4 min readJun 16, 2026 05:36 PM IST
First published on: Jun 16, 2026 at 05:36 PM IST
By Nandini Tank
Perhaps the most revealing aspect of contemporary food politics is not what people eat, but who is eating it. In 2025, viewers across the world watched a contestant on MasterChef Australia prepare a coriander and green ant ice-cream. Food critics praised the creativity. The comment section read: “Shows a versatile cook,” “Looked incredible and wish I could have tasted all those amazing elements.”
Now look at the responses received by eugene_ke_cuisine, a tribal content creator from the Kharia tribe, when he posted a video of demta chutney (red ant chutney) on Instagram: “Disgusting,” “I want to puke,” “Adivasis (with a disgust emoji)”.
The ingredients are similar. The difference lies not in the ant itself but in the social location of those cooking and consuming it.
Earlier this month, the official Instagram handle of Jharkhand Tourism posted about red ant chutney, captioning it “When celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay tasted red ant chutney” — connecting a local indigenous food tradition to a global culinary conversation. It marked an important shift. Food that was once stigmatised is increasingly being recognised as a symbol of regional identity and cultural richness. Yet this recognition itself reveals the problem: When Ramsay tries red ant chutney, it becomes an object of curiosity, framed as adventurous and culturally significant. When indigenous food enters elite culinary spaces, it is rebranded as heritage cuisine or sustainable gastronomy. When it is practised within indigenous communities, it is treated as evidence of backwardness. For generations, tribal communities across central and eastern India have consumed red-ant chutney not merely as food but as part of local ecological knowledge — rich in nutrients, closely connected to forest ecosystems, and emerging through centuries of interaction with local environments. Yet these traditions are dismissed until rediscovered or endorsed by someone occupying a more privileged social position.
Urban consumers enthusiastically embrace sushi, kimchi, escargot, and imported gourmet ingredients, now marketed as markers of sophistication and cosmopolitanism. When tribal communities showcase their own food traditions, rooted in ecological knowledge, the response is mostly rejection. The issue is not taste. It is power. Certain groups possess the authority to define what is acceptable and desirable. Others are forced to defend their practices against accusations of inferiority. When a tribal dish is mocked online, what is being rejected is not the ingredient but the people associated with it.
This is why Instagram reels by young Adivasi creators matter. Across Jharkhand and the Chota Nagpur region, they are putting out cooking videos to showcase traditional dishes made from forest produce — wild greens, millets, mushrooms, fish, and red ants. This knowledge rarely appears in school textbooks, is ignored by policymakers, and is absent from mainstream media. Yet it survives through oral traditions and everyday cooking. More than recipes, these posts are acts of cultural affirmation — transforming social media into a digital archive of indigenous food cultures, and signalling a growing confidence among tribal youth who refuse to be defined by external perceptions. Every video of demta chutney, silk worms, or mahua is a declaration that tribal cuisines are not relics of the past but living traditions deserving visibility, respect, and pride.
The writer is assistant professor, Department of English and Cultural Studies, CHRIST (Deemed to be University), Bengaluru
Urban consumers enthusiastically embrace sushi, kimchi, escargot, and imported gourmet ingredients, now marketed as markers of sophistication and cosmopolitanism.(Photo: Instagram/@gordongram) 
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