I was in Bombay, holding a small box of leftovers from a restaurant, fish or chicken, I can’t quite remember. I planned on giving it to someone who might need it and almost immediately spotted an older woman sitting by the road. I walked up to her and, before handing it over, to avoid offending her, I asked if she was okay with non-vegetarian food. My company, an old friend, looked at me a bit funny. Later that day I asked him what that was all about. He said it was silly to ask someone in that situation about their dietary preferences, that those who know hunger or grapple with it everyday, do not care about what kind of food is “right” or “ good” and that it shows a real lapse in understanding on my side.

Meat, masculinity, and the making of prestige

Growing up a Rajput, our culture and cuisine were always proudly associated with non-vegetarian food, raan, laal maas, and the like. In popular media and mainstream culinary narratives, this kind of food holds prestige, largely because it comes from royal “upper-caste” kitchens. Of course, where these dishes actually originated and how they came to be claimed as ours is another conversation, one about the ownership of ingredients and recipes, and who gets to lay claim to them. Because of this upper-caste association, and the masculine narrative tied to kings and their hunting, any social stigma attached to non-vegetarian food preferences of a Rajput is often brushed aside. That’s not to say there aren’t strong opinions or even expressions of disgust from members of other communities or religious groups, but those reactions rarely take centre stage in the dominant narrative.

But it is very apparent that in our country, eating habits are weighed down by a strong sense of moral judgment. Where do these prejudices come from, this moral chest-thumping, this probing from atop a hypocritical horse of false virtue that many so often display? If we strip the conversation of morality, especially since practices like hunting for sport are, after all, the pastimes of a small number of elites, it becomes clear that, like much else that shapes culture and identity, the food we eat is also tied to social and economic structures. In many cases, it’s both a reflection of and a response to social inequality and exclusion.

Shahu Patole on India’s vegetarian majority and the margins it creates

India is said to have one of the largest populations of vegetarians in the world, 39%. Across the country, different religious groups and communities follow their own sets of rules about food, some upheld because they are mentioned in ancient scriptures, others shaped by more recent history, the politically charged nature of what is a permissible diet. These rules dictate what one can or cannot eat, but more importantly influence how a person is perceived based on what they eat, shaping ideas of identity, purity, and belonging, or rather, not belonging.

In his book The Dalit Kitchen of Marathwada, Shahu Patole offers sharp, albeit uncomfortable, observations and questions directed at the largely vegetarian mainstream public, including those in the food industry and food journalism. He asks why there is such consistent vilification or complete erasure of non-vegetarian food traditions that come from certain communities, and why these cuisines are so often left out of the broader food and cultural narrative.

To drive his point home, Patole divides Marathwada’s food habits into distinct categories, which with small alterations can be applied to many states across the country, shaped largely by upper-caste, upper-class (Savarna) norms and scriptural classifications within Hindu society. Indian dietary practices, he argues, are rooted in religion, caste, and notions of purity. He outlines four main categories: Vishesh Shuddha Shakahari (special pure vegetarians), who avoid garlic, onions, and ginger due to ahimsa (non-violence), and strictly observe Chaturmas; Shakahari (vegetarians), who follow similar restrictions only during Chaturmas; Mishrahari (mixed diet), who are mostly vegetarian but consume eggs or meat stock; and Mansahari (non-vegetarians), often upper-caste groups like Kayasthas, Rajputs, and some Brahmins, who eat a variety of meats but abstain during certain religious periods.

Outside this system lies a fifth, historically marginalised group whose diet included beef, buffalo, and even carrion, foods despised by others and ignored by religious authorities. “No religious gurus ever cared if people of this category observed the sacred days of non-vegetarian abstinence. 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 writes. Ancient Indian scriptures clearly dictated who could eat what, and those rules reflected each group’s place in the social hierarchy.

The inception of food-based judgment in India runs deep, tied to the foundational structures of Hindu society. While much of urban India grows uncomfortable, or even dismissive, when caste is mentioned, it’s important to engage with the reality that caste still shapes how food is seen and consumed. It determines what is considered ‘clean’ or ‘contaminated’ (satvic temple food), who is allowed to cook, and who can eat where, especially in rural and institutional spaces. Communities that follow non-vegetarian diets, often born out of survival and necessity, continue to face stigma and vilification within this framework.

Food cultures born out of necessity

*Kohli community (right), Idu Mishmi tribe (left)*

The Idu Mishmi people of Arunachal Pradesh follow food practices that are both ecologically thoughtful and shaped by their geography. According to their customs, fishing is only allowed from February to April, after which the rivers are left undisturbed so fish can breed and replenish. There are also limits on hunting small birds. These practices are essential because in places like the Dibang Valley, farming is either minimal or unreliable. In such a landscape, should those who can’t grow their own food not be allowed to find other ways to survive?

The Koli people of Rajasthan are among the most vulnerable communities, living in a landscape that offers little in terms of resources. Even if the land did provide more, their financial conditions leave them with virtually no land of their own, meaning they have very little food security. In such circumstances, is it morally wrong for them to devise creative ways to hunt small birds like partridges or even rabbits for sustenance? Similarly, the Mirasi community, Muslim musicians who are an integral part of the regular and ritual lives of other communities in Rajasthan, largely follow a non-vegetarian diet. Yet, as Patole points out, why is it that only recipes from upper-caste kitchens are the ones that get narrativised, reinvented, and commercialised by the state and the people, while these other rich food traditions remain ignored?

Patole asks, “This country also has similarities with the rich food culture of European and African nations. Why are these writers tight-lipped about it? 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?”

Beyond communal and caste-based issues, there’s also the question of woman. A 2020 Pew Research Centre survey found that Hindu women are more likely to be vegetarian than Hindu men. One possible reason is that men often have the freedom to eat outside the home, where they can consume non-vegetarian food discreetly, while women, more homebound, remain within the household’s dietary rules.

Why, then, do we continue to stay silent about our non-vegetarian intake or have a problem with that of others? As for religious or community members who express disgust, sometimes even visibly gag, at the sight or mention of non-vegetarian food, I’m left wondering, if they had too been born in a different social ecosystem, would their reactions to foods that are unknown to them but create the identity, the make of other men, be any different?

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