Not every book begins with a grand vision, and that is precisely what makes Chutney: A Compendium of Stories and Recipes so relatable. “I would love to say I had this mega plan, but honestly, it wasn’t like that,” laughed author Rushina Munshaw-Ghildiyal during a lively conversation with journalist and Lucknow with Anubhuti founder Anubhuti Krishna at Ikk Panjab, Connaught Place, New Delhi. The discussion marked the launch of the book, published by A Perfect Bite Consulting (APB) under the aegis of Rushina and Chandra Shekhar Ghildiyal. The evening traced the book’s origins from a pandemic-era online chutney session to an ambitious exploration of one of India’s most enduring and diverse culinary traditions.
The seed for the book was planted during the pandemic, when she hosted an online chutney-themed session. “Even as things were opening up, we saw a stellar turnout. And the conversation went on for two hours after the session ended,” she recalls. That moment was telling. “It made me realise chutney is a very resonant topic. Everyone has a story.”
From people claiming they “don’t cook” to self-proclaimed non-foodies, everyone had something to say. “Since the book came out, every person we meet says—‘I have a chutney to share’,” she says. “That’s when you know you’ve hit something universal.”
Why chutney? Because it’s for everyone
For Rushina, chutney’s biggest strength is its accessibility. “It’s a very friendly food,” she explains. “You don’t need special equipment. You don’t need planning. You can just take what’s lying around and make a chutney." Unlike elaborate dishes, chutney thrives on spontaneity. “You can smash it together by hand, use a blender, anything,” she says. “Even if you don’t cook, chutney is something you might try.” That simplicity is also what makes it deeply democratic. “You’ll find chutney everywhere—street food, home kitchens, restaurants. It cuts across class, region, and skill.”
Beyond states: Mapping chutney through climate
One of the most fascinating aspects of the book is how it breaks away from the conventional “state-wise” lens of Indian cuisine. “The political map of India is only about 75 years old,” Rushina points out. “Food predates that.”
Instead, she approaches chutney through a climatic and micro-regional lens. “What we eat is driven by the land and climate,” she explains. “That’s why the Himalayan belt is very different from the northern plains—even if both fall under ‘North India’.”
The book reflects this thinking. While it follows state-wise organisation for ease, it dives deeper into regional nuances within each state. “In a place like Karnataka, chutneys change from the coast to the interior. We wanted to capture that diversity.”
What really makes a chutney?
Before diving into recipes, the book first deconstructs chutney itself. “We looked at three things—ingredients, tools, and the person making it,” Rushina says.
Ingredients form the backbone, and India’s diversity shines here. “We make chutneys from everything—leaves, seeds, nuts, flowers, even leftovers,” she notes. At the same time, the book identifies common threads. “Coriander, coconut, garlic—these appear across regions, with local variations.”
Then come the tools—especially the iconic silbatta. “The presence of grinding tools in ancient sites tells us that crushing food has been part of our culture for a very long time,” she explains.
But the most important element? Human ingenuity. “A chutney is ultimately shaped by the person making it.”
From ‘chatna’ to global tables
The word “chutney” itself has an interesting journey. “It comes from chatna, meaning ‘to lick’,” Rushina explains. Traditionally, chutney was a small, flavour-packed addition meant to complete a meal. In Ayurvedic traditions, it even played a nutritional role—balancing the six tastes. “It wasn’t just about flavour, but also about filling nutritional gaps.”
The British later globalised chutney, but in a very specific form. “They popularised cooked chutneys because those could be preserved and transported,” she says.
However, chutney as a concept existed long before that—under different names like thogayal, thecha, and more. “If you search for ‘chutney’ historically, you won’t find much. You have to dig through regional names.”
A book built on people, not just recipes
With over 230 recipes and 140 essays, the book is as much about people as it is about food. “The hardest part wasn’t collecting recipes—it was knowing where to stop,” Rushina admits. Many contributions came from home cooks across India, especially women whose culinary knowledge often goes undocumented. “These recipes usually stay within families—‘nani’s chutney’, ‘mom’s recipe’—but never get formal recognition.”
For Rushina, giving them a platform was deeply meaningful. “Now their names are attached to these recipes. They’ve become part of a larger memory.”
When chutney stops an airport queue
Among the many memorable moments during her research, one stands out. “We were at immigration in Delhi, heading to Lisbon,” she recalls. “The officer asked what we do. When we said we’re writing a book on chutney, he started sharing recipes!” For the next half hour, the officer enthusiastically described chutneys—while the queue behind waited. “It was surreal,” she laughs. “But it showed how deeply food connects us.”
The bigger picture: India’s hidden food wisdom
At its core, Chutney is about reclaiming India’s culinary memory. “So much of Indian cuisine still lives in home kitchens,” Rushina says. “And nobody talks about it.”
She also notes an interesting pattern: “The more frugal a cuisine, the more chutneys you’ll find.” Why? “Because when resources are limited, you learn to extract maximum flavour from minimal ingredients.”
In that sense, chutney is not just a condiment—it’s a symbol of resilience, creativity, and tradition. And through Rushina Munshaw-Ghildiyal’s work, it has taken centre stage—as a storyteller, a connector, and perhaps India’s most underestimated culinary treasure.
Images Courtesy: Rushina Munshaw-Ghildiyal and istock
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