Yesterday, my dad asked me something that might seem odd in most households. “Would you like to have quarter of a doughnut?”, he asked nonchalantly. To some this might seem like the opening statement to a negotiation where I could put forth my preference for an entire doughnut. Rest assured, it was not. And no, our family is not particularly calorie conscious. Nor was this the last doughnut, hence any chance of a war breaking out on the grounds of unfair doughnut distribution, quite remote. In fact, since I’ve already done some groundwork to make my family sound eccentric, I might as well go the entire distance. If there were four doughnuts of the exact same flavor, we would still have a quarter from each than do the logical thing and eat one each. So what explains this deranged behavior? A mutation in our genes? A weird family ritual? Or is this problem more systemic and deeper than what meets the eye?
“Annam Bahu Kurvita” — The Sanskrit adage signifies the age old tradition of growing plenty and sharing the excess. For as far back as the 16th century, it was not uncommon for Indians to eat only after having satiated the hunger of another. Chatrams or alms houses were set up by kings to feed and nourish the poor. The very notion of sharing food is so intrinsic to the quintessential Indian that even today you see its manifestations in the way we dine. Just walk into an Indian restaurant and I swear on my favorite curry — you will find customers ordering some of the most absurd portions of food. “Hot and sour soup, 1/2/3 ”, we demand. The waiter whips out his scientific calculator, trying to keep up while we divide food by family size, by appetite, by seniority. It’s almost a given that food ordered is for the family, individual preferences taken into account and ignored in equal measure.
It’s in this land where the ‘other’ always took precedence over the self, will you find people as liberal with their generosity as with their masalas. Some of my fondest memories of hearty wholesome meals are in langars, Sikh communal kitchens where food is prepared and served by volunteers for the purpose of seva or service. There is no secret ingredient that makes the food delectable, every ingredient tastes exactly like it’s supposed to. The magnanimity of the stranger who prepared your kali dal and kheer, makes you feel like you belong.
The enormous value that we give to sharing food extends itself to the way we’ve weaved ourselves into our families, our homes, wherever that may be. I’ve never hesitated from reaching into my brother’s plate and claiming ownership of paapadams. My mother continues to finish the last spoonfuls of my jhootha rice and my father will always take a sip of my chai to ensure that it’s not too hot before giving it to me. In the same vein, don’t get annoyed when we absentmindedly offer you a quarter — it’s just a habit. But we will offer it to you first. That’s a choice.
