Banana leaves are these beautiful, breathing contrivances. They’re large like the ears of an elephant with depth that other leaves simply don’t have. They remind me of the Tamil homeland, a stretch of elegant landscapes bifurcated by the nation states of India and Sri Lanka. For Tamils, banana leaves aren’t just extraneous foliage, but rather the beating heart of the Tamil culinary ethos. These leaves are the plates we eat from.
Centuries ago, Tamils practiced a nature-centric Indigenous faith. Swathes of forests engulfed southern India and trees were worshipped as spiritual bastions. Banana trees were given special importance in Tamil society. Harvesters would venture out daily to banana groves to gather thick leaf clusters, which would be taken back to their hamlets, rinsed and smoothened to be used for the day’s meals. After eating, they would fold their banana leaves on their midribs. Folding the leaves inward would mean they cherished their food, whereas folding them outward would indicate displeasure.
Industrialisation has affected the ways Tamils understand nature, yet banana leaves remain an integral part of our food culture, as demonstrated at weddings and large functions. One group of people would serve as another eats, after which the groups would swap places. And banana leaves aren’t just reserved for events. I fondly remember trips with my cousins to these hidden mess halls scattered throughout Chennai. I would grab a seat in front of a leaf as a man would bolt by and sprinkle a dash of water on my leaf, which I’d spread around the leaf to freshen it up before the dishes arrived.
A view of Chennai, the capital of India's Tamil Nadu state. Source: Visvajit Sriramrajan
I spoke with a friend a few months ago about waste management in Chennai. It’s an enormous problem, yet much of the trash heaps found along avenues and alleyways derive from packaged foods. They contrast with the banana-leaf cycle in which plucked leaves would be sent to canteens, used for meals, quickly sluiced, stacked and whisked away to cattle farms near banana groves – where cows would consume the leaves and later fertilise growing banana trees.
These leaves couldn’t talk, but they had much to say. Each time, their veins were angled slightly differently and wrinkled in a particular way from the direction of the wind. It was almost as if each leaf had its own story. Those stories ran parallel to the meals I ate. The veins on my lunch leaf were spikier than usual on the afternoon my sandals ripped at the midsole and I wanted new ones. On a lazy day a couple weeks later, when the breeze was perfect, I ate my meal on a thick-veined leaf as I listened to the cacophony of car horns on the street below. My leaf and its veins were smallest towards the end of July, on the night before my flight out of Chennai in time for the semester to start. I like to think the leaf echoed my melancholy then, like a green mirror of sorts.
It was almost as if each leaf had its own story. Those stories ran parallel to the meals I ate.
Unlike the dining areas on my university campus, cutlery was once a rarity in Tamil Nadu. There was an inexplicable sense of emotion attached to the ability to touch our food, to feel its variegated textures and assess its temperature. A pinch of salt, colourful curries and other side dishes and sweets would be served on the upper side of our banana leaves. Delicious rices and other foods would be placed ergonomically throughout our leaves, creating a pattern in which the dishes were to be consumed on the basis of digestion. When I ate meals on banana leaves, the fullness I felt wasn’t limited to my stomach. I was content and moreover, I felt connected to the world around me.
I’ve come across some foods I would eat on banana leaves at shops near campus, but freshly picked leaves and family around me made it all so much more delectable. It’s something I often reminisce about as a university student, living on my own through dull campus food which neither tastes nor feels the same. As I leave my dormitory each day to order a bowl of pasta or a sandwich from my campus cafeteria, I can’t help but think back to all I’ve left behind.
This piece was originally submitted for , a project dedicated to promoting diverse voices on food.
Cook it in banana leaf
Banana leaf steamed lamb (birria de cordero)
