Following my recent blog on Dalit cuisine—where I argued, citing several studies, that it is deeply shaped by the caste system and the history of untouchability—I received an intriguing response on a private WhatsApp chat from a retired Gujarat-cadre bureaucrat. A likeable and thoughtful official, I have known him since the early 2000s, when I was covering the Gujarat Sachivalaya for The Times of India.
Given the private nature of the exchange, I have chosen to conceal his identity. A Dalit from Gujarat who, during his service years, often preferred not to foreground his caste identity, he responded to my blog with a perspective rooted in lived experience. While he admitted he was not very familiar with Dalit cuisine in Marathwada—the primary focus of my earlier piece—he offered detailed insights into the situation in his, and my, home state.
He began with something I was already aware of: in many villages of Gujarat, the term vas is commonly used to refer to a settlement where a particular caste group resides separately from the main village. Linguistically, he pointed out, vas derives from vasana, meaning “to reside” or “to dwell,” rather than from vas meaning “smell.”
What he said next, however, was striking. According to him, “some people”—he did not specify who—associate the term vas with the smell of food prepared in these segregated clusters. While he stops short of explaining this association directly, he provides enough context to hint at its possible origins.
He suggests that the perception may have arisen from the kind of non-vegetarian food Dalits historically consumed, as well as from the occupations they were compelled to undertake. Non-vegetarian food, he noted, was not necessarily common, but when it was consumed, it was often sourced from animals that had died naturally. “When such an event occurred,” he said, “usable portions of meat were collected, distributed among households, and dried on threads so that they could be preserved and consumed over several days.”
Over time, however, these practices have largely faded. “Particularly with processes often described as Sanskritisation,” he observed, “the consumption of meat from dead animals has largely disappeared. Today, such carcasses are typically disposed of after the skin is removed and supplied to the leather industry.”
The retired bureaucrat also described the nature of food served at social occasions. Meals, he said, were simple and community-oriented. During marriages, dinner would typically consist of siro-dal-bhat, while lunch often featured khichdi with ghee and mixed vegetables. Occasionally, a non-vegetarian meal might be prepared for close relatives and friends either before or after the main ceremony. Similarly, when people gathered to offer condolences after a death, they were often served meals such as siro-mung or dal-bhat.
On the question of taste, he was emphatic that there was no essential difference between what Dalits ate and what upper castes consumed. “In matters of taste and cooking skill,” he remarked, “Dalit women have traditionally been highly regarded for their ability to prepare well-cooked rotla and properly tempered dishes using vaghar.” For economically modest households, he added, food often represents the principal form of everyday comfort. As a result, meals are prepared with care, balancing salt, oil, and spices even within limited means.
Explaining why Dalit food has historically been “simple,” he pointed to the broader socio-economic context. Most agricultural land, he said, was controlled by zamindars, talukdars, or mahalkars, while Kanbis were the principal cultivating farmers. Dalits, in contrast, might possess small patches of land granted for subsistence, but these were rarely sufficient to sustain a family. With only one main agricultural season and frequent droughts, livelihoods remained precarious. As a result, Dalits often worked as agricultural labourers in addition to cultivating their small plots.
Yet, he cautioned against viewing their condition as uniformly destitute. “Despite economic limitations,” he noted, “living conditions were not always abject. Many households kept a few animals and had access to modest agricultural resources.” Physical endurance, too, was a defining feature of rural life. Walking was the primary mode of transport, and people were capable of travelling 40–50 kilometres overnight when necessary.
It is within this broader context, he argued, that Dalit food habits evolved—reflecting a life shaped by subsistence, resilience, and careful resource management. “The day often began with tea and rotla,” he explained. “In relatively better-off families, siramani or siro prepared with ghee might also be served. Lunch typically consisted of dal with roti or rotla, accompanied by red chilli chutney. Dinner usually included khichdi; households with cattle might eat it with milk, while others consumed it with kadhi.”
What remained implicit in his account—but difficult to ignore—was the suggestion that caste dynamics may also operate within Dalit communities themselves. While he did not state this directly, he appeared to gesture toward internal differentiation when discussing the rituals and professions followed by various sub-groups.
“Dalits in Gujarat are internally differentiated into nearly thirty-six sub-castes,” he said. “Although they broadly follow Hindu religious traditions, the lack of acceptance and ritual support from upper castes historically led them to develop their own internal service structure.”
Within these communities, he added, there were groups that performed distinct social roles: some acted as ritual specialists akin to Brahmins; Senavas cut hair; Turis provided musical and entertainment services; and Valmikis undertook tasks such as drum-beating and sanitation work. This internal division of functions, he suggested, enabled the community to sustain its social and ritual life independently in the face of exclusion.
His reflections do not merely supplement my earlier blog—they complicate it. They point to a layered reality in which food, far from being just a matter of taste or tradition, is inseparable from histories of deprivation, adaptation, dignity, and, at times, internal hierarchy.
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