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August 11, 2016 By Sheetal

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About Me

Namaste! I am Sheetal and theroute2roots is the journey I have embarked upon to document the local and native foods, the rapidly fading food practices and traditions of Gujarati cuisine. Along the way, I talk about the joys of home cooked foods made using local and seasonal produce...

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On a journey to document Gujarat’s micro & macro cuisines & traditional culinarily practices.Immersive culinary experiences @rootedculinaryexperiences

Nankuwarba, my kaki (taiji) sharing memories about

Nankuwarba, my kaki (taiji) sharing memories about her 77-year-old miniature brass kitchen play set. Growing up in a joint family, I too have fond memories of playing ઘર-ઘર with it along with my siblings. She recalls her father bringing the set from somewhere near Pune, where he had gone for his Ayurveda studies. Over the years, three generations have created cherished childhood memories with this beautiful play set. I absolutely love the craftsmanship of these brass toys — just look at that tiny tiffin carrier! #vintage #miniature #playset #brass

“Best out of waste” might sound like a school

“Best out of waste” might sound like a school SUPW project, but as
I browse through vintage cookbooks, I’m amazed by entire chapters with titles like karkasar ni karamat (thrifty wonders) and kachra mathi kanchan (turning garbage into gold)… dedicated to cooking with leftovers or parts of produce usually discarded. Refuse, reuse, recycle wasn’t just a slogan — it was a way of life. And nowhere were these values better practiced than in our kitchens, led by the quiet wisdom of our elders.

In the good old days — when food was truly valued (something we’ve sadly forgotten) — embracing a nose-to-tail or root-to-tip approach was simply the norm. Leftovers weren’t seen as scraps, but as starting points for new and delicious meals. Peels were turned into chutneys and farsans, fritters were made with leftover doodhpaak, and rotis were transformed into khakhra, chevdo, samosas, and many more inventive snacks. Yesterday’s rice became today’s cutlets, puda, thepla, or dhokla. The possibilities were endless.

And these practices weren’t limited to a particular community or class — frugality was a shared virtue across society. Everyone, regardless of background, made an effort to live with care and intention.

While documenting Silent Cuisines, I witnessed these thrifty traditions still alive among Adivasi communities. In the past even the non-Adivasi communities followed similar paths. But somewhere along the way, as abundance became more accessible, we began to forget the wisdom of prudence.

Today, food waste is a staggering issue. In an era of Swiggy, Zomato, and the growing tendency to outsource cooking, I wonder if we will ever return to the frugal ways of our past.

The platter above celebrates both the leftover and the discarded. The dabka/pakora are made with leftover khichri, while the chutney was created from the outer green rind of the organic watermelon I buy from the weekly farmers’ market here in Ahmedabad.

While researching Silent Cuisines, I came across a

While researching Silent Cuisines, I came across a vintage gem—Sabarkantha ni Vanaushadio, a travelogue through the deciduous forests around the river Sabarmati and the foothills of Aravalli mountains by Rajvaidya Shri Rasiklal Parikh written between 1940s–70s.

Among many fascinating finds, one tree stayed with me: Indrajav (Holarrhena antidysenterica), known locally as Kado. Its bark, roots, seeds, and flowers are steeped in Ayurvedic wisdom—used to treat digestive issues, fevers, piles, and even diabetes. Shri Parikh writes, “The forests are filled with Indrajav trees. At night, the air swells with the fragrance of its jasmine-like flowers…”

He notes that while potent medicines from the bark and roots need expert care, tribal communities cooked with its flowers—turning them into shaak or kadhi.
But when I visited those very regions for my book and spoke to Adivasi families, no one remembered cooking with Kado flowers. In six decades, as the forests and trees disappear, so has the knowledge of them. This felt like a quiet loss—a traditional ingredient fading out from our collective food memory.

Interestingly, vintage Gujarati cookbooks from the ‘30s–‘50s feature Kada na phool in recipes for shaak, kadhi, raita, chutney, and a drink called Amruto. Clearly, the tree wasn’t limited to forest life—it likely grew in farms and backyards, woven into everyday life.

I’ve been searching for Kada na phool for the last two years. Despite spotting Indrajav trees along the roadsides of Polo forest, I missed their blooms every year. When I asked Purvi @farmingmatters if she had any idea of where to find Indrajav around Ahmedabad, she promptly replied, “There’s one on our farm. Mummy planted it many, many years ago.”

Need I say more? That quiet, intuitive understanding of the natural world—like knowing which trees to grow and why—is something we’ve begun to lose. Our elders knew. They ensured these trees thrived around us. Indrajav blooms in April–May and the first recipe I created with it is this delicate raita.
For the recipe, head over to my blog.

If you’ve already laid your hands the book Silen

If you’ve already laid your hands the book Silent Cuisines and read parts of it, you’ll know it’s the result of three years of immersive research and writing. I followed our generous hosts into their farms and kitchens, engaging in long conversations to understand the wisdom behind the foods they eat.

There was so much to document—it would’ve required me to relocate to these villages to truly live their hyper-seasonal food practices. Even so, I’ve tried to capture the most significant ones across six districts of Gujarat. Many of these regions were visited and revisited over the span of two years.

Take Kachri for example—we visited the household twice to document both the fresh and sun-dried stages of this wild melon. Let me take you to the home and farm of Chenaben and Pratapbhai Ninama, where they showed me the traditional way of preserving Kachri/Kothimbdi. Pratapbhai, a wise and deeply knowledgeable man, was refreshingly vocal—something uncommon in most Adivasi folks as they prefer to speak very less- and explained their culinary traditions with clarity and logic.

Silent Cuisines includes three stories featuring Kachri. 
If you’d like to buy the book, the link is in my bio.

Please note: All images and videos are copyright protected.

Once upon a time, before our collective obsession

Once upon a time, before our collective obsession with Kesar and Hapus mangoes took over, the forests, roadsides, and farms were brimming with wild and desi mango varieties—each shining in its own unique form, flavour, and fragrance. The Adivasi communities who lived amidst and protected these landscapes shared an unspoken bond with these fruits, nurturing them as part of their natural world.

These mangoes were best enjoyed raw and unprocessed—bitten into straight off the tree or slurped ripe, juicy, and fresh. Processing mangoes into sherbets, pickles, preserves, or aamras was never a part of traditional Adivasi food culture. At most, raw mango slices were sun-dried and stored to be used in shaak during the leaner months.

However, with increasing interaction with other communities and access to new ingredients, Adivasi culinary practices have slowly evolved. Sherbets, once unheard of, now occasionally appear—offered to guests or made for relief during intense summer heat. If a lemon tree grows in their courtyard or a mango tree bears fruit, Nimbu Pani or Kachi Keri nu Sherbet might be prepared to beat the scorching heat. Unlike the more elaborate Aam Panna, there’s no cooking involved—true to the classic tribal approach: minimal ingredients and efforts, but lively flavours

The baccha party was home for summer vacation while we were documenting summer recipes in a remote village in Panchmahals. Krishna rustled up this kachi keri nu sherbet— raw mango cooler—using fallen mangoes the kids had gathered while playing.

You can read more such food stories on disappearing fooodways of Gujarat’s Adivvasis in our book Silent Cuisines.

Note: Images and videos are copyright protected.

One recipe we had most fun capturing was શેક

One recipe we had most fun capturing was શેકેલા ઈંડા—poached masala eggs. The documenting process was filled with fun and laughter, as the group of elderly Adivasi men demonstrating the recipe drifted into nostalgic memories of their carefree, school-free childhoods. They recalled the joy of playing in wild open spaces and the foods they could forage from the forests.

When hunger struck—and if they were lucky to have a few extra eggs from the native chickens they raised—they would carry those eggs along with some masala to their play spots, light a small fire, and poach the eggs over an open flame in leaf cups they would make from foraged palash tree leaves.

But much has changed since then. Today, those native chickens are rarely consumed at home. Instead, they are sold for the income they bring. The same goes for the eggs—desi murghi eggs fetch a good price, so families now prefer to let them hatch or sell them, rather than eat them.

Can you sense how the foodscape of these remote Indigenous communities is shifting? What was once shared and savoured with spontaneity is now tied closely to market value and survival.

The stories we gathered are not just about food— in a very subtle way they reflect economic shifts, cultural adaptation, and the enduring resilience of tradition.

You can read more such food stories on disappearing fooodways of Gujarat’s Adivasis in our book Silent Cuisines.

Note: Images and videos are copyright protected.

While in conversation with Kanaben, let me take yo

While in conversation with Kanaben, let me take you into her kitchen as she prepares her traditional fish curry. It was a slightly warm afternoon, so we chose to cook indoors. Sunlight filtered in gently through the terracotta-tiled roof and the front doorway, casting a soft glow over her modest kitchen.

Earlier, we had visited a nearby freshwater lake to source the fish—one large and a couple of smaller ones. The fish, locally known as Bakraa machli, is preferred for its minimal bones, making it easier to cook and eat.

The fish is cooked in a yogurt-based sauce, much like the method Kanaben described in the earlier video: 
“We never used oil. Food was cooked in buttermilk or yogurt.” 
However, with oil now more easily accessible, it has gradually made its way into such traditional recipes—gently reshaping long-held practices.

Since these are forested areas, leopards often roam near human settlements at night. As a result, people and their cattle stay indoors together after dark for safety. You can see a cattle shade in one of the images.

You can read more about this rustic, country-style fish curry and other deeply rooted food traditions in the newly launched book Silent Cuisines.
Note: Images are copyright protected.

Coming back to the book Silent Cuisines, in this p

Coming back to the book Silent Cuisines, in this post on the masala paste—the flavourful base of nearly all savoury Adivasi dishes—I want to share this video clips I captured when I visited a local haat (market) in Devgadh Baria. I went there to better understand the spice combinations that Adivasi families purchase.

Although most of the food they consume is grown by them, families rely on local markets for essentials like spices and salt. In the past, these ingredients were acquired through barter—exchanged for maize, millets, or forest produce they foraged. But today, they must be bought, making spices a valued commodity. Step into any Adivasi kitchen and you’ll likely spot small plastic pouches of whole spices hanging in corners—a quiet indication that these purchased ingredients are used sparingly and with care.

At the market, I spoke to Maheshbhai, a spice vendor, who broke down the typical masala mix: 
Each 250-gram of dhana mix (coriander seed mix) contains 150 grams of coriander seeds and 100 grams of cumin seeds and black peppercorns.

There’s also a more elaborate blend available, depending on the need. This includes aromatic spices like cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, star anise, black stone flower (dagad phool), and fennel seeds.

Whole red chillies—an essential component—can range from fiery hot to mildly pungent, or a mix of both, tailored to each family’s heat tolerance.

Interestingly, while other communities may prefer finely ground red chilli powder, Adivasi households opt for a coarser grind, adding both texture and boldness to their dishes. The hand pounded coarse texture of red chillies reminded me of a conversation from another time I had with an Adivasi elder in South Gujarat who had also emphasised that one should never have finely powdered spices because they hit differently. A traditional wisdom that I need to be researched well before authenticating!

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