Luchi, halwa-puri & more: What festive foods say about Dussehra

Aapke yahaan Dussehra ke din kya banta hai, didi?” Seema asked me one morning with genuine curiosity. She is my househelp, a Bengali by birth but born and raised in Delhi, and her food traditions are as much of a blend as mine, shaped by geography as much as by ancestry. I told her how kaali dal, the black whole urad, is a non-negotiable dish in my family on Dussehra day.

She, in turn, explained how her family prepares fish for lunch and that a celebratory mutton dish is almost compulsory in her community on Vijay Dashami, as Dussehra is known in Bengal. Our exchange made me reflect on the extraordinary diversity of food traditions that accompany this festival across the country.

Exploring Dussehra through dishes

In much of North India, kaali dal is considered essential on Dussehra. The day marks both the conclusion of nine days of Navratri fasting and the subtle transition from the clamminess of monsoon to the crispness of autumn. A whole lentil, dark and robust, is believed to warm the body, help it adjust to the shifting season, and fortify immunity. In my own home, I grew up watching my parents keep the nine-day fast. On Ashtami morning, there was always the sacred ritual of preparing halwa, puri and chana, offered to young girls as a symbolic blessing before being served to everyone. It was only after this ritual that my parents would break their fast with whole foods.

Although our family moved frequently across India, the rituals remained constant, even as we absorbed new culinary influences from wherever we lived. In Gujarat, it was impossible to ignore the city streets on Dussehra morning, filled with the aroma of fafda served alongside sticky jalebi. In Maharashtra, puran poli was pressed into our repertoire, a dish as festive as it is comforting. Each region, I realised, had its own way of weaving food into the narrative of triumph and renewal.

Now that I am married into a Bengali household, my own kitchen has become a meeting point of these food traditions. Lunch on Dussehra still features the kaali dal and chawal of my childhood, a tether to the North Indian rituals I grew up with. By evening, however, we join the community at the Pujo pandal, where the tables are laid with a quintessential Bengali feast.

A fragrant mutton preparation, symbolic of both sacrifice and the goddess’s victory over the asuras, is always the centrepiece. Alongside it are dishes that speak of the season and the soil: phulkopi roast with its charred edges and hint of sweetness from winter cauliflower, a silky matar paneer that balances richness with freshness, and the delicate, ghee-laden gobindobhog pulao, its short-grained rice perfumed with garam masala and garnished with cashews and raisins.

There will almost always be mochar chop or fish cutlet to begin the meal, luchis that puff up like little clouds, aloo posto redolent with mustard, and a variety of fish curries that tie the feast together.

It feels both grand and intimate, a culmination of days of devotion and celebration. The rhythm of dhaak, the fragrance of incense and the mingling aromas of food make the pandal dinner as much a sensory memory as a communal one.

As the last morsels are savoured and the goddess is bid farewell, the anticipation for the next festival begins to stir. For most homes, the end of Durga Puja and Dussehra also marks the quiet countdown to Diwali. It is in this interlude between the goddess’s departure and the lighting of the lamps that one recognises the enduring richness of India’s food traditions, constantly adapting, yet deeply rooted in memory and meaning.

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