The cuisine of North India’s Kayasth community, hard to find outside homes, is a unique amalgam of Muslim and Hindu cultures.
Indian cuisines are largely a product of geography and caste. Unfortunately, in an increasingly globalised world, these authentic flavours have been taken over by generic pan-Indian food — much of which is restaurant-created and quite unlike those painstakingly put together recipes of yesteryears. While some community cuisines are in the commercial domain today — Chettinad or Wazwan of Kashmiri Muslims (however elusive an “authentic” experience of these may be) — there are other sophisticated repertoires that are confined to traditional homes. The cuisine of the Kayasths in north India is one such example.
A well-know gourmet community, the Kayasths have always had the reputation of being lavish entertainers. But they are also unique because of their culture that reflects the syncretic fabric of India. In traditional Kayasth homes, evidence of this amalgamation of two different worlds — an elite Muslim culture and an upper-caste Hindu one — still exists, wittingly or unwittingly.
It is evident (or used to be) in the language (laced with urdu words), in the zealousness with which, music (usually Hindustani classical, itself a byproduct of this culture of amalgamation; Mukesh is perhaps the best-known Kayasth singer), arts and literature (think Amitabh Bachchan, but more importantly his father, Harivansh Rai Bachchan) or shayari (remember Raghupat Sahay, aka Firaq Gorakhpuri?) would be espoused — and above all, in food. Kayasth food is unique because non-vegetarianism (and the vegetarian repertoire) here evolved as a direct outcome of the cultural contact. This is unlike, say, in Kashmir, where the pandit cuisine is separate from Muslim cooking.
In fact, because of the Mughal influence, even the vegetarian strain in Kayasth food is distinctly rich. Not just the meats but even vegetables are treated to elaborate cooking methods and a sophisticated use of spices. Instead of a limited or generic spice mixture that most Indian cuisines use, Kayasth food is distinct in its wide use of masala, with each dish highlighting a different flavour. The cuisine thus completely turns on its head modern kitchen practices of using just one or two base sauces or masala for a bevy of dishes.
However, to understand the Kayasth food of north India (Bengal and Maharashtra too have Kayasth communities but there the evolution of culture and food is quite distinct and different), we need to delve into the history of the community. The Kayasths claim descent from Chitragupta, the “accountant” in the court of Yama, the god of death. Which explains their earliest profession: keeping accounts and records in Mughal courts. Birbal, one of the nine jewels of Akbar’s court, belonged to the community. By the time Shah Jahan built his capital in red sandstone on the banks of the Yamuna, the community was well-entrenched as administrators, members of the judiciary and revenue services. After the decline of Mughal power, the Kayasths spread to other royal centres — in the courts of the nawabs and the Rajput kings. Throughout their journey, their cuisine continued to evolve, incorporating, apart from dominant Mughal flavours, regional influences and nuances. It is possible to trace all these in the food even today — should you get invited to a Kayasth home.
So what are the big dishes? Since the non-vegetarian repertoire is fabled, let me begin with badam pasande: thin escalopes of lamb that have to be beaten to tenderise (only a few butchers today know how to do this), rolled up, stuffed with dried nuts and cooked in rich gravy with almonds. There is the more homely kacche keeme ke kofte (raw mince rounds) poached in gravy. There are shami kebabs, pan-fried, thin and stuffed with mint and onions. And there is yakhni pulao — mutton and rice cooked together in stock so that each grain of Basmati has a delicate flavour no layered biryani can achieve.
An interesting Delhi Kayasth dish is khade masale ka bhuna meat. The cuisine is red meat-centric (chicken arrived much later, possibly around Partition) and this recipe, though it can be adapted to fowl or quail, is best cooked with mutton (in the absence of game meat). Whole spices, onions and meat are all slow cooked, simmering in their juices. When hunting was permitted, men who liked to cook non-vegetarian food at home, possibly used the same recipe to cook game.
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Seasonal vegetables were important but ways were often found to make exotic the likes of gourd, turnips, and colocasia, including by cooking these with meat. Feasts in large households often comprised of shabdeg (a winter specialty where meat is cooked with turnips) that would cook for as long as two days in an oven constructed in a dug-up pit outside a bungalow. Rajesh Dayal, a Delhi Mathur-Kayasth, remembers her childhood in Daryaganj in the 1930s when Booby, a master cook-for-hire, would be called in to make the most amazing shabdeg ever.
The souring agent in the non-vegetarian cooking of the Kayasths remained yoghurt and tomatoes were not used till much later when they took over generic Indian gravies. Dinners usually comprised of at least one non-vegetarian curry. Shami kebabs were the favoured evening snacks (along with moong dal ki pakoris) and were to be washed down with a peg of whisky. And festivals like Dussehra and Diwali mandated that at least a kaliya (a simple meat curry) be prepared. The Kayasth brand of Hindusim remains largely celebratory!
On Sunday afternoons, most homes would make kadhi. It is a simple yoghurt-and-besan gravy, with a flavouring of dried fenugreek seeds, cumin and red chillies with either besan pakoris dunked in or spinach and moong greens cooked together (the resulting recipe is called alan ka saag, recorded by Madhur Jaffrey, a Delhi Mathur). Chickpea flour was traditionally an important ingredient and came into the vegetarian repertoire of the community, perhaps as a regional influence from Rajasthan. Takey paise is a fried besan ki subzi — a variation of the Rajasthani gatte. But besan rounds here are fried after being steamed and before being dunked into a relatively rich onion-based curry. Lentils have also been important-but not merely as dal. Sookhi urad dal is an important side dish, generously garnished with rich, fried onions. And moong dal could also be soaked, ground and spiced to make either a subtle pakori ki subzi or the robust kaleji ki subzi (curried liver). Vegetarian made-to-taste dishes, which felt like non-vegetarian delicacies, too were popular.
The Kayasths shared with the baniyas some of their cuisine — bedmi (pooris stuffed with a paste of lentil and spices) with a tangy potato curry, whose main flavouring comes from fenugreek seeds, is a favourite during feasts. And desserts like lauki and pista lauj as well as kheer and phirni are part of a common heritage. Nothing can be more symbolic of a syncretic culture than a Kayasth lunch where mince meat kofte (with their Persian/Mughal roots) are scooped up with pooris (the auspicious pucca khana of Vedic provenance).
