Opinion Puri, halwa and dignity: Bhandaras offer a glimpse of the sacred, as well as food security

For me, the most striking feature is the tradition of community feeding. Every religion has its own version of this, whether it’s called a bhandara or langar. It is a way of seeking blessings, not directly from the divine, but through service to people.

In India, food is not just an offering to the gods. Food is, in and of itself, divine. Food has long been equated with the goddess; as Devdutt Pattanaik writes, “Food is Shakambari, born of Bhoo-devi, and served by Annapurni.” Ancient texts refer to “Annam Brahma” or “Annam Parabrahmaswaroopam”. Food doesn’t just fill the stomach; it is an offering in the yagna of life. Without food, nothing exists. Even today, in many households, the kitchen remains a sacred space. Rituals continue, quietly, often without explanation.

At the heart of the tradition of community feeding is a simple idea: Free food, served to anyone who walks in, without question. No one asks about your religion, caste, gender, or background.

Last week, while travelling through Lucknow, Sitapur, Gonda, and Malihabad, I noticed the same pattern at every bhandara. It reminded me of what I’ve seen at various other community feasts in and around India, whether it’s at Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah, the Golden Temple in Amritsar, or even in homes during festivals or after rituals. The meal always began with something to cool the body, like a rose sharbat (often Rooh Afza). Sometimes, it was just cold water.

Next is steamed rice, with subtle local variations depending on the place, followed by varieties of bread, puris or rotis. A seasonal vegetable, usually mixed with potatoes, comes after this, followed by dal, often chana dal or kali moong. The meal ends with a sweet: Halwa, sheera or boondi.

This pattern is not random. There is an emphasis on hydration and satiation, through simple carbohydrates, fibre and sugar. The meal may not be fully balanced, but it is certainly comforting. It is also practical. These ingredients are inexpensive, easy to cook in bulk, and familiar to the palate. Boiling rice, simmering dal, frying puris, all of it scales easily to feed hundreds, even thousands.

The staples remain the same. Rice, wheat, potatoes, lentils, sugar, and oil. They are accessible and affordable, but more importantly, they come together in a way that feels both humble and generous. There is no garnish, no show, and yet the plate carries a quiet dignity without sacrificing taste or nutritional balance.

Bhandaras are not just a cultural tradition. They also act as a food safety net for those who cannot fend for themselves, the poor, the homeless, the ill, and the underprivileged. But their relevance goes far beyond that.

In cities, these meals are equally important for those involved in physically gruelling labour: Rickshaw-pullers, daily wage labourers, delivery boys, people who spend their days on the road with little time or means to arrange a proper meal. You see this clearly outside hospitals, at dargahs, temples, gurdwaras, where people gather with hope and need in equal measure.

For most, these community kitchens are not just about food. They are about something deeper. They hold up a kind of social fabric. They reinforce the idea that everyone deserves to eat. That service is not about charity. It is about dignity.

Of course, food has become political in recent times, and community feasts too have not remained untouched. Despite this, one thing still holds true. These kitchens feed people without asking who they are, serving food without weighing the worth of the person in front of them.

The writer is a chef and the author, most recently, of Masalamandi: A Guide to the World of Indian Spice Blends