In today’s world, we’re all in a hurry to sample something new. We love to experiment with sushi rolls, devour tacos, or bite into towering burgers with a side of fries. Don’t get me wrong—who doesn’t enjoy a good burger or a creamy slice of pizza? But sometimes, in our excitement to embrace the global food parade, we leave our own rich, flavourful roots by the wayside.
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Sometimes out taste buds are often wooed by crispy fries, burgers stacked with toppings, and wraps dripping with sauces I can’t pronounce but what about the simpler yet profound, flavors that defined our childhood. Growing up, winters meant the warmth of tekeli pitha and tel pitha, a spread of larus (sweet balls of coconut or sesame and jaggery), and the rich aroma of pithas. These weren’t just foods; they were symbols of family time, festivals, and tradition.
Back in the day, there was a charm to food that felt like it came from the heart, not a factory. Pithas were prepared with anticipation, sometimes weeks in advance, in households across Assam. Each one, whether soft or crispy, was a bite of history, a nod to generations who had lovingly passed down recipes without the need for cookbooks or YouTube tutorials. Larus, those sweet treats rolled and packed with jaggery, were the dessert that wrapped up many a meal—and didn’t come with a calorie count.
But today, I can’t help but feel that something’s missing. Convenience has taken over nostalgia. Yes, grabbing a burger is quicker, but where’s the warmth that comes with food that tells a story? The humble tekeli pitha may not be trendy, but it’s rich with a legacy that makes our food culture unique. Fast food is fast, but it’s rarely fulfilling in the same way.
It’s a bit heartbreaking to think that the coming generations might never know the warmth of a kitchen alive with the smell of pithas and larus. Instead of the earthy aroma of rice flour roasting or the heady sweetness of jaggery melting, their olfactory memories may be dominated by the grease and spice of fast-food chains. Their senses, over time, might evolve to recognize the smell of burgers and pizzas over the deep, familiar scents of home-cooked delicacies that carry generations of tradition.
Yet, there is hope. Every Magh Bihu, young people living far from Assam—some as far as seven seas away—pick up the phone and call home, asking their mothers or grandparents for that tekeli pitha recipe or the right way to make coconut larus. There’s a special magic in those calls, a spark that keeps the tradition alive. These young custodians of culture, though oceans away, still crave the flavors of their roots and want to carry forward the taste of home.
Perhaps it’s time to bring back some of that magic, to reclaim the pithas and larus that once filled our kitchens. We don’t have to give up our pizzas and burgers, but let’s make a little room for the tastes that remind us of who we are.
(The author is the IGP (Admin & STF), Assam. All views and opinions expressed in the article are the author’s own)