Food Values Beyond Nutrition - The Oxford Topic of Food, Politics, and Society - page 552

The divergence of viewpoints between mother and son is absolute.
We had other conversations with Sohan Lal in which he actually agreed fully that
indigenous wheat tastes better and asserted that chemical fertilizers and hybrid crops
with their demands for additional irrigation are dangerously depleting and damaging
the land's two most vital natural resources—soil and water. In other words, Sohan Lal
identified the very agricultural practices he embraced as unsustainable, and, in truth,
agreed with his mother on everything except the necessary course of action. In his view,
he has no choice but to pursue profit at the expense of all else. What drives him, however,
is not amoral greed but a sense of responsibility to provide a younger generation oppor-
tunities that only money can buy—a classic double bind.
In 2009 in India, eggplant, commonly called brinjal in Indian English, became the
center of stormy controversy due to a new genetically modified variety approved by the
government for cultivation and consumption, an approval later retracted under pressure
from opposing activists.12 At the time of my 2003 research, eggplant was already a local
food symbolic of changing times. As I read about the eggplant protests in December
2009, I developed retrospective understanding of eggplant's significance as a relished,
filling, traditional, and humble vegetable.
During my winter 2003 research, talk about modern brinjal's lack of tastiness carried
with it a subtle but perceptible moral evaluation. I had many conversations in January
2003 about two species of brinjal, one readily visible and one largely invisible. The latter
scarce item is “ deshi ” brinjal, literally “of the land,” implying local and indigenous. Deshi
brinjals are whitish in color, and the vine on which they grow has annoying thorns on
it, but everyone with whom I spoke asserted that this variety was the most delicious.
Nonetheless, the widely prevalent species nowadays is called disko : it is small, shapely,
perfectly purple, its stem free of unpleasant prickles, but people say it lacks in taste.
Disko is not only easier to cultivate, but also sells better.
Barji Mali, a gardener woman, was among several who told us, “There used to be local
brinjal ( deshi bangan ). We used to grow it, but now we have modern ( adhunik ) brinjal,
called ' Disko .' Now, Disko is available.” Shambhu Nath, an educated villager in his 40s
who has worked with me on and off over the years, immediately chimed in to emphasize
a contrast in flavor: “The local brinjal was tasty, but it had prickles on it. It was really deli-
cious, but the Disko has no flavor. Even today, the local is available in the market but it
costs more than Disko .” He then gave an elaborate recipe for what he said was the best way
to cook deshi—stuffed with spices after roasting. Nostalgia for the tasty past is invested
in the white variety that has shifted from staple to luxury, and it is now presumably culti-
vated by a few for sale to the well-to-do in town markets rather than village lanes.
This contrast between the pervasive, modern, shiny, purple, attractive disko and the
indigenous variety—white, prickly, flavorful but no longer consumed—captures much
about nostalgia for a past that people do not necessarily strive to reclaim. Pleasures such
as the taste of white brinjal, roasted and spiced as Shambhu recalled it, are missed but
deemed irretrievable. This seems to echo Sohan Lal's acknowledgement of the genu-
inely superior flavor of wheat he refuses to plant. There is additional symbolism in the
disko / deshi contrast and the psychology of loss it evokes. Tasteless modernity is perfectly