When Fields, Forests, and Rivers Fed Us
Notes
from Sambalpur on Gunjer, Kuler, and Jarda
I
I returned
from Sambalpur with three unique tastes lingering on my tongue — the crisp
sweetness of Sarsatia, the gentle bitterness of Kuler (Kachnar) bud, and the
silken flesh of Jarda fish simmered in mustard gravy. One was festive, one
seasonal, one drawn at dawn from the vast waters of the Hirakud Dam reservoir.
Yet beneath their differences ran a single thread: each carried the memory of
habitat made edible.
In western
Odisha, the forest, the river, the pond, and the paddy field were never distant
landscapes. They were generous providers of food.
What I
encountered in Sambalpur was less cuisine than recollection — of a time when
land and water translated directly into sustenance, especially for those with
little cash but much knowledge.
The Sweet That Begins with a Twig
Sarsatia is a
unique sweet, made by a few families in Sambalpur, for which there is local demand
for Geographical Indication tag.
The sweet’s distinction
lies not in rice, sugar and ghee; but in a tree.
Tender twigs
of Gunjer (Grewia asiatica) are soaked overnight. By morning, the water
thickens into a translucent gel. The twig is squeezed; the mucilage folded into
rice flour and sugar. Fingers dip into the runny batter and trace wiry spirals
into hot ghee.
What emerges
is crisp, faintly aromatic, lightly sweet — a texture achieved without yeast or
chemical enhancers, but through patient familiarity with plant behaviour. Long
before the vocabulary of food science arrived, sweet-makers in narrow lanes of Jhadua
Para were drawing natural binders from a plant. The method was empirical,
passed from hand to hand. One family traces its practice back nearly two
centuries.
No
laboratory identified the compound; the forest supplied it.
Sarsatia is
thus more than confection. It is a quiet collaboration between tree and grain,
between memory and method.
Cooking a Bud as a Saag
Every
spring, before it bursts into orchid-like blossoms, the buds of Kuler — Kanchan
in Odia, Kachnar in Hindi (botanical name: Bauhinia variegata) — appear in
local markets, gathered from the forests.
(Kuler buds on a plate)
Slightly bitter and faintly
astringent, they are nutritionally wise greens. Rich in dietary fibre, they aid
digestion and gently stimulate appetite. The buds provide vitamin C, modest
amounts of iron, calcium and plant protein, along with antioxidant flavonoids
and polyphenols that help counter oxidative stress.
In an age of
packaged “superfoods,” Kuler remains humbly local — plucked fresh, cooked
simply, and eaten with dal and rice. It reminds us that good health need not
arrive in glossy wrappers. Sometimes, it blooms quietly on a forest tree,
waiting to be gathered.
"Phatai khailin bela, Kukila re,
Mahakila kia phula, Kukila re,"
Translation:
O Cuckoo,
As I
savoured the luscious sweetness of wood apple, cracking open its hard shell,
Ketaki's sensuous
fragrance held me in passionate embrace, O Cuckoo.
Those lines
come from a well-known Sambalpuri folk song in the film Bhukha. On
screen, young women return from the forest — firewood balanced on their heads,
baskets filled with fruits and roots, laughter spilling easily, love stirring
quietly in their hearts. It is, unmistakably, a love song.
But why does
a love song begin with a reference to a forest fruit and the act of eating?
Readers unfamiliar with the culture of western Odisha might find that curious.
The answer
is simple. In these landscapes, food is never incidental to life. It is central
to it.
For tribal
and forest communities, the forest is not backdrop — it is pantry, pharmacy,
and memory. Odisha’s wild edible flora includes nearly two hundred species:
leafy greens, fruits, tubers, flowers, seeds, climbers, shrubs, herbs. These
are not exotic novelties; they are everyday nourishment. They provide seasonal
variety, nutritional balance, and food security when markets are distant or
money scarce.
No one
taught these communities botany in classrooms. Yet children grow up learning to
identify edible leaves, distinguish safe tubers from harmful ones, and
recognise plants that heal. This knowledge is absorbed early, almost
unconsciously — a practical education shaped by necessity.
In such a
world, it is only natural that a love song would begin with food. Because
hunger and affection, sustenance and longing, forest and heart — they are never
far apart.
A Protein-laden Conveyor-belt
If the
forest yielded plant food, the river offered protein.
In monsoon
months, small fish once shimmered in the shallow waters of western Odisha. The
much-loved Thuro, also called Turu or Turi (Amblypharyngodon mola) could
be scooped up in a gamcha. Slender and soft-boned, it made a quick curry or was
fried crisp and eaten whole — calcium, iron, and oil in one small body.
There were
others — maharel, kutri, tengni, patpania, magur, and jarda; the last one a
little longer, firmer and amazingly delicious.
(Jarda -Reba Carp -Cirrhinus reba from Hirakud Dam Resevoir. Photo by Sajina A M and Deepa Sudheesan, Source-fishbase.se)
These were not commodities
transported in iced trucks; they were intimate presences in ponds and canals.
Children caught them in ankle-deep water. Men set bamboo traps at field
outlets. Women cleaned and sun-dried them on woven mats.
The
knowledge required was modest but precise: when the water would rise, where
fish would gather, how to set a trap without exhausting a stream. Skill substituted
capital.
When Fields Held Fish
Not long
ago, the paddy field itself was alive with movement.
Before
intensive chemical inputs became routine, the flooded rice field functioned as
an ecosystem. As monsoon waters spread, fish from rivers and canals entered the
fields. The shallow expanse, rich with nutrients, became nursery and pantry at
once.
Farmers
placed conical bamboo traps at drainage points. Overnight, fish accumulated.
The catch could be generous enough to preserve — sun-dried under the open sky,
smoke-cured above chulhas, stored in earthen jars.
In lean
months, pakhal bhat with a sliver of dried fish sufficed. A small accompaniment
flavoured an entire pot of rice gruel.
Habitat,
quite simply, was food security.
The Ecology of Necessity
For the
economically vulnerable, biodiversity is not environmental rhetoric; it is
daily arithmetic.
The forest
supplied edible greens, mushrooms, fruits. Water bodies yielded fish and
snails. The field produced rice, millets — and fish. This integrated web
required little cash. It depended instead on attentiveness: the ability to
forage, to time migration, to weave bamboo into funnels.
Cultivated
and wild were not opposites. They were complementary.
The Silence of Paddy Fields
Today, many
paddy fields stand quieter.
Overdose of
fertilisers, insecticides, and weedicides has altered the micro-ecology of
flooded fields. The small fish that once darted between rice stalks are rarely
seen. Bamboo traps lie unused. What was once gathered freely must now be
bought, if affordable.
The change
arrived gradually, almost unseen. Yet it reshaped diet and memory. The
disappearance of small fish is not merely the loss of free protein for the poor;
it is an unmistakable signal of ecological degradation.
I recall
monsoon mornings of childhood when farmers returned on their bullock carts with
a laden ludar - U-shaped bamboo baskets - brimming with fish.
Rustic Ecological Intelligence
Western
Odisha’s culinary habits archive the understated ecological intelligence of
rural and forest people. Gunjer twigs are gathered without stripping the tree. Kuler
buds are taken seasonally. Fish are dried for scarcity. These practices evolved
under uncertain rainfall and fluctuating river flow. They were responses to
vulnerability, not to fashion.
They
preserved habitat not because of global campaigns but because sustenance
depended upon it.
A Lingering Thought
It is futile
to romanticise that past. Rural life involved hard labour and huge risk. Yet
the integration of forest, field, and river created a distributed safety net —
modest, resilient.
Whether some
of that ecological complexity can return remains uncertain. In parts of Asia,
rice–fish systems are being revived. Hopefully, such recalibrations will find
ground along the Mahanadi River basin, too.
As I left
Sambalpur, the aroma of delectable dishes still clinging faintly to memory, I
felt both gratitude and unease. Gratitude for having tasted cuisines rooted in
habitat; unease at its narrowing base.
Human
ingenuity did not invent these foods. It noticed them. The forest offered
mucilage; the fig concealed blossoms; the river released fish into fields.
People learned to recognise these gestures and shape them into nourishment.
Some of that
conversation between land and kitchen still survives — in a twig soaked
overnight, in a bitter bud softened by heat, in fish still nourished by our
depleting water-bodies.
And
sometimes, in remembering the taste, we remember the relationship.
***
II
During a recent trip to Sambalpur, I was overwhelmed by the warm hospitality of a dear friend with whom I stayed. His wife - a versatile home-maker, a compassionate, ever-smiling empress at her home, began her day at 5.00 AM with a brief morning walk with a friend, a cup of ginger-cardamom-black pepper milk tea, and a yoga session in her beautiful roof-top garden. Thereafter, she gave all her day to manage the modern, compact, tastefully done house, and cater to the diverse, and persistently conflicting culinary demands of her family of five who had different schedules and came to the dining table at different hours. One was a vegetarian, another a foodie, two abhorred vegetables, while the other two were omnivorous senior citizens focussed on healthy eating.
Assisted by a part-time cook, she served an amazing variety of desi, home-cooked fare – aromatic Sonepur (now Subarnapur) moong-dal lightly roasted at home, santula – a mildly-seasoned vegetable stew, tawa-fried drum-stick fingers, badi, and saag – my all-time favourite - personally procured by my friend the first thing in the morning from the daily market not far from his home.
The saag is, indeed, very tasty. I complimented the lady. ‘Well-made, no doubt,’ said my friend, taking care not to annoy the spouse, ‘but the raw material, procured by yours truly, is excellent.’
‘Do you know, a bunch of saag with a faint fishy odour taste the best?’ I didn’t. In fact, I never bought if the saag smelled. Try it next time, he said, you won’t be disappointed. I made a mental note.
But the best came a day later. Fresh catch of Jarda, a delicious fresh-water fish, from the Hirakud Dam Reservoir, only a few kilometres away from the town. This fish is so much in demand that the day’s catch is sold out in less than an hour. My friend had placed an advance order and got it from the fisherman especially for me. Nearly twice more costly than Rohu.
My friend’s wife made a curry in mustard gravy, and a tawa-fry; both delicious, especially as I savoured it after decades. During my childhood in the village, the fishermen regularly harvested jarda, thuro, and mahrel from Jira river and Palsha Jor (a seasonal rivulet).
She also served a Guler-phool curry which I ate for the first time.
My friend got for me home-made rashi and moongphali laddoo, and Sarsatia. I had graduated from G.M. College, Sambalpur, and had taught there for about two-and-a-half years; yet I had never heard of Sarsatia – a unique sweet made by a few families in Jhadua para, and not found in the small eateries on the college street which we frequented.
Thanks, Dear Friend, for your wonderful hospitality - for the food and the food for thought.
***
