Dr Mrinalini Atrey
atreymrinalini@gmail.com
A culture is not inherited; it is lived. What we fail to practice, we lose, and what we consciously transmit becomes our legacy.”
Appropriation is not just about losing credit; it is about losing voice. Awakening, therefore, must mean reclaiming that voice and becoming conscious custodians of our own heritage. It is a call not only to recognise what is being appropriated, but also to reflect on how much of our heritage we ourselves are living, transmitting, and celebrating. The question is not whether Dogra culture is valuable-it is whether we, as a community, are conscious enough to safeguard it in our everyday lives.
The two vital elements of any culture are food and music. They are not mere pleasures of life; they are vessels of memory, identity, and continuity, carried forward in everyday rituals. Food sustains more than the body-it sustains belonging, carrying the taste of home across generations. Music, likewise, is not just sound but a language of the soul, echoing stories, emotions, and traditions that bind communities together. Together, food and music form the living heritage, shaping how people celebrate, mourn, and remember. For the Dogra community of Jammu, Rajma Chawal is more than a popular dish-it is a cultural marker, woven into the rhythm of family life and ceremonial occasions.
A few months ago, while attending an intergovernmental meeting on safeguarding intangible cultural heritage, I visited Delhi Heights, a restaurant nestled within the historic Red Fort in Delhi.” As I glanced at the menu hanging on the wall, my eyes lit up at the sight of Jammu Rajma Chawal. In that moment, pride and happiness surged. A dish from my home was being honoured as a signature delicacy in a space that draws lakhs of visitors.
This recognition is not a small matter-it is a moment of cultural validation, a reminder that Dogra identity deserves its rightful place in the larger narrative of India’s heritage.” Too often, Rajma Chawal is popularly identified as Punjabi or Himachali, with little awareness that it is a traditional dish of the Dogra belt. In Dogra households, Sundays are incomplete without Rajma. It is present at every auspicious ceremony-whether joyous weddings or solemn occasions of mourning. The dish embodies continuity, comfort, and collective belonging.
As a child, I remember relishing rice with a spoonful of Rajma Madra, a preparation that carried the unmistakable Dogra taste. Those flavours were distinct, layered, and deeply rooted in local cooking traditions. But times have changed. With traditional cooks becoming fewer and catering services taking the forefront, authentic Dogra preparations are increasingly rare. Caterers often hire non-Dogra cooks, and the Rajma that arrives on plates today bears more resemblance to Punjabi styles than to the subtle, ceremonial Dogra taste.
This shift is not trivial. It reflects how intangible cultural heritage can be diluted when transmission falters. Recipes, like songs or rituals, need guardianship. Without conscious preservation, the Dogra Rajma risks being flattened into a generic North Indian dish, stripped of its ceremonial and cultural depth.
Appropriation of cultural markers is not limited to food. Music offers another, perhaps even firmer, example. One of the most iconic Dogri folk songs, Maaye Ni Meriye Jammue di raahe Chamba kinni durr, was originally recorded by the legendary Dogri singer Pushplata (sometimes referred to as Premlata) for All India Radio in the 1970s or 1980s. Her soulful rendering of the song-also known as Chamba Kitni Ke Durr-is considered the authentic version, deeply rooted in the cultural and linguistic connections between the Jammu and Chamba regions.
Pushplata’s voice carried the essence of Dogra identity. The lyrics, referencing Jammu, were not incidental-they were central to the song’s meaning, situating it firmly within Dogri tradition. For decades, this recording stood as a cultural treasure, a marker of Dogra heritage preserved in sound.
Yet, in recent years, newer versions of the song have emerged, sung by popular artists such as Mohit Chauhan and Harshdeep Kaur. These renditions, while melodious, have altered the lyrics-most notably replacing “Jammue di raahe” with “Shimle di raahe.” In doing so, the song has been rebranded as Himachali, and for many listeners today, it is no longer associated with Jammu or Dogri tradition.
This shift illustrates how folk heritage can be modernised and appropriated, often unintentionally, but with profound consequences. The original Dogri identity of the song has been obscured, and Pushplata’s pioneering contribution has faded from public memory. What was once a cultural marker of Jammu now circulates widely as a Himachali folk song.
The case of Maaye Ni Meriye demonstrates how appropriation can erase origins. When lyrics are changed and the song is rebranded, the community that gave birth to it loses recognition. The Dogra voice is silenced in the very cultural expression it created.
These two examples-Rajma Chawal and Maaye Ni Meriye-raise critical questions:
* When does cultural sharing become appropriation?
* How can communities safeguard their markers without isolating them from wider appreciation?
* What mechanisms of recognition and attribution are needed to ensure that heritage is celebrated without erasure?
Appropriation occurs when cultural markers are detached from their source community and rebranded without acknowledgement. Sharing, by contrast, honours origins while allowing traditions to travel. The challenge lies in ensuring that Dogra identity remains visible even as its food and music are enjoyed beyond Jammu.
The appropriation of Dogra cultural markers-through food and song-shows how intangible heritage can be invisibly reshaped. Rajma Chawal becomes Punjabi, a Dogri song becomes Himachali, and the Dogra identity risks fading from public consciousness.
Recognising and safeguarding these markers is not about exclusivity; it is about narrative justice. Communities deserve to see their heritage acknowledged, not erased, in the broader cultural landscape. Food and music are living traditions, and their preservation requires conscious transmission, proper attribution, and pride in origins.
Heritage belongs to the community. It cannot be institutionalised, because institutions can only document or showcase-it is the people who live it, carry it, and pass it on. Safeguarding heritage requires consciousness on the part of the community itself. If a community wants its cultural markers to survive, it must look inward and ask: how much are we transmitting to the next generation?
In recent years, the Dogra community has begun to show signs of rising awareness. Outrage on social media-such as during the Republic Day tableau of Jammu and Kashmir, which ironically won second place nationally-reveals that people are watching closely, and they care about how their heritage is represented or under-represented. This anger is not misplaced; it is a sign of consciousness. But the real question is whether it is being directed correctly.
Here lies the challenge: Is outrage enough? Or does true safeguarding require conscious, everyday effort? Heritage survives only when it is handed down from parents to children. As stated earlier, institutions do not pass it on-families and communities do. If we do not speak Dogri, our mother tongue, if we do not cook Rajma/Ma ka madra in the Dogra style, if we forget the voice of Pushplata ji, then the answer lies within us. Outrage alone will not safeguard heritage; transmission will.
This is where inner consciousness must be awakened. Each member of the community must ask themselves: are we content with expressing anger online, or are we willing to make deliberate efforts to live our heritage? Do we speak Dogri at home, in our everyday conversations? Do we acquaint our children with Dogri folk songs, music, and dance? Do they know of Phumene or Kud dance? Do they understand the tradition of Chajja on Lohri, or the story of Haran, the Kaansakhis of Krishna Janmashtmi? Do we help them enjoy Babru, Khmere, or Khyuru the way our grandmothers did, with the same love and authenticity?
These are not trivial questions. They are the mirror we must hold up to ourselves. Outrage on social media may signal awareness, but it does not safeguard heritage. Heritage survives only when it is lived, spoken, sung, and tasted-when it is handed down from parents to children, not left to institutions or hashtags. These small acts of transmission, repeated in homes and families, are what truly safeguard heritage.
Other communities in India offer inspiring examples. In Kerala, for instance, the tradition of Onam Sadya-a grand vegetarian feast served on banana leaves-has been consciously preserved across generations. Families ensure that children not only eat the dishes but also learn their names, preparation methods, and the cultural symbolism behind them. Similarly, in Assam, Bihu continues to thrive because families teach children the songs, dances, and rituals associated with the festival. Young people learn not only the steps of the dance but also the meaning of the lyrics and the agricultural rhythms they embody. This deliberate transmission has kept Assamese identity vibrant, ensuring that Bihu remains a living tradition rather than a performance staged only for tourists.
The appropriation of Dogra cultural markers-whether Rajma Chawal rebranded as Punjabi or Himachali, or Maaye Ni Meriye remembered as Himachali rather than Dogri-shows how fragile intangible heritage can be. But it also shows the urgency of community consciousness. The Dogra identity must be lived, spoken, sung, and tasted in everyday life. Only then can cultural sharing enrich rather than erase, and only then can our heritage live on with dignity.
The call is clear: outrage must transform into action, and consciousness must become transmission. Heritage survives not in hashtags, but in homes. It is in our kitchens, our songs, our language, and our everyday choices that Dogra identity will endure.
(The author is Secretary-General, ICICH-ICOMOS Co-Counselor, ICOMOS- India)
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