At its heart, Flavours of India: Heirloom Recipes from India’s Kitchens is more than a cookbook—it is a lovingly assembled tapestry of culinary memory, ancestral wisdom, and lived tradition. Edited by Neela Kaushik and Shibani Sethi, this anthology serves as both a tribute and a testament to the emotional and sensory richness of Indian domestic life.
Moving gracefully across regions—from Bengal’s lush riverbanks to Kerala’s spice-laden coasts, from the hearty kitchens of Punjab to the subtle flavors of Tamil Nadu—it honors the uncelebrated custodians of Indian cuisine: mothers, grandmothers, and matriarchs whose cooking nourished body, soul, and community.
In an era dominated by polished, chef-centric cookbooks, Flavours of India offers a quietly radical perspective: the truest expressions of Indian culinary heritage come not from professional kitchens but from the seasoned hands of home cooks, where recipes are passed down like sacred lore—unwritten, intuitive, and infused with love.
Structure and Scope
The book is thoughtfully arranged into thematic sections—Beverages, Vegetarian Snacks, Dry Vegetables, Curries, Chicken, Mutton, Seafood, Pickles and Chutneys, and Sweets—each capturing a slice of India’s vast culinary and regional mosaic.
Within every category, readers are offered not just recipes but rich cultural context. Each dish is introduced with a personal narrative that anchors it in memory, geography, and familial ties. These stories are not mere embellishments; they form the very soul of the collection, reinforcing its mission to present food as a vessel of heritage.
Take, for example, Neela Kaushik’s reflection on Panagam, a Tamil spiced jaggery drink. Her account gently ushers the reader into the intimate world of temple rituals and the sanctity of domestic traditions, revealing how such seemingly simple preparations are steeped in reverence and generational continuity.
To me, Panagam is more than just a drink—it’s a cherished memory and a comforting reminder of family and tradition.
This intimate lens continues throughout the collection. Ambika Rikhye, reminiscing about Bael ka Sherbet, humorously recalls how someone once said it “tasted like melted rubber,” and then adds:
Now, I have no idea how they know what melted rubber tastes like!
These stories breathe life into the recipes, evoking smiles, nostalgia, and at times, quiet tears. They remind us that food is more than sustenance—it is a language of love, loss, resilience, and belonging.
Narrative as Culinary Heritage
The storytellers in this collection—primarily women—are not celebrity chefs but daughters, mothers, and wives who inherited their culinary knowledge through lived experience in family kitchens. This distinction is profound. The domestic kitchen, frequently dismissed in mainstream culinary discourse, emerges here as a powerful space of preservation, innovation, and intergenerational transmission.
Ratna Pande’s recipe for Badeel—crisp, spiced lentil bites from Uttarakhand—captures this beautifully. She writes:
Since my mom’s passing, preparing this snack has become a way to honour her memory and revisit cherished moments—it surpasses any ready-made options available today.
Similarly, Simmi Babbar’s recipe for Doli Wali Roti evokes centuries-old traditions from Multani weddings:
These rotis were given to the groom’s party during the vidai ceremony so they could have something to eat on the way.
In these moments, food transforms into more than just something we eat—it becomes both a tangible artifact and a fleeting symbol of continuity. These recipes do more than endure; they act as vessels, carrying with them the stories, names, and landscapes of those who came before.
Regional Diversity and Culinary Identity
One of the book’s greatest strengths lies in its deliberate celebration of India’s immense regional culinary diversity. Each recipe is firmly rooted in its local context—shaped by geography, climate, seasonality, and cultural habit. From the earthy warmth of Bajra Raab in Rajasthan, traditionally adapted for both summer and winter, to the mustard-laced tang of West Bengal’s Doi Begun, every dish speaks of a specific place and its way of life.
What truly elevates the collection is its inclusion of lesser-known, often underrepresented recipes—dishes rarely found in mainstream cookbooks but deeply embedded in regional identities. Among them:
- Chakkakuru Mezhukkupuratti – a Kerala-style stir-fry of jackfruit seeds
- Pittor in Curd Gravy – soft, spiced besan dumplings simmered in Rajasthani kadhi
- Borhani – a fiery, fragrant yogurt drink from Bengal, customarily paired with biryani
- Gunda Kachri ki Sabzi – a robust Rajasthani preparation using glueberries and wild melons
These dishes are not just unique in flavor—they are steeped in cultural narrative. Their introductions frame them within lived experiences, familial memory, and ecological specificity. For instance, Abhilasha Jain’s recollection of Gunda Kachri ki Sabzi invites readers into the heart of desert cuisine and its ingenious adaptation to scarcity and abundance.
Preparing this sabzi isn’t just about cooking; it’s about preserving a legacy… the stories that were shared around the kitchen fire, and the love that was infused into every meal.
This regional mapping extends beyond the culinary—it is deeply cultural, linguistic, and ecological. The deliberate use of hyperlocal ingredients like kachri, gondhoraj lime, khus root, or jackfruit seeds becomes a quiet yet powerful assertion of India’s rich biodiversity.
In doing so, the book resists the flattening effect of standardized restaurant menus, reminding readers that Indian cuisine is not a monolith, but a living, breathing mosaic shaped by land, language, and legacy.
A Gendered Archive of Taste
One of the most compelling themes in Flavours of India is its celebration of a distinctly gendered narrative of food—where Indian women have long served as the custodians of culinary heritage and the often unseen bearers of nutritional and cultural knowledge. Many of the stories emphasize matrilineal transmission, with grandmothers imparting wisdom to mothers, and mothers passing it down to daughters.
Ruma Bhattacharjee’s recipe for Bhapa Ilish (steamed hilsa) poignantly embodies this tradition, weaving together memory, skill, and love across generations:
The first day of Ilish was always a celebration—whether steamed to perfection in a fragrant bhapa, fried to a golden crisp, or cooked in a zesty tel jhol. The pièce de résistance?
Such examples underscore the book’s underlying feminist undercurrent. Without overtly politicizing, it posits domestic labor as a form of cultural resistance, a reservoir of inherited strength.
Technique Meets Emotion
Each recipe in the book is thoughtfully detailed and approachable, offering clear lists of ingredients, step-by-step instructions, serving ideas, and helpful tips for adaptation. Yet, what truly sets them apart is the profound emotional resonance that accompanies every dish. Cooking here transcends technique—it becomes an act of remembrance, a way to process grief, and a means to celebrate life.
Consider Anuradha Walia’s Amti, a tangy Maharashtrian dal. Though she hails from a Baniya family, where such flavors were uncommon, she was determined to revive this cherished recipe, underscoring how food can bridge identity and memory:
The distinct taste of this dal lingered in my memory… So, I began making it for myself.
Similarly, the playful narrative in Priya Baranwal’s Murauri (savoury rice and radish poori) captures childhood squabbles over leftovers:
The real fun, however, began the next day when we’d all scramble for the leftovers… Yet somehow, Mom always managed to give us each an equal share.
Technique here is inseparable from emotion. To recreate these dishes without their context would be culinary mimicry; the book insists on cooking as a deeply affective act.
Language, Humor, and Voice
Another highlight of the book is the editorial choice to retain the contributors’ authentic voices. There’s regional lilt, familial warmth, and even humor in many entries. Pooja Nagalia, writing about Aam Panna, remarks:
It became so special to me that it was the very first thing I learned to make when I finally ventured into the kitchen as a teen.
Even the unpretentious self-deprecation—“my cooking usually falls into one of two categories: ‘edible’ and ‘maybe next time’”—is relatable and endearing.
The editors smartly avoid polishing these voices into a uniform style, thereby preserving their cultural and emotional cadence.
Visual and Sensory Design
Although the edition contains very few photographs, the book’s thoughtful structure and layout is elegantly designed. Each recipe is presented clearly and consistently, with standardized details such as preparation time, servings, ingredients, and step-by-step methods. Y
et, it is the evocative sensory language that truly brings the food to life—the “sizzle of mustard seeds,” the “comforting aroma of roasted jeera,” and the “bittersweet tang of amchoor” leap off the page.
Even without many visuals, the book engages all the senses. Readers can almost inhale the sweetness of Meethe Roat, savor the comforting warmth of Pesarattu Upma, and hear the satisfying crunch of Koraishutir Kochuri.
Conclusion
Flavours of India stands as a heartfelt and evocative homage to the often-unseen legacy of home cooks across the nation. It does not strive to be encyclopedic or exhaustive; rather, it embraces a personal, fragmented, and deeply experiential approach. In this, it achieves what many cookbooks miss—it moves you emotionally.
As the editors reflect in the preface (paraphrased), this book is about far more than recipes—it’s about the moments, the people, and the memories that give flavor to our lives.
For anyone who views food as more than mere sustenance—who appreciates it as culture, emotion, and heritage—Flavours of India is an essential and nourishing journey. Whether you’re a curious novice or an experienced cook, it will rekindle the memory of that one dish, that familiar voice, that kitchen that always felt like home.
Rating: 5/5