When Rice Ferments, Memory Rises: Bodo Food Heritage in Manas

On the edges of Manas, the air carries a fragrance that is part smoke, part forest and part memory. In these villages where the forest meets the rice fields, food is never just food, it means more than just nourishment. A sip of rice beer, a bite of bamboo cooked curry or some pork offers a taste of nature, heritage and survival.

Here, food tells stories. It tells of agricultural rhythms, of rivers and herbs, of women who have guarded recipes as carefully as sacred chants. From brewing rice beer to preparing onla dau or serving seasonal pithas are not merely acts of cooking but acts of cultural continuity.

On a misty morning in Hatijan, a small Bodo village along the fringes of Manas National Park, the air is filled with the aroma of burning firewood and steaming rice. Inside a humble bamboo kitchen, six women sit on the floor, laughing quietly as they stir steaming pots, shape delicate pithas, and arrange fresh greens for the day’s meals. Before the cooking begins, one of them carefully places a betel nut and paan leaf by the hearth and lights a stick of incense. It is a ritual passed down through generations — a way of inviting blessings before food is prepared.

This scene, simple yet profound, reveals the essence of how food is woven into the cultural, spiritual, and ecological fabric of Bodo life. Here, food is not only sustenance; it is memory, identity, and belonging. From the brewing of rice beer (Jou Bidwi) to the earthy taste of Narzi Khari (dried jute leaf curry), from Onla Dau served at weddings to wild herbs like Premna barbata and dhekia xaak, every dish tells a story. And in these stories lies a question: as modernity and markets push their way into the forest-fringe villages of Manas, can cultural memory survive without losing its roots?

The Women of Dwisa Sher

In 2022, a small Self-Help Group (SHG) was formed in Hatijan, called Dwisa Sher Boro Cuisine. Led entirely by women, it began with a simple goal: to serve visitors authentic Bodo meals and earn livelihoods in the process. But the group has grown into something more — a grassroots movement to preserve food heritage and build community resilience.

“We are a group of six women,” explains Ansuma Goyari, one of the founding members. “We learned cooking from our mothers and grandmothers. None of this came from books. Now we prepare traditional food for people, take orders, and even serve tourists.”

The meals they serve are a feast for both the body and the imagination: Onla, a signature Bodo dish of rice flour and vegetables cooked with alkali; Dali (lentils); fresh fish from local ponds; pork raised in backyard farms; and seasonal greens gathered from nearby forests. At breakfast, visitors are greeted with an assortment of pithas — Laodum Pitha, Antab Pitha, Thao Pitha, Asi Pitha — each with its own story and ritual significance.

But what makes the group remarkable is not only the food they serve. It is the way they treat food as a living connection. “Before cooking, we clean the place, offer betel nut and paan, and light incense sticks. It’s a ritual since ages, and we are carrying it forward,” says Ansuma. “Food is also how we come together. If someone is unwell or facing problems, we gather in the community kitchen, share ideas, and help each other.”

For tourists, eating at Dwisa Sher is not just dining; it is cultural immersion. For the women, it is empowerment. In the words of another member, “From the hearths of our homes to the hearts of our guests, food has given us dignity and income.”

Rice Beer: Spirit, Ritual, and Resistance

If food is a bridge in Bodo culture, rice beer is its heartbeat. Known traditionally as Jou Bidwi, it is more than an intoxicant; it is a cultural anchor. Brewed at home with careful patience, Jou Bidwi accompanies rituals, weddings, Bihu celebrations, and communal feasts.

Pranita Basumatary, a brewer from Korebari, explains the process: “We make beer from rice and keep it for two to three days. It is used in rituals, kaaj, Bihu, or weddings.” Within this, there are variations — the prized Maibra, a pure brew reserved for festivals like Bohag Bihu; and Jou Grwan, a distilled version often made for business, less traditional but more commercial.

The cultural significance of Jou Bidwi is immense. During weddings, when the bride serves rice and Onla Dau to the groom, a sip of rice beer often seals the ritual of union. Elders recall how it has been offered to ancestors, to spirits of the forest, and to guests as a gesture of respect.

Yet rice beer is also a site of tension. State bans, taxation, and stigma have long cast it as “illicit,” ignoring its cultural role. Younger brewers now face the dilemma of balancing tradition with legality. Some women are even packaging rice beer for tourism, reframing it as heritage rather than contraband. “It is survival and pride at the same time,” says an elder.

Dishes That Tell Stories

Each Bodo dish, simple or elaborate, encodes ecological knowledge.

Take Narzi Khari, a bitter curry made from dried jute leaves, rich in iron and traditionally valued for its cooling and medicinal properties. Or Onla Dau, tied closely to weddings, where it represents the union of rice and vegetable, grain and earth. Or Posola (banana pith), cooked in bamboo, a dish that celebrates the ingenuity of using forest produce.

Chandrakanta, from Daodhara village, emphasizes this connection: “Our Onla Dau is not just food; it is part of wedding rituals. We also eat seasonal foods like ou tenga (elephant apple) and kordoi (star fruit). Since we live near the border of Manas, we eat vegetables like Premna barbata, dhekia (fern), and herbs. These are foods tied to place.”

For many elders, eating seasonal wild greens and fruits is also an act of remembering. “We eat what the forest gives us, and in doing so, we honour it,” one elder remarks.

Modernity, Tourism, and Cultural Revival

The fringe villages of Manas are changing rapidly. Processed food, cheap alcohol, and market vegetables are making their way in. Youth often prefer noodles to pitha, or bottled beer to Jou Bidwi. But alongside this erosion, a quiet revival is under way.

Homestays like the one run by Hala Mushahary in Majrabari now proudly serve traditional Bodo food to visitors. “From Onla to Namphai and more, we give people a real taste of our culture,” she says. For outsiders, these meals are a novelty; for locals, they are acts of preservation.

Eco-tourism initiatives and training programs by NGOs like Aaranyak are also creating platforms for women to turn tradition into enterprise. Krishna Basumatary of Majrabari, who once started with making fruit pickles and jellies, has won awards and expanded her products to fairs across Assam. Her story shows how traditional knowledge can adapt and flourish.

Still, there are challenges. As Krishna points out, “Sales are harder now because many women are doing similar work. But people still come to my home to buy directly. Our household depends on this, along with farming.”

Food, Forest, Future

The story of food in the villages of Manas is not just about recipes; it is about resilience. It shows how women, as keepers of brewing and cooking traditions, are also keepers of cultural memory. It shows how ecological cycles — the ripening of fruits, the sprouting of greens, the flow of rivers — are mirrored in dishes passed down for generations.

But it also reveals the fragile balance between survival and preservation. Can these traditions withstand modern pressures? Can rice beer shed its stigma without losing its sacredness? Can young people see pitha not just as “old food,” but as heritage worth protecting?

The answers lie in the kitchens, hearths, and homestays of these villages, where food continues to be brewed and boiled as an act of belonging.

As one elder in Majrabari put it simply: “When we eat together, we are not only eating food. We are eating our history, our forest, our ancestors. If we forget this, we forget ourselves.”

(This feature has been produced as part of Aaranyak’s Media Fellowship 2025, supported by IUCN-KFW.)

ALSO READ: Guardians Within: How Manas's Fringe Communities Coexist & Protect the Forest