The Paratha, Abu Dhabi and Migration – Abhyudaya Tyagi

The Paratha, Abu Dhabi and Migration

ABHYUDAYA TYAGI

In the middle of Hamdan Street, I finally remembered that I had a paratha in my hand. It was still piping hot, so I took my first bite carefully. Suddenly, the road became dead silent. Cars stopped whizzing past me. Thursday night shoppers disappeared. For a brief moment, Abu Dhabi’s frantic urban life was reduced to me and my paratha. Over the next few days, I would have the pleasure of tasting several other delicious parathas in Abu Dhabi. Whether it was the simplicity of Al Saif’s plain parotta, the quirkiness of Paratha King’s Aloo Cheese Paratha or the chewy goodness offered by Tea Point Cafeteria, almost every variant of the “Abu Dhabi” paratha delighted me in its own particular way.

But none of them evoked the same nostalgia as the humble aloo paratha offered by Come and Eat Cafeteria. The softness of the aloo and the pungency of the masala struck me. More importantly, the paratha looked, smelled and tasted like home. According to Mohan Bhatt, the owner of Come and Eat, their paratha was supposed to be reminiscent of Delhi’s famous “Paranthe wale Gali”- the narrow Old Delhi street known for its parathas (Bhatt). However, for me, the paratha took me back to another claustrophobic yet special lane: my mother’s kitchen. Behind each paratha and parotta I enjoyed is a similar story, stories of partition, discrimination, identity, migration, and most importantly, stories of people. For the paratha in Abu Dhabi has become representative of the migrant experience, in its invocation of nostalgia and familiarity, its role in identity formation and its inherent ambiguity, sparking discussions surrounding authenticity and class.

At its most uncontroversial, the paratha is a form of South Asian unleavened flatbread. The vagueness and generality of this definition is necessary, considering the diversity of the dish and what it has to come to embody throughout the subcontinent. With regards to its origins, the common belief as articulated by Pakistani writer Bisma Tirmizi is that the flatbread “definitely originated in the northern part of the subcontinent” (Tirmizi).

Yet some scholarly evidence suggests that the first mention of a parathastyle bread in the subcontinent comes from the South Indian state of Karnataka (Achaya 85). The ambiguity surrounding the history of the paratha is also emblematic of its modern status, as various groups throughout the subcontinent claim the dish as their “own.”

Indeed, the paratha (and its variants) have become an essential aspect of several cuisines across South Asia. From the royal “tava ka paratha” in Lucknow to Malabar’s parotta, the dish has evolved based on the needs of its consumers (Pant 30). Nowhere is this more evident than in Punjab, which is usually considered to be the “home” of the paratha. In the region’s legendary highway dhabas, new varieties of parathas emerged in response to the needs of the travelers that roamed them (Pant 31). The paratha was perfect for the road, as it could be enjoyed in both a dining setting and as a takeaway item. Moreover, the filling nature of the Punjabi paratha made it a cost-effective option for low-income truck drivers and migrant workers. And perhaps most importantly, affinity for the paratha was (and is) shared by the diverse groups that travelled along North India’s highways. Since then, the paratha has come to be associated with migration. This association was strengthened by India and Pakistan’s gruesome partition in 1947 to 1948. In the largest migration in history, the paratha travelled with the Punjabis that made and consumed it. This was especially true in New Delhi, a city that “grew out of the refugee camps that sprung up along its limits” (Hindustan Times). In the Indian capital, the paratha acquired a new meaning, becoming a quintessentially “Delhi” dish, with a reach far beyond the narrow lanes of Parathe Wale Gali.

The paratha’s connotations with migration and transience have continued into the 21st century, perhaps most evidently in relation to South Asian migration to the Gulf. In a country like the United Arab Emirates where 58% of the population is South Asian, the paratha has acquired special significance. The dish is so popular that even something as niche as “paratha-only” places seem to be flourishing. As Dharmesh, the Abu Dhabi branch manager of Paratha King, said, “we’ve had an amazing response. Amazing response” (Dharmesh). Corporate platitudes aside, there seems to be truth to his claim. On several visits to the restaurant, I always found

it moderately packed, even at odd hours. However, Paratha King is the symptom, not the cause of Abu Dhabi’s love affair with the paratha. From high-end restaurants to single-vendor cafeterias, almost every South Asian restaurant in the city seems to have some variant of the paratha.

To analyze the significance of the paratha in Abu Dhabi, I decided to interview the people that care most about the dish: those whose livelihoods depend on the paratha. This included owners, vendors, waiters and chefs in restaurants or cafeterias that sold parathas. I mainly focused (with the exception of Paratha King) on what Kamran, the owner of Punjab Flower restaurant, described as “third-grade restaurants” and cafeterias: standalone establishments with relatively affordable parathas (Kamran).

The Paratha and Migrant Memory:

The role of food in migrant communities has been a topic of much academic research, especially in anthropology. As discussed by Brown and Paskiewicz, the scholarly consensus is that food habits tend to be “stable, enduring and resistant to change” (Brown & Paskiewicz). Moreover, Ghassan Hage argues the presence of food from one’s place of origin can help enhance the “feeling of familiarity,” which in turn assists with the process of home-building (Hage 42). This theme of familiarity was present in almost all my discussions about the paratha.

For some, this familiarity with the paratha breeds nostalgia. Mohan got visibly emotional, when discussing the “triangle sugar parathas” of his youth (Bhatt). Similarly, there was a glint in Mohammed’s (a paratha chef in Ghalib restaurant) eyes as he described the paratha-eating exploits of his childhood (Mubasher). For others, the paratha’s familiarity was comforting. As Kamran put it, “without the paratha, it is like the morning never came, as if the sun did not rise” (Kamran). Ravi Singh (who owns a nameless cafeteria near Madinat Zayed) put it in more pragmatic terms: “Eating a paratha in the morning is just a mindset, a trend that we have been following since childhood” (Singh). Indeed, restaurants and cafeterias attempt to take advantage of this familiarity. As Mohan described it, “Our goal is to give the feeling that you’re somewhere in Punjab or the North and we try to relate it

to your hometown or home country” (Bhatt). Such evocation of nostalgia lies behind countless parathas in Abu Dhabi, as thousands of migrants consume the dish as a reminder of home.

The Paratha and Identity:

Beyond nostalgia and familiarity, food is also an important component of identity. Claude Fischler writes in his paper on Food, Self and Identity, “Food is a central component of collective belonging” (Fischler 1). Dishes like the paratha allow migrants to maintain some semblance of belonging towards their place of origin. For example, Mohan has spent more than twenty years in the UAE, developing a sense of belonging and identity. He describes himself as “almost a citizen” (Bhatt). For him, the paratha is now his “main connection” back to his birthplace of Delhi and his previous identity. Another long-time Abu Dhabi resident Kamran argued that the “paratha is part of our blood in North India and Pakistan” (Kamran).

For some interviewees, the paratha was also symbolic of some notion of a pan South-Asian identity, especially as a dish that bridged national divides between India and Pakistan. Kamran (who is Pakistani) expressed great pride in the fact that “80% of his clientele is Indian.” He attributed this to the paratha, arguing that it was a “special part” of our shared heritage (Kamran). In Karachi City restaurant, the opposite is true as Ali is the Indian manager of a restaurant with a predominantly Pakistani clientele. Ali even sheepishly admitted that he preferred “Pakistani parathas” over the parotta of his youth (Ali).

However, the relationship between paratha and identity is not limited to past recollections. For it can be argued that the paratha has also become a part of a unique “Abu Dhabi” identity, at least for South Asian migrant communities. As Ibrahim (a customer at Fine Chicken cafeteria) put it to me: “Everyone in Abu Dhabi will have some form of the parotta or paratha once a day” (Ibrahim). While certainly an exaggeration, I heard similar claims from most of my interviewees. This is perhaps best encapsulated by the classic “Abu Dhabi” combination of the paratha and karak chai. The latter’s versatility is a perfect complement to almost all types of the paratha. With a plain paratha, the cinnamon can help invigorate one’s taste buds. On the

other hand, its soothing touch can provide much-needed relief after a fiery stuffed paratha. This combination is best seen behind Madinat Zayed, where one can find a sea of cafeterias serving Kerala-style parottas and karak (usually for one dirham each). Indeed, some of the best parottas I tasted were at “tea cafeterias.” Ibrahim and Ranjith (an employee of Fine Chicken cafeteria) were adamant that the “parotta is best with karak” (Ranjith). Yet, it was the owner of Great Ways Cafeteria Riyas who put it best: “the parotta, karak and Abu Dhabi have a special connection” (Riyas). Thus, the Abu Dhabi paratha has already acquired an identity, related yet separate from the significance of the dish in South Asia. One interesting aspect of the paratha and its identity pertains to the Emirati and Western affinity for the dish. Throughout my interviews, vendors would (unprompted) tell me about the Emirati or Western love for the dish. Niyam (the owner of Tea Point cafeteria) claimed that the “parotta is first preference for most people - lots of Emiratis/Westerners come for it” (Niyam). Dharmesh claimed that “Europeans and Americans come [to Paratha King] and get fresh parathas. They love it because they have only had ready-made food their whole lives” (Dharmesh). Ravi Singh argued that the “paratha has special significance for Emiratis too, they prefer it to their own food sometimes” (Singh). According to Ghassan Hage, who looked at the significance of Lebanese food for migrants in Australia, such a focus on receiving “culinary recognition by the dominant culture” is not unusual for migrant communities for it provides “a source of pride in social settings where” the dominant culture had “shown little recognition of ethnic value” (Hage 423). In a country where South Asians are often placed at the bottom of racial hierarchies, pride in the paratha can be seen as part of a search for validation.

The Paratha and Authenticity:

When Kamran arrived in Abu Dhabi 20 years ago, “almost every North Indian or Pakistani restaurant had the same four to five dishes. The only parathas you could find were aloo parathas and plain parathas” (Kamran). To say that has changed would be a gross understatement. On one small stretch of Hamdan Street, one can find everything from “cheese parathas” to “beef fry poratta sandwiches” to “chocolate parathas.” According to Kamran, this is

the result of cut-throat competition which has forced “food engineering,” even in “third-grade restaurants” like his (Kamran).

While Kamran is relatively open to these changes, that can’t be said for all of my interviewees, many of whom were outraged at the inauthenticity of new paratha variants. Ali, Mohammed and Dharmesh even went to the extent of listing “acceptable” paratha varieties. Mohammed was especially derisive of the cheese paratha, exclaiming that “anyone who calls it a paratha is just fooling themselves” (Mubasher). Dharmesh expressed similar outrage when discussing non-vegetarian parathas (Paratha King is a “pure vegetarian” restaurant). “The identity of the paratha is vegetarian. Sure, some Indian man can come to Abu Dhabi and make keema/egg parathas… but that is fusion and no longer a paratha” (Dharmesh). From a very narrow North Indian perspective, Dharmesh need not look further from Delhi’s aforementioned Paranthe Wale Gali, where all parathas are strictly vegetarian. Yet such a blanket statement on vegetarianism and the paratha ignores its history throughout the subcontinent. As Mohammed argued, the “keema paratha” has existed for centuries (Mubasher). Similarly, Ranjith pointed out that the combination of parotta and beef fry was considered a “classic” in Kerala (Ranjith). Thus, the suggestion that an “authentic” paratha has to be vegetarian is not only exclusionary, but also historically inaccurate. Nonetheless, the rigidity of some of the earlier comments is indicative of the significance of the paratha. There is also immense controversy surrounding the correct flour for a paratha. After all, this is the main difference between North Indian/Pakistani parathas and Kerala parottas. The former is made using atta flour (which includes the endosperm, husk bran and germ of the wheat grain), while the latter is made using maida flour (which only contains the endosperm). For several Malayali interviewees like Sameer (the manager of Chickin cafeteria), Selim (a waiter at Rafeeda refreshments) and Majid (a vendor at Black tea cafeteria), a parotta should ideally be made using maida. However, all of them also accepted that flatbread could be made using atta. This was in contrast to Dharmesh who exclaimed that a paratha could “only be made using atta” and that they “would close down the restaurant before

ever putting maida in a paratha. Never. Never” (Dharmesh). At a deeper level, these arguments about “authentic” parathas illustrate ignorance or a refusal to acknowledge the diversity of the paratha’s history (and perhaps the diversity of the subcontinent). Indeed, author Alan Levinovitz has postulated that the conversation surrounding “acceptable” or “good” food can be representative of wider fault lines in society. He argues that “the first thing leaders do to introduce an us-them dichotomy is introduce dietary rules” (Hamblin). In a country like India where food (through bans on cow slaughter) has been used in attempts to impose a unitary national identity, it is difficult not to see Dharmesh’s proclamations about vegetarianism and atta as a natural extension of such an ideology.

Even apart from prejudice, the conversation surrounding the authenticity of dishes like the paratha is fundamentally flawed. As New York University professor Krishnendu Ray puts it, the search for “authentic” cuisine is often just a search for the “true copy of our expectations” (Godoy). In that sense, the arguments for “correct” or “real” parathas are analogous (in their fallacies) to the orientalist critique of Gulf cities as “inauthentic.” Moreover, the nature of migration is such that it is “fluid,” illustrating the futility of a search for authenticity (Godoy). This is especially true for a constantly evolving dish like the paratha in a constantly evolving city like Abu Dhabi.

The Paratha and Class:

Beyond the more abstract significance of the paratha, the dish retains value because of its practicality. As Bhatt said in our interview, the paratha “is the initial meal of the day which can fill you up till the afternoon”. Indeed, the paratha may have more commercial value in cities like Abu Dhabi than it does in India. According to Dharmesh, “it is far easier to sell [parathas in the] UAE because people don’t have time. They leave home at 8am and they come home at 7-8pm, so they order from places like ours... [In India] 90% of the people know the secret of making the paratha. Here people don’t have time and basically everyone want parathas in the morning” (Dharmesh). Yet despite this supposed practicality, restaurants like Paratha King or even Come and Eat cafeteria may not be affordable for wide swathes of the migrant population. As Dharmesh himself admits, the paratha may

not be affordable for low-income migrant workers. “Most of the working population has a meal budget that is less than 3-4 dirhams, with which they can only afford a roti” (Dharmesh). Dharmesh’s rudimentary calculations are supported by data. According to Gulf News, 30% of the working population of the UAE earns less than 1000 dirhams per month, which corresponds to a monthly food budget of around 250 dirhams (Khan & Almario). This tallies to a daily budget of around 8 dirhams, leaving a meal budget of around 2-4 dirhams (depending on the number of meals in a day). At Paratha King, the cheapest paratha is 13 dirhams, far beyond the budget of such workers. Even at Come and Eat cafeteria, a plain paratha costs seven dirhams, rendering it unaffordable for such low-income workers.

While Dharmesh’s estimations were accurate, his claim that such workers can’t afford parathas deserves further scrutiny (Dharmesh). This is mainly because there are several Punjabi (from both sides of the border) restaurants like Ghalib, Punjab Flower and even Ravi Singh’s cafeteria which offer parathas for 1.5 dirhams or less. According to Mohammad, the paratha’s practical value does actually extend to low-income workers. “In the morning, the paratha is very important for labor and migrant workers” (Mubasher). It isn’t just the price of such parathas that make them ideal for low-income workers. Parathas at such restaurants tend to be huge in size and littered with ghee, thus providing the required nutrients for individuals who have to spend long days in the sweltering Abu Dhabi sun. Indeed, several Pakistani places like Ghalib and Karachi City only serve parathas in the morning from 6am to 11am, mainly attempting to cater to the migrant worker population, and others (such as security guards) who spend long hours in the outdoors.

The Kerala parotta is also relatively affordable. Across 13 parotta places that I visited, the average price of the cheapest parotta was 2.85 dirhams. While a plain parotta may lack the nutritional value of the big Pakistani paratha (and thus be less affordable in terms of net consumption), it is still substantially more affordable than parathas at restaurants like Paratha King or Come and Eat Cafeteria (where the cheapest paratha is 7 dirhams). Moreover, most of these places also offer parotta sandwiches with protein for an additional 1-2 dirhams, thus further enhancing their affordability.

When I asked Sameer (the manager of Chickin cafeteria) about the significance of the paratha or the parotta, he politely retorted: “Do you like parottas?” I replied in the affirmative. “There is the significance of parotta” (Sameer). In a sense, Sameer was right: like any dish, the most important function of the paratha will always lie in its ability to provide joy and relish through taste. However, having investigated the paratha and the role that it plays in Abu Dhabi, one can’t help but feel that behind each paratha lies a story: a story of homes from Karachi to Kerala; a story of migrants and citizens; a story of complicated identities and simple beliefs; a story of vegetarians and non-vegetarians; a story of atta and maida; and most importantly, a story of people. It is only when these stories come together that one can enjoy the culinary delicacy that is the “Abu Dhabi” paratha.

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