The Invisible Faces Of Bengaluru’s Street Food Culture

Pratima Chabbi offers a glimpse into the lives of two women whose food isn’t considered to be representative of the city’s culture and cuisine, but, crucially, provides affordable sustenance to the service class.

Kannada songs stream out of a street cart at the junction of 12th Main Indiranagar, Bengaluru. It is a plain blue cart, with no name or decoration. Behind the cart stands Kala. Every afternoon, she hands out hot lunch — tomato saaru, yellekosu (cabbage) palya, badnekai (brinjal) palya, chicken curry, Kerala paratha, chappathi, raagi mudde, anna (boiled rice) and mote (eggs). A few streets away, along the compound wall of Employees State Insurance Hospital, Paapu stands under her street cart, MVV Tiffin & Lunch. She too serves hot food: idli, dosa, puri-palya, lemon rice and rice baath for breakfast; chappathi, parotta, raagi mudde, anna-sambar, biryani, and chicken for lunch, and pulao, raita and curry for dinner.

Paapu’s cart in Indiranagar is open from breakfast to dinner

Kaala and Paapu may be invisible to the people who throng Indiranagar, a high street boasting of over 100 restaurants and bars, a dozen cafes, organic grocery stores, trendy food trucks and small hotels. A typical meal at any of these places costs upwards of Rs 350, making it unaffordable and out of reach of the working class. It is these folk — rickshaw, taxi and tempo drivers; food and grocery delivery agents; BBMP pourakarmikaras (street sweepers); hospital, hotel, and bank staff; college students and migrant workers — who throng Kala and Paapu’s stalls. “Indiranagar’s 12th street has no affordable food for the working class here. I am a working-class woman. How will this city function if we are not fed?” says Kala. “That is why I am making healthy, tasty food for them.”

Feeding Bengaluru

Kala’s day begins at 6 AM, when she walks to the local market to purchase supplies. Back in her tiny home, she cooks (on average) 50 chappatis, 40 raggi muddes, 30 Kerala parathas, chicken curry, two vegetables, 30 boiled eggs, and 3 kilos of rice. A little after 12:30 PM, a rickshaw drops her to her cart at 12th Main, Indiranagar, where she displays the food in casseroles and aluminum vessels on her cart.

This is how Kala earns a living, selling food to working class folk; people like Hassan*, a food and grocery delivery agent. Hassan works 14 hours a day, on average, and frequents Indiranagar 4-5 times a week for orders. “We are tracked on our break times, and are not given food coupons or discounts even though we work for a food delivery apps,” he says. After months of eating fried food, rolls, and cheap Chinese, he found Kala's stall, which he now frequents for its “homely food”.

Kala’s lunch offerings include tomato saaru, chicken curry, Kerala paratha, chappathi, raagi mudde, and mote (eggs)

In Bengaluru, the food street landscape is dominated by male vendors representing a competitive and potentially threatening space for women to create opportunities for empowerment or commercial advantage. Unscrupulous authorities, bribes, whims of traffic, and long work hours pose additional challenges. Yet, Kala and Paapu represent women who use their culinary knowledge to empower themselves, and offer others like themselves a chance at eating inexpensive, home-style, healthy meals. Here, millet dishes cost Rs 40, and eggs or chicken dishes range from Rs 70 to Rs 100.

"I’ve slept hungry many nights of my life. I hope no one has to experience that. This job is one way of assuring that,” says Paapu. Pramod*, an office boy by day at a tech start-up, and Zomato delivery agent by night, is on his feet through the day. He often finds no place to sit except roadside curbs; there are no public toilets, and feeding himself is often the last priority as the number of deliveries translates to more money. At Paapu’s stall, he can sit and have a meal. “I eat here 3-4 times weekly and feel satisfied. It is my rest stop,” he says.

The Invisible Pillars Of Our Society

Kala, Paapu and their customers are the omnipresent pillars of urban societies, but they are largely ignored. Big cities lure the working class from small towns and villages to aid their economic growth while ignoring their stories, voices and needs. There is little job security; the benefits are meagre; the work is physically demanding and emotionally draining, and fraught with gender discrimination and local politics.

Hassan and Pramod consider their jobs to be a ‘reminder of where we belong.’ They feel invisible and ignored by the people whose parcels they deliver, and the restaurants/ stores where orders are arranged on a table for pick up. It is rare in their line of work for a person to stop, take a moment, and talk to them. “Kala and Paapu smile, talk to us and ask about our day. It is not entirely transactional,” they say. In addition, the food brings them comfort. The food has become part of their routine. The food is a reminder of home.

As street vendors, especially women, Kala and Paapu are the most invisible members of this street economy. Yet, they have managed to create opportunities for other women. Kala is accompanied by Savitri*, a 58-year-old BBMP pourakarmikara, and Gouri* assists Paapu — these women wash dishes in exchange for a minimal amount and for food. "I will never sleep hungry because Kala is there for me," says Savitri.

These street carts offer home-cooked, filling meals to the city’s service class

Mainstream and social media rarely illuminate workers like Kala and Paapu, or consider them part of Bengaluru’s street food culture. Despite their ubiquitous presence on the streets, their lives and efforts are mainly invisible to the residents of Bengaluru. Why are Kala and Paapu not considered part of the city’s food culture? Why are their offerings not representative of the culture and cuisine of the city? Their food gets dismissed because they don't have branded storefronts, and cater to a working class audience. Yet, their food represents the root of regional delicacies, sourced from family recipes; and very often, street food is where award-winning restaurants and chefs find inspiration for the dishes they serve on white tablecloths to well-heeled customers.

Kala and Paapu’s food suffers the same anonymity that they face. Yet, it fills the bellies of hundreds of anonymous working-class people for whom this cheap food holds the key to finding success, identity, and visibility in the big city. 

Pratima Chabbi is a Bengaluru-based writer who has worked in the F&B industry, self-published a children's picture book, ‘Chakla Makla’, and is writing a book about an iconic 100-year-old Bengaluru hotel.

 *Names changed on request.

ALSO ON GOYA