How I became a “pure non-vegetarian”
My earliest memory of food is eating roshogllas at our neighbour, the portly Mrs. Sen’s flat in Bokaro. Other memories from that age — three — and later, mostly include things I did not like — milk, brinjals, karela, spinach and yogurt. Over the years I’ve made peace with and even begun to like all these, except yogurt, for which I retain a strong revulsion.
At school, I carried homemade lunch like most other students, and some of my fondest memories are of bhindi, gobhi-aloo and stuffed paranthas. I grew up in a moderately-religious, Sikh-Punjabi family that was forever shifting places — Bhopal, Bokaro, Jameshedpur, Jalandhar, Faridabad, to finally land in Mohali, near Chandigarh.
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Summer vacations were spent with cousins at our grandparents’ house in Patiala. It is with that house that I associate my earliest memories of mutton and chicken. Mutton was procured from the neighbourhood butchers; carcases of goats were laid out and strung to the shop’s ceiling. My uncle would select a piece he liked and the butcher would cut it into smaller pieces. As for chicken, we just walked across the road to one of the roadside chicken suppliers who had a chest of wooden cages filled with the birds.
My uncle would select one of the live birds, often asking for my opinion and choice, then the butcher would prepare the bird for us inside a small enclosure surrounded with plastic sheets. Back in the house, my uncle would clean the pieces, wash away the remaining blood and cut the meat into smaller pieces. The cooked dish would soon be on the table — almost always as a curry.
Instead of asking “Are you a vegetarian?” the man asked “Are you a pure vegetarian?” I was exasperated at the use of the adjective to qualify vegetarian and blurted out –“No sir, I am a pure non-vegetarian.”
I never felt anything wrong or repulsive about eating meat until I made friends with a classmate in Jalandhar. When having meals with his cousins, I would hear them whisper among themselves about how someone they knew had found a human finger or a body part in the meat dish that they were eating at a restaurant. Looking back, I think these stories must have been planted in their heads by other family members to ensure that the kids did not develop any liking for meat. At that time I didn’t know something that I do now — that my friend belonged to a Brahmin family that strictly prohibited the consumption of not just meat, even eggs. The menfolk would sometimes break this rule, but only outside the house and always surreptitiously.
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Chicken, mutton and fish were all I had eaten as long as I lived in India. On my first visit abroad to Cleveland, Ohio, we had a team lunch in office on the first day — sandwiches, bread and slices of cheese and meats were on the platter. Without bothering to know what the items were, I tasted everything on offer.
Later, when our hosts described the various items we had devoured, I realized that I had already eaten pork and beef. I had never had these before, and if at all I had any inhibitions, my ignorance had duly erased those. Soon, various pork dishes (especially during a trip to Austria), steak and chilli became part of my palate whenever I had an occasion to savour them. At Japanese restaurants, sushi and eel were my favourites.
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I married a Bengali much after I had already developed a preference for fish over chicken, and this helped deepen our bond. Food, I’ve come to realize, is very much like the social aspect of drinking — it is meant to break down (or create) barriers between people. An openness in food choices, more often than not, indicates an openness of the mind.
I’ve always had friends who were particular about not having non-vegetarian food — Brahmins, Jains and even some Sikhs. But they were exceptions, and their preference bothered no one.
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In 2002 when I moved from Gurgaon to Chennai for work, I faced one question repeatedly: “Are you a vegetarian?”
The real meaning of the question only struck me when I was looking to rent in the city.
From The Hindu’s classifieds, I marked some houses and flats that were close to my workplace and started calling the phone numbers listed in the ads. After I had introduced myself and asked questions about the rent and availability, I was invariably asked “Are you a vegetarian?” My answer was a simple “No.”At this, the man (always a man), would lose interest and decline renting the property to me (very often, another prospective renter would suddenly emerge out of thin air.) This happened not once but with all the first three numbers I called.
When I called the fourth number on my list, I was prepared for the question. There was, however, a twist to the question this time. Instead of asking “Are you a vegetarian?” the man asked “Are you a pure vegetarian?” I was exasperated at the use of the adjective to qualify vegetarian and blurted out –“No sir, I am a pure non-vegetarian.” As expected, the conversation came to a quick end and I didn’t get the flat. However, this time, I came out of the conversation with the satisfaction of a having fought the battle well, even if to lose it.
I finally found a house — at an exorbitant rent, but at least the owner didn’t infringe on what I felt was a very personal matter.
Friends later explained that I had been looking for a house in one of the city’s ‘Brahmin’ localities, and the question was only a proxy to unearth my caste. My being a north Indian was bad enough. Any flicker of hope that the landlord had regarding my caste was sealed by learning what I ate for lunch and dinner.
Nevertheless, for many reasons, I came to love Chennai. I liked the city’s work ethic. I liked that education was held in such high esteem. Language was a barrier, but not something that couldn’t be worked around. I even learned to handle the auto-wallahs, among the most hardline language fanatics in the city. The humidity and the city’s ‘three seasons’ of summer (hot, hotter, hottest) were the only thing I couldn’t get used to. As for the perennial question “Are you a vegetarian?” I developed a response system that instead of being a defensive reaction was an assertive “I am a pure non-vegetarian.”
My answer mostly surprised people. Perhaps they expected a whimpering answer that bordered on confessing a sin. Maybe my response offended some.
But it gave me a sense of pushing back intruders on the plate on my table. I was now implying two things with that answer — I am not a Brahmin and, indeed, I am someone who is opposed to that smirking superiority that is carved in that innocuous question.