real’ restrictions
on food and eating, (c) a fall into symbolic poverty, (d)
the invisible cultural narrative of the ‘accursed’ widow, and (e)
the recuperative measures invented by the widow.
Cooking
in true subaltern style from the margins, with marginalia, my point
here is that the chaste Bengali widow still manages to affirm her culinary
prowess and her unrepentant love of life through this different and ‘against
the grain’ gastronomic style. In doing so, she remains, as ever, an amazing
emblem of India’s emotional and social inventiveness in the face of tremendous
odds.
At the same
time, the figure of the widow offers intriguing data for researchers into
socio-biology, since she generally evokes a slew of negative ‘disgust’
emotions, as opposed to the feelings of wellbeing and ‘desire’ that the
virtuous wife Rukmini stands for in the Krishna-Sudama tale. In simple
structuralist code, that is: Wives = Wholesome Food, while Widows
= Rotten Food. To end this section on Hindu widows, I would therefore
suggest a light-hearted diagnostic. Just ask an unreconstructed Hindu
sanyasin such as Uma Bharati – who belongs neither to the category
of wife nor widow – whether she would prefer crisp mura-mura or
boiled rice on a good day, and I will bet you my precious copy of Levi-Strauss
that she would choose the former! So deep do the covert effects of our
myths go – whether you happen to be a Hindu political icon, an anonymous
Indian wife or a Bengali widow.
There
are those who might, however, object that my narrow focus thus far on
the culinary prowess of Bengali widows presents a distorted and old-fashioned
view of the full range of Bengali cuisine – as well as of sub-continental
food culture. To these critics, I offer a millennial parody that appeared
in a leading newspaper. The column comments on Monica Ali’s much discussed,
Booker-nominated novel Brick Lane but, revealingly, it does so
through the medium of food and via the theme of the culture-wars so bitterly
fought out today in down-market immigrant, ‘post-colonial’ restaurants
everywhere:
‘Ei Monica
Ali meichele aekebare chomotkar, no doubt. This Monica Ali is a
singularly brilliant young woman, no doubt and I am saying this to you
not as some baje-taje, useless-fuseless literary critic…
I am saying this to you as one long-time genuine resident of Brick Lane,
London, which has been my home in exile for so many years, far from my
Sonar Bangla… What to do? I once tried, truly! I tried to start
a bonafide Bangladeshi restaurant in London, where I offered typical Bangla
delicacies like sorse maach (mustard fish curry) and chorchori
(mixed fried veggies)… How you’re liking our typical Bangla ranna,
I asked my customers. And they said: Where’s the bleeding CTM I eat when
I always come here? Bring me my CTM ek bloody jaldi dum!
That’s all that Bangladeshi restaurants, which are known as Indian restaurants,
are ever allowed to serve in Britain. That blissful paean of praise to
the palate which is true Bangla cuisine, debased into the mindless mantra
of CTM! This is worse than divide and rule, this is deride and drool…But
now, at last, thanks to Monica-di’s book, the Bangals of Brick Lane can
emerge in their true colours. [So] I shall tell it as it is. No we do
not spit in CTM. We would not dream of it… No, we do better, we snot in
it.’5
One
of the goals that contemporary research on the emotions has set itself
is to examine the manner in which human communities creatively exploit
the links between food structures, cultural categories and literary representation
to resolve their existential dilemmas. It is this respect that the passage
I’ve just quoted is well worth a glance, even if we only focus on that
last satirical line.
‘We snot
in it,’ remarks the Bangladeshi restaurant-owner, expressing the contempt
he feels for that ersatz product – CTM, or Chicken Tikka Masala. Now,
this sentence does indeed ‘tell it as it is,’ perhaps more radically than
the author realizes, because it signals in so physical a manner that ‘innate’
emotion of disgust that socio-biologists are constantly on the lookout
for. Simultaneously, the passage is about desire and identity in the most
prototypical sense – about how food is a surrogate for ‘who we are,’ a
cultural place-holder even when one is in exile and sundered from one’s
kin. Furthermore, all this talk of multi-ethnic restaurant fare now brings
us squarely back to that ‘hot topic’ of McDonaldization with which this
essay began.
Food,
this essay has argued, is a basic instinct – not just an antidote to hunger
but a formidable locus of desire. However, this instinct is inevitably
subject today to the market and various other complex forces of modernity,
which could ‘transform’ the food landscape as we have known it down the
ages. Companies like McDonald’s, for instance, now scientifically research
consumer tastes and it might turn out that some of these preferences (like
the widely shared lip-smack reserved for tomato ketchup) do have a component
of the biologically ‘universal’. In which case, this could emerge as an
area where the food-mart ties up potently with research in socio-biology
– with we do not know what unforeseen cultural consequences. It seems
improbable though that the delicate niche flavours created by the widows
of Bengal would survive such a multinational assault in the long run.
Similarly,
our newfound confidence in computers and our faith in the web as a failsafe
means of assuaging what the cognitive scientist Daniel Dennett calls the
‘epistemic hunger’ of the human species might end up obscuring the real
hunger that still afflicts large areas of the world.6
The seductions of the media today are such that sybaritic feasting in
Dallas must always win over painful depictions of starvation in Dafur.
And in our country – where malnutrition is chronic – television programmes
on cookery far outnumber the occasional episode on undernourishment.
Meanwhile,
a leading Indian newsmagazine highlights at the end of 2004, the efforts
of e-choupal, a collaborative initiative between a corporate house and
Indian farmers, with a headline that proudly proclaims: ‘Home to 600 million
potential consumers, rural India has become a new destination for corporate
India. This is set to redefine what farmers grow and what we eat [italics
mine].’7
More fundamentally,
though, this year-end prediction, if reliable, will also very likely redefine
who we become in the not-so-distant future – which is definitely
food for thought. Shiva, the Hindu god with a gilt-edged claim to being
India’s first official poison taster, is said to have swallowed the poison
that turned his throat permanently blue so as to save the world from destruction.
Without such divine intervention, however, the indications are that it
may prove blue murder for each one of us, from the President of India
down, to negotiate in the unsettled years ahead, that moral vortex which
swirls around – as it has throughout human history – the simple, everyday
act of eating.
* A version
of this essay was presented as a plenary lecture at the SOAS seminar on
food culture held in October 2003.
Footnotes:
1. See Dylan
Evans, Emotion: the Science of Sentiment, Oxford University Press,
Oxford, 2001.
2. Edmund Leach,
‘Oysters, Smoked Salmon and Stilton Cheese’ in Levi-Strauss, Fontana
Modern Masters Series, Glasgow, 1970.
3. Radhika Sachdev,
‘Women in White: the Ill Treatment of Widows’, Women’s International Press
(WIN), 2001, article on the Internet.
4. Chitrita
Banerji, ‘What Bengali Widows Can and Cannot Eat’, Granta 52,
1995.
5. Jug
Suraiya, The Times of India, October 2003.
6. Daniel Dennett,
Consciousness Explained, Little Brown, Boston and London, 1991.
7. India
Today, December 2004.
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