In our days, schools followed a different timetable in summer. Classes started early and got over by early afternoon. Now, I believe, the more exclusive ones have air-conditioned classrooms and school buses. Not then. But we did not care. We travelled in public buses and didn't mind the trudge home in the afternoon sun carrying a heavy school bag made of jute embossed with the logo of our alma mater. Shorter hours were a good enough incentive for looking forward to those hot months.
Near our home, opposite the local fire brigade station, would sit a 'sattuwala' on a large slab of concrete under a makeshift cover of tarpaulin tied to the iron spikes on the wall behind and propped up by two thin bamboo poles in front. In the mornings, he sold sattu-sharbat. Rickshaw pullers and thela (handcart) pushers would stop by and drink a large aluminium glass full of sattu mixed with sugar and a pinch of salt for a few paise. It was supposed to be at once cooling and energising. They would return at lunch time – when the sun peaked. The vendor would have by then settled down with a large container of sattu (gram-flour) and a big drum of water next to him. He would scoop out portions of the powder onto a hand weighing scale and dish them out to the customers on shiny bell-metal and an aluminium lota full of water. The men, squatting on the ground, would dig a hole at the centre of the little mound of sattu into which they poured water for making a dough. Once the ball was ready, they would extend the plate towards the sattu-wallah, for salt, green chillies, and quarters of onion. In the end, the sattu-wallah would take a spoon full of hot chutney from a terracotta matka (pot) and put it on the plate as if dispensing divine benediction.
I would often stand and watch how those hardworking men toiling through the day under intense heat would relish that humble meal, which was their only source of protein and nutrition. However, what interested me the most was the chutney. Only for that, I would sometimes part with my leftover bus fare and buy a small parcel of sattu with which would come the fiery paste wrapped in a sal leaf. Leaving aside the sattu (which my mother would later use for making paratha), I would eat the chutney with my lunch. The taste of that chutney still lingers in my memory. A paste made of pounded ginger, green chillies, black salt and bits of tender green mango made into a paste, somewhat like the Maharashtrian thecha, which uses nimbu (green lime) instead.
Although hand-pulled rickshaws have disappeared from most parts of Kolkata and thelas ply within the city only during restricted hours, the sattuwalas are still around. But litti chokha stalls have also come up around the city and it is a popular lunchtime fare in the office districts. With Biharis becoming a sizable vote bank in the city, corporators host litti festivals in their municipal wards during the season of Chhath Puja. Greater mobility in the employment market is taking people from Bihar beyond traditional geographies for work. Thus Bihari dhabas have come up in other cities too, including distant Chennai.
But, it would be a fallacy to think Bihari staple food is limited to sattu, litti and chokha. Due to lack of commercialisation, Bihari cuisine has remained confined to the state. As a result, Bihari food remains one of the most underrated culinary traditions of India. So much so, a celebrated food columnist had once rudely commented on how he would not be excited at the idea of being invited for dinner to the residence of a Bihari politician. Of course, he was being elitist. But, it cannot be denied that having been a predominantly agricultural state, Bihari food is proudly earthy and rustic. Unlike neighbouring Uttar Pradesh, Bengal or Madhya Pradesh, Bihar was not touched by any major royal or Mughlai culinary influence. However, the variety and range of Bihari food is yet to be wholly revealed to the world.
Another misconception about Bihari food is about vegetarianism. It is true that large sections of Bihari population - like the Yadavs - are predominantly vegetarian. However, not many know that Bihari Brahmins who are worshippers of “Shakti” are meat eaters too. Maithili Brahmins, who hail from the region of Mithila, bordering Nepal not only consume meat and fish but are great cooks too. Similar to the adjacent regions of Bengal, Biharis use a lot of mustard in preparing fish. Mustard oil is the main cooking medium for both fish and meat. Traditionally, the fish came from ponds - usually medium-size carps (rohu) or small fish (bachua) from the river. However, commercial fish farming has started in eastern Bihar around Bhagalpur so many more varieties of fish are now available.
Biharis love mutton and claim their goats - fed largely on grass - are the best. In Patna, one still sees queues outside mutton shops on Sundays. Across the state there are dhabas famous for their own style of mutton preparation. Of late, ahuna -- a particular style of mutton preparation from Champaran -- has become a rage. Mutton marinated with coarse spice paste, mustard oil, whole pods of garlic, onion and ginger is slow cooked in sealed earthen pots over coal fire. This writer had discovered ahuna much before it became a rage and Champaran mutton outlets started opening in many cities. Taas is another popular dish of Champaran imported from the adjoining Terai region of Nepal. It consists of marinated boneless mutton slices fried over low heat on a large tawa. Another original mutton preparation of the area is Noon-paani-mutton, which is cooked in its own fat without any addition of oil with the minimal addition of spices (primarily salt, slit green chillies and crushed ginger-garlic).
Interestingly, Biharis do not eat much paneer -- perhaps, because it was not a milk surplus state, with low yield of its cattle. Milk generally goes into making sweets. But, the alluvial silt deposited after floods made the soil very fertile for vegetables including greens such as mustard, red spinach, different kinds of gourds (bitter, ribbed, pointed), okra, aubergine, green grams and roots such as potato and yams. My own theory is that the abundance of coal in the vicinity and relative absence of forests made 'chullahs' the primary mode of Bihari cooking. That may well explain the predominance of bhartas, chokhas and simple fries in their diet. I do not know of any Bihari version of kebabs. The mutton goli comes closest. Historically, millets may have been the staple of Biharis - but the green revolution changed all that, replacing them with wheat and rice.
The popularity of regional food is always a function of visitors to the area and the influence of ethnic diaspora. Unfortunately, Bihar neither reached its potential as a tourist destination nor attracted business traffic due its political and economic conditions. Biharis are spread across India and the world, with many in positions of influence, but have not asserted their cultural roots in comparison to say those from the South Indian states. Pot Belly at Bihar Niwas in Delhi's Chanakyapuri is probably the first serious Bihari food restaurant in India. It is about time Bihari food gets a boost in India’s culinary showcase. Till then, bring on the chokha and mutton with the litti.