Food in Assam has never been only about taste. It has always been tied to memory, community, and belonging. The flavour of khar, an alkaline preparation made with banana peel ash, the sourness of ou tenga (elephant apple) fish curry, the smell of bamboo shoot slowly cooking on the fire, or the comfort of poita bhaat eaten with raw mustard oil, onion, and chillies on a summer morning are not just items on a plate.
They are part of a rhythm of life that has travelled with us through generations. Yet today, as we walk into supermarkets in Guwahati or Jorhat, we are confronted by rows of instant noodles, frozen snacks, and fizzy drinks.
In the age of globalisation, these new flavours and packages are slowly pushing out the old ways of cooking and eating, and that raises an uncomfortable question: can the food culture of Assam survive this onslaught of standardised global taste?
At the centre of Assamese cuisine lies the art of fermentation. From dried fish to rice beer to bamboo shoot, fermentation is not only about preservation but about patience and practice.
It is about leaving something to the care of time, trusting that the right mix of air, water, and earth will give birth to a food that nourishes and binds people together. These foods are not only flavourful but deeply nourishing.
They are rich in probiotics, vitamins, and minerals that strengthen the body and support digestion. Poita bhaat, with its cooling properties, restores and nourishes the body during humid summers. It is a reminder of a lifestyle in tune with the seasons.
The loss here is not only dietary. When certain foods disappear from the table, the stories and rituals attached to them also fade. Xaaj (rice beer) of the Ahom community is not just a drink.
It is offered to the gods during rituals and is part of festivals and community gatherings. Brewing xaaj is a collective act where rice is fermented with herbal starters made from leaves, roots, and bark that the community knows how to gather and prepare.
The process is not written down but learnt through observation and practice. Families come together to share this knowledge that has been passed down for generations. When xaaj is replaced by bottled liquor sold under glossy labels, what vanishes is not only the taste but also the act of making and sharing.
Similarly, cooking sunga saul (rice steamed inside bamboo) is as much about the gathering of families and neighbours as it is about the flavour. Even the simple act of preparing maasor tenga (sour fish curry) with tomato, thekera (dried Garcinia fruit), kajinemu (an Assamese aromatic lemon) sits at the centre of countless Assamese meals. Without these practices, our cuisine risks becoming occasional festival displays rather than living traditions.
When such foods are reduced only to festival menus or cultural exhibitions, they lose their organic connection with the soil, the seasons, and the people who nurture them. This shift not only weakens culinary identity but also risks erasing the knowledge systems that have sustained Assamese food traditions for generations. Without these practices, we risk reducing our cuisine into occasional festival displays rather than living traditions.
Still, it would be wrong to say that Assamese food is dying. In many ways, globalisation has also opened unexpected doors. Young entrepreneurs are reviving traditional recipes and giving them a place in the modern market.
Bottled khar (alkaline preparation), vacuum-packed bamboo shoot pickles, organically grown joha rice branded as a health food—these are attempts to preserve tradition by adapting it. On social media, Assamese food bloggers post images of maasor tenga and pitika (mashed vegetables, fish, or greens seasoned with mustard oil and onion), presenting them as comfort food that can stand proudly next to any global cuisine.
In cosmopolitan cities, Assamese restaurants are slowly attracting a following. People are now learning to appreciate the layered pungent flavour of bamboo shoot. Today, Assamese thalis are served in restaurants far beyond Assam.
These thalis, with their generous spread of rice, khar, tenga, dal, various kinds of pitika, chutney, pickles, and stir-fried seasonal greens, are now featured in restaurants across India, offering diners a full glimpse into the region’s culinary depth.
Some eateries retain traditional dishes like tenga diya maas or ou-tenga chutney, while others experiment with fusion, placing these traditional flavours on contemporary menus.
The real danger lies in turning food into a commodity. When traditional dishes are reduced to products on a shelf, they risk losing the warmth of the kitchen and the closeness of community. Xaaj brewed in a household, served in simple cups during a festival, carries with it a memory and a meaning that no factory-bottled version can capture.
The moment a practice becomes only about profit, something subtle but vital is lost. Culture cannot be shrink-wrapped. It has to be lived, shared, and passed on. The responsibility of protecting Assamese food identity cannot be left to markets alone. Families must continue to cook and teach.
Schools should talk about the science and stories behind fermentation or foraging for wild greens. Governments need to create space for small local producers, women’s cooperatives, and traditional brewers, instead of letting corporate packaged foods dominate. Most importantly, people themselves must take pride in what they eat.
Food carries the weight of memory and belonging. A plate of khar ties us back to the soil and rivers. A bowl of poita bhaat reminds us of seasonal rhythms. A sip of xaaj tells us about community and care.
The making of pitha and laru during Bihu renews bonds of togetherness. If we let these foods vanish under the pressure of global taste and packaged convenience, we risk forgetting who we are.
The future of Assamese cuisine will be decided not in supermarkets but in our own kitchens and courtyards. It is in our hands to keep the fires burning, to let the smell of bamboo shoot and mustard oil drift out of our homes, and to ensure that the taste of Assam continues to live in both memory and everyday life.
The author is a writer and researcher, currently pursuing PhD in Humanities and Social Sciences at BITS Pilani, Rajasthan.
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