Republic Day is a reminder of India’s freedom, identity, and the nation’s reclaiming of its sovereignty. We often speak about wealth, resources, and industries taken during British rule, but there’s another story that sits quietly on our plates. Indian food didn’t just travel with the British—it was adapted, renamed, and carried back without its roots.
British officials living in India ate Indian food every day. Their cooks were Indian, their ingredients local, and their tastes shaped by Indian kitchens. But when these dishes crossed borders, their names, regions, and stories rarely travelled with them.
From Khichdi to Kedgeree: A 2,000-Year-Old Comfort Food Transformed
The Ancient Origins
Khichdi’s roots stretch deep into ancient India. It is referenced in the Mahabharata (compiled between the 3rd century BCE and 3rd century CE), where Draupadi is said to have fed the Pandavas khichdi during exile, and in the Ain-i-Akbari (circa 1590), which records elaborate Mughal variations of the dish. In 1340 CE, Moroccan scholar Ibn Battuta described a rice-and-mung bean dish called “kishri,” commonly eaten for breakfast in India.
The Colonial Transformation
British East India Company officials encountered khichdi in the 17th and 18th centuries and adapted it to suit European tastes. Lentils were removed, while fish, boiled eggs, butter, and cream were added, and the dish evolved from “kidgeri” to “kedgeree.”
The first written recipe appeared in 1790 in a diary by Scottish woman Stephana Malcolm. By the 1830s, kedgeree had become a Victorian breakfast staple, documented by food historian Clarissa Dickson Wright, and in 1861, Queen Victoria’s chief cook Charles Elmé Francatelli even created a special version for Florence Nightingale.
Milagu Thanni to Mulligatawny: The 18th Century Soup That Never Was
Tamil Origins
In South India, milagu thanni (literally “pepper water” in Tamil: milagu = pepper, thanni = water) was a thin, peppery broth similar to rasam, consumed for its warming and digestive properties. It was traditionally served at the end of meals as a digestive aid.
The Colonial Invention
During the 18th century, when British East India Company officials demanded soup courses for their dinners—something traditional Indian cuisine had never produced—Tamil servants in Madras (now Chennai) concocted a stew-like creation. They took their familiar pepper water and added what the British expected: meat stock, vegetables, lentils, and thickening agents.
Arthur Robert Kenney-Herbert (writing under the pen name “Wyvern”) documented in his 1878 book Culinary Jottings that authentic mulligatawny was “a thing of the past,” describing how a simpler South Indian preparation had been transformed into something unrecognisable.
The British mispronounced and anglicised “milagu thanni” as “mulligatawny,” and by the late 18th century, it had become an Anglo-Indian classic, featured prominently in British cookbooks despite its Tamil roots being rarely acknowledged.
The Great Flattening: When Everything Became “Curry”
The Birth of Curry Powder
India’s countless regional gravies—each with distinct spice balances, cooking methods, and cultural meanings—were reduced to a single English word: “curry.” The term itself derived from the Tamil word kaṟi (meaning “sauce”), which the British applied broadly to all Indian dishes.
To make these flavours “replicable” back home, commercial curry powder was invented. The first commercial curry powder was sold by Sorlie’s Perfumery in London in 1784. Brands like Crosse & Blackwell and Sharwood’s were established in the late 18th century, marketing pre-mixed blends that supposedly captured “authentic Indian taste.”
The Reality: Traditional Indian cooking has never used “curry powder.” Instead, it relies on region-specific masalas—spice mixtures freshly ground for particular dishes. Garam masala in North India differs entirely from sambar powder in the South, and from the Bengali panch phoron or Goan recheado masala.
Royal Tables and Secret Cravings
The Public and Private Divide
As colonial society became more racially rigid, European food dominated public dining. Yet many British officials developed a secret fondness for Indian curries. One anecdote tells of a British army wife caught squatting on her sofa, devouring curry and rice, fleeing in embarrassment when discovered—it was considered too “native” to admit publicly.
Queen Victoria’s Curry Connection
In August 1887, Queen Victoria’s Indian attendant Abdul Karim prepared curry for her. She noted in her diary on August 20, 1887: “Had some excellent curry prepared by one of my Indian servants.”
Following this encounter, Victoria employed Indian cooks who ground their own spices using traditional methods. Her Swiss cook, Gabriel Tschumi, who joined the royal kitchens in 1898, described how Indian cooks killed their own halal meat and ground curry powder between two large round stones, refusing to use commercially available curry powder.
Fact Check: While Victorian cook Tschumi claimed curry was served “each day at luncheon,” food historian Annie Gray disputes this, noting that surviving ledgers show curry featured on Victoria’s menus twice weekly in the late 1880s: chicken curry on Sundays and fish curry on Tuesdays.
The Royal Legacy: Victoria’s grandson, King George V, insisted on curry every single day, cementing its place in British royal cuisine.
The Plantation Economy
Tea cultivation was actively promoted during British rule through massive plantations and policy interventions. The British established tea estates in Assam (first commercial plantations in the 1830s) and Darjeeling to break China’s monopoly on the tea trade.
The Indian Transformation
But Indian kitchens transformed this imposed commodity. Milk, ginger, cardamom, cloves, black pepper, and tulsi turned British-style tea into something entirely new: masala chai. This spiced, sweetened, comforting version became more beloved than plain British tea—a small but significant victory of Indian taste over colonial imposition.
The Language of Indian Bread
[23/01, 12:31] Shaila CBC Kochi Fame And Fables: In Indian homes, rotis and chapatis were everyday staples. In colonial clubs and British dining rooms, however, naan-style breads became the face of “Indian food,” especially at formal meals. Over time, these breads travelled abroad as stand-ins for Indian cuisine—flattening a vast tradition that spans bajra rotis, bhakris, appams, and countless regional flatbreads.
The Chapati Movement
Bread also carried meaning beyond the plate. During the 1857 uprising, chapatis were quietly passed from village to village across North India. With no written message, their circulation acted as a silent signal of mobilisation—ordinary, familiar, and impossible to ban without suspicion. Long before being reduced to restaurant shorthand, the chapati had already served as a tool of resistance.
What Never Left Home
While names changed abroad, Indian kitchens never stopped cooking khichdi, pongal, dal, chai, and jaggery-based sweets. Women passed recipes down quietly through generations, communities shared meals during difficult times, and food stayed rooted in daily life.
Mughal emperors had their own elaborate versions: Emperor Jahangir loved a spicy khichdi enriched with pistachios and raisins, naming it “lazeezan” (meaning “the delicious”). The Nawab of Awadh, Nasir-ud-din Haidar Shah (1827-1837), was famous for his chef’s royal khichdi made entirely from pistachios and almonds, painstakingly cut to resemble lentils and rice.
A Different Journey Today
This Republic Day, we remember the struggles behind our freedom while celebrating how Indian cuisine now travels the world by choice—shared, loved, and embraced, just as we welcome global flavours at our table. Indian food today stands confident and global, recognised and respected for what it truly is. From Chicken Tikka Masala to Michelin-starred chefs and regional cuisines like Chettinad and Kashmiri Wazwan, Indian flavours are celebrated worldwide.
The story comes full circle. What was once taken and renamed now arrives with its own name, its own voice. Cooking these dishes today isn’t about nostalgia, but about carrying forward a legacy that endured quietly in Indian kitchens and now stands proudly on the world’s table—one recipe at a time.
Just thought this would be of interest. Imagine I read this in bigbasket!
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