A Culinary Awakening in Punjab: A Journey Through Flavors and Memories

In my early days in the Air Force, I was a lanky figure—five feet ten, weighing a mere forty-seven kilos, looking more like a walking skeleton than a young recruit. My relationship with food was indifferent at best; I had been cooking my meals since seventh grade, which perhaps dulled my enthusiasm for eating. I loved the aroma of food being prepared, but once it was on my plate, I’d eat just enough to sustain myself, never more.

That all changed when I was posted to Halwara Air Base in Punjab after completing my training as a medical assistant in Bangalore. Punjab is the land of golden wheat fields, robust hospitality, and food so rich in taste and tradition that even the most indifferent eater could not help but be drawn in.

A Tiffin Transformed: The Power of Pickles and Parathas

One of my earliest experiences with Punjabi food was during my crash bay duty, a high-alert role requiring fire trucks, ambulances, and emergency vehicles to be on standby whenever flights took off. We had only brief fifteen-minute breaks granted by Air Traffic Control (ATC), and every second counted. The tea canteen became our haven—a place where weary men gathered, lunchboxes in hand, to share hurried yet hearty meals.

I often sat beside Sardarji Ujagar Singh, our ambulance driver, who carried an unassuming yet magical accompaniment—Punjabi pickles. These weren’t like the simple lime or mango pickles from back home. These were something else altogether—crisp cauliflower, fiery radish, thick green peppers, and robust carrots marinated in a rich concoction of mustard oil, turmeric, fennel, and crushed red chillies. Each bite was an explosion of flavours, sharp, tangy, and alive with spice.

I watched in fascination as Ujagar Singh devoured eight or ten chapatis with nothing but pickles and a raw radish. The sheer joy with which he ate was contagious, and soon, I found myself savouring each bite, my once-mundane meal now transformed into an experience. Seeing my delight, Ujagar gifted me a large jar of pickles, ensuring that from then on, my food would never be dull again.

Dairy: The Heartbeat of Punjab

If there was one thing I quickly realized, it was that Punjab runs on dairy. Rich tea, thick curd, tall glasses of sweet lassi—each was an essential part of daily life. Some of my colleagues made it a ritual to visit nearby villages for fresh milk, and I began tagging along. These trips were an adventure, not just for the creamy, frothy milk we carried back, but for the banter with the villagers. I picked up enough Punjabi to joke with them, and they, in turn, taught me the art of making lassi so thick that a spoon could stand upright in it.

Winter in Punjab brought a meal that was nothing short of legendary—Sarson ka Saag and Makki di Roti. Fresh mustard greens, slow-cooked and ground into a velvety puree, were tempered with ghee, garlic, and green chillies, and then topped with a butter lump the size of a potato. This was paired with makki di roti, a thick corn flatbread, roasted on an open flame. It was rustic, hearty, and soulful—a dish that needed no embellishment. For special occasions, it was as indispensable as holige back home.

The Saanjha Chulha: More Than Just an Oven

Food in Punjab was not just about eating—it was a social experience, a bond that brought people together. Nothing embodied this spirit better than the Saanjha Chulha, or “communal oven.” Dating back to the time of Guru Nanak, this was a tradition where entire villages would cook together in a single tandoor, sharing both food and stories. Since maintaining a private tandoor was costly, villagers brought their firewood and rekindled the oven every evening. They would arrive with lentils, vegetables, and dough, baking fresh rotis while exchanging news and laughter. The chulha became a social centre, where food was cooked not just with flames, but with the warmth of companionship.

I found myself drawn to these evenings, mesmerized by the rhythm of life unfolding around the glowing embers. Sitting among the villagers, sharing a meal straight from the tandoor, I understood that in Punjab, food was more than sustenance—it was a celebration, a tradition, a way of life.

Feasting in the Fields: The Firing Range Rituals

One of my most cherished duties was at the Firing Range, located fifty kilometres from Halwara near the village of Sidhwan Khurd. This vast forty-acre stretch served as a practice ground for Jaguars and MiGs, where seasoned Range Safety Officers (RSOs) guided pilots through precision bombing drills.

Each day, we set off at dawn in a convoy of ten to twelve men, including a cook. Along the way, we’d stop at villages to stock up on fresh vegetables, fruits, milk, curd, butter, and ghee, ensuring that we ate like kings even in the middle of nowhere. Breakfast was a feast in itself—parathas stuffed with potatoes, radish, cabbage, or paneer, each crisp and golden, served with creamy curd and fresh white butter. We would sit in the open fields, soaking up the sun, laughing over steaming cups of tea, relishing our meal before the day’s work began. Lunch was no different—a mid-day feast followed by stories and camaraderie, before we returned, satisfied in every sense, as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The Legacy of Punjab’s Dhabas

Punjabi food outside Punjab often seemed to revolve around one thing—tandoori chicken. But for most Punjabis I met, vegetarian food was the true soul of their cuisine. The dal served in gurudwara langars was unlike anything else—simple, nourishing, and infused with a warmth that came from being cooked in massive vats for thousands of people, with devotion and generosity.

One particular dhaba, however, held a legendary status—Pooran Singh’s Dhaba in Ambala. After Partition, Pooran Singh arrived in Ambala with nothing but his wife and a dream. He set up a tiny eatery near the railway station, where displaced families could find comfort in a hot meal. His food became famous among railway coolies and, soon, among the military stationed nearby. Over time, the dhaba became an institution, known for its secret spice blends that no one could quite replicate. When I finally visited, Pooran Singh had passed on, but his wife, Savitri, still ran the place with the same passion. The flavours remained unchanged—a testament to the legacy of resilience and good food. A Hindi film, Love Shuv Tey Chicken Khurana, was even inspired by his legendary recipes.

A Lasting Impression

Decades have passed, but the flavors of Punjab—its food, its people, its shared meals—remain etched in my memory. It was in Punjab that I truly learned to love food—not just for its taste, but for the connections it fostered.

What began as an indifferent relationship with food became a lifelong appreciation for the art of a good meal, shared with good company, in a land that knows how to live, love, and eat with all its heart.

Wing Commander BS Sudarshan is a former Indian Air Force pilot with over 12,000 flying hours. He participated in Operation Pawan and Operation Cactus before he transitioned to civil aviation. A passionate writer, he has authored six books, including "Hasiru Hampe", appreciated by S L Bhyrappa, and the latest "Evergreen Hampi". He is a regular contributor to the Verandah Club.