October 17, 2025
ISLAMABAD – I recently watched a video of an Indian Sindhi food influencer casually roll out six different types of roti her grandmother used to make. Six. Me? I grew up battling the same wheat roti every afternoon like it was my personal nemesis. The typical chakki atta; dry, dense, and always paired with some post-school sabzi.
So, I scrolled through her profile, watching in awe and envy as she whipped up different, authentic Sindhi dishes. Not long ago, her great-grandmother and mine probably shared a similar diet. My parents were both born and raised in Sindh. My father was born and grew up in Sukkur, while my mother was born in Hyderabad and raised in a village called Wazirabad, nestled between Shikarpur and Sukkur. They eventually moved to Karachi in pursuit of education and work.
Sindhi isn’t just a language we speak, it’s also how we eat. So how was it that this influencer had this treasure trove of recipes I’d never even heard of?
Bajray thooma ji maani (bajra roti with garlic), chawaran ji maani (I’ve had this, but her version was a red rice crepe filled with herbs and spices), bajray ji khichhri (millet and lentil porridge), sayyon patata (savory sawaiyyan with potatoes). My first reaction? Blame my grandmother for not swapping recipes. But after a little digging, I realised who was really at fault — the colonisers.
The OG grains: Before wheat took the spotlight
For thousands of years, the people of the Indus Valley and Punjab grew and consumed a variety of hardy, nutrient-rich grains such as millet, sorghum, barley, and amaranth. These grains were suited to the land, climate, and local knowledge. This wasn’t just food — it was the foundation of cultural identity, health, and environmental sustainability.
Under British rule, everything from agriculture to eating habits was reorganised to suit imperial priorities. Among the most overlooked casualties of this transformation — our ancestral grain traditions. Long before wheat roti took over our daily meals, the people of the subcontinent, especially in the Indus and Punjab regions, were eating diverse, nutrient-rich grains.
According to archaeological studies from Indus Valley sites such as Harappa and Farmana, ancient diets were dominated by hardy millets and cereals. Charred grain remains, food-processing tools, and residue analysis from pottery point to this rich grain diversity. Millet, in particular, was one of the earliest cultivated domesticated crops in South Asia, widely consumed across Sindh, Balochistan, and Punjab.
Other research shows that archaeological findings across the Indus Valley reveal that wheat wasn’t the only staple in ancient diets. Millets such as sorghum, finger millet, little millet, Italian millet, and foxtail millet were cultivated consistently from the Early Harappan period (3000 BCE) onward. At key sites such as Harappa, Hulas, and Banawali, these grains appeared alongside wheat, but in outer settlements, their dominance was striking: finger millet made up 68 per cent of the grain remains at Rojdi, Italian millet 95pc at Babar Kot, and pearl millet and foxtail millet showed similar prominence elsewhere.
This agricultural system wasn’t random — it was intentional. These grains were tailored to local needs: drought-resistant, packed with nutrients, and able to grow in areas where wheat could not. It was smart food science long before Instagram’s “ancestral eating” became a hashtag. So what happened? Why did we abandon these superior foods for wheat?
The answer lies in the two most evil Cs known to the brown man — colonialism and capitalism.
Empire on opium: High stakes and higher profits
During the colonial era, the British were heavily dependent on Chinese tea but couldn’t afford to keep paying for it in silver, as the Chinese rejected barter. The solution? Opium. The British colonial administration forced Indian farmers to cultivate opium instead of food crops to satisfy the growing demand for the drug in China.
The East India Company maintained a strict monopoly over its production, processing, and export. Farmers were forced to sell their poppy harvests at fixed prices well below market value. The Company then auctioned the opium in Calcutta, and it was smuggled into China. This trade generated immense profits for the British but left Indian farmers in poverty. Many peasants were pushed into cycles of debt and could no longer support their families or grow enough food.
Crops such as varieties rice, millet, and pulses were sidelined in favour of poppy cultivation, particularly in the regions of Bihar and eastern Uttar Pradesh. The result — repeated famines, malnutrition, and the collapse of local food systems.
This opium revenue enabled the British empire to reverse its trade imbalance with China. Instead of sending silver, they used profits from opium sales to pay for tea imports. In essence, Indian land and labour were exploited to sustain British tea drinking habits.
Before wheat, there was wisdom
Before the colonisation of the Subcontinent, communities in South Asia ate what the land could sustainably produce. Coarse grains such as bajra (pearl millet), jowar (sorghum), barley, and red rice were dietary staples. These grains were nutritionally dense and rich in fibre, protein, iron, and antioxidants. Millet and sorghum are also drought resistant and ideal for the region’s semi-arid climate. Studies show that until the 1950s, these grains were widely consumed and associated with lower rates of diabetes and heart disease. For predominantly vegetarian communities in India and Pakistan, these grains were a critical source of protein, B12, iron, and other micronutrients essential for balanced health.
Iqra Ghufran Tahir, a Registered Dietitian Nutritionist (RDN), and vice president of the Nutrition Foundation Pakistan, explained that grains such as bajra, jowar, ragi, and red rice surpass wheat flour (maida) and white rice in terms of nutrient density.
“One of the key differences is fibre content. Millets and red rice provide three to 10 times more fibre than refined grains like maida or white rice. This high fibre content helps improve satiety, meaning it keeps you feeling full for longer,“ she explained. “It also contributes to better blood sugar control, which makes it an excellent option for people managing diabetes. In terms of micronutrients, millets are rich in iron, magnesium, phosphorus, zinc, and B-vitamins.”
According to Tahir, ragi, for example, is exceptionally high in calcium, far more than any other cereal, and she often recommends it to individuals who are calcium deficient.
“These grains also have a lower glycemic index compared to refined wheat or polished rice. Refined grains tend to spike insulin levels, which is why we generally don’t recommend them for diabetic patients. On the other hand, millets and red rice release glucose gradually into the bloodstream, supporting better metabolic health.” Additionally, millets contain phytonutrients, polyphenols, and antioxidants, which provide added health benefits and help combat oxidative stress. Tahir compared them to refined wheat and white rice. “They have most of the bran and germ removed during processing, which strips away much of their fibre, minerals, and vitamins. When you eat polished rice, for example, you’re missing out on the nutrient-rich outer layers of the grain.”
So why did we abandon these nutrient rich sources of fibre and carbohydrates?
Cereal offenders: How wheat hijacked our plates
Growing up, I visited Sukkur and my villages during the summer and winter holidays. We often crossed the great Sukkur Barrage and a common thread of conversation would be how the British built this powerful structure that is still thriving — had some Pakistani been commissioned this, it wouldn’t have lasted. But that is just part of our colonial hangover. There is so much we need to unlearn about what we were taught to believe, such as the idea that the coloniser did us a favour by “building” things that would later “help” us.
The truth is, their motive was always to help the empire thrive using our resources. British colonisers didn’t just occupy land, they restructured its use. In Punjab and Sindh, canal irrigation systems enabled the mass cultivation of wheat and cotton to meet imperial demands, especially to supply the British military. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, the British transformed farming in Punjab by building canals and railways, making it easier to grow and sell crops. They encouraged farmers to grow cash crops such as wheat and cotton to serve British economic and military interests.
By the 1920s, Punjab was producing one-third of all the wheat and a tenth of the cotton in British India. Wheat, which used to rot during bumper harvests, was now exported in large amounts. While regions such as Bengal, Bihar, and Orissa faced agricultural crises and fell behind, Punjab became the leading area for crop production. However, this growth came with serious problems. Many farmers took loans to cover social expenses, such as weddings, and fell into debt. When they couldn’t repay the money, moneylenders used British laws to take over their land.
In places such as Muzaffargarh and Dera Ghazi Khan, large swathes of farmland were lost to absentee landlords. British officials warned that this could lead to unrest, as local farmers were pushed out and land was concentrated in the hands of the wealthy.
By the end of the 19th century, Karachi had emerged as the largest wheat-exporting port in the East, a transformation fuelled by its strategic coastal location and the expansion of railway and shipping infrastructure under British colonial administration. This growth only accelerated in the following decade. By 1910, Karachi was handling more wheat than any other port in the British Empire, surpassing older ports in both scale and speed of grain movement.
This development was largely driven by the colonial canal irrigation system in Punjab, which converted previously uncultivated lands into vast wheat fields, feeding the empire’s demand for grain and turning Karachi into the central artery of that supply chain. Railway networks were constructed to facilitate export, not to benefit local populations. Indigenous grains were dismissed as “primitive,” while white rice and refined wheat flour became markers of modernity and civility. While the British paved ways for increasing food in one area they were systematically starving the other.
One brutal strategy often used by imperial or authoritarian regimes is the scorched-earth policy. This refers to “the military tactic of destroying everything that enables the enemy to wage war, including crops, livestock, buildings, and infrastructure”. While originally a military manoeuvre, scorched-earth policies have also been used to target ethnic or political groups as seen in Myanmar’s systematic attacks on the Rohingya, Israel’s blockade and bombardment of Gaza, or Nazi Germany’s actions in Soviet territories during World War II.
A devastating historical example of weaponising hunger occurred during the Bengal Famine of 1943–44, in which over three million Indians died. Though British authorities long attributed the famine to natural disasters and wartime disruptions, more recent scholarship challenges this narrative. In a landmark 2018 study, economist Utsa Patnaik argues that the famine was man-made, driven by colonial extraction policies implemented under then prime minister Winston Churchill, with influence from then-chancellor of the exchequer, John Maynard Keynes.
These policies included price manipulation, grain exports from India during wartime shortages, and refusal to allocate food relief — decisions that proved catastrophic for Bengal’s rural poor.
In A Grain of Wheat, Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o reflects on how colonisers used food systems to control identity. The same pattern unfolded across South Asia — western food became aspirational, while ancestral grains were seen as backward. Bajra, ragi and jowar became the “poor man’s food” and if you wanted to look like you ate well, you would eat like an Englishman, who had his food with a hearty side of wheat bread. In the case of the Subcontinent, bread was translated into roti.
Hard to believe a bunch of white people popularised a food and made it trend? Think of matcha, avocado and sea moss. These are trending “wellness” foods that have nothing to do with our culture but have taken the main stage compared to sattu, ghee and shilajit.
Mimicry, modernity, and the myth of wheat
As colonisation advanced, so did mimicry. Tea-drinking with white bread and biscuits became fashionable. In urban Punjab, wheat rotis replaced millet-based breads, a trend accelerated by post-Independence policies and Green Revolution subsidies. But this transition had consequences.
As wheat and rice took over, indigenous grain biodiversity suffered. India alone reportedly lost over 100,000 traditional rice varieties post-1970. Pakistan saw a similar decline, with native red and black rice varieties disappearing from fields and kitchens. This shift was mirrored in how the Parle-G biscuit rose to prominence.
Initially launched in 1939 as a Swadeshi response to expensive British imports, Parle-G targeted affordability and national pride. The biscuit soon found its way into school lunchboxes, train journeys, and chai routines across India. These eating habits were once considered British but were now made “Indian” through indigenous branding and mass production. Parle-G’s ubiquity turned it from an elite colonial snack into a symbol of domestic modernity. Laddus, chikki, roasted channas and puffed millets were replaced by these British-inspired snacks.
The “biscuit” was the way to go, especially for upper class Indians. This trend of snacking between meals was rather alien to those in the subcontinent — three hearty meals a day was something our ancestors had practiced for years, they ate according to when the sun rose and was about to set. The idea that there should be a snack between lunch and dinner was a concept that caught on post-Independence.
Eventually the newly made Pakistani state caught on to the culture — in 1965, Peek Freans Pakistan Limited was established as a joint venture with its British parent company. Renamed English Biscuit Manufacturers (EBM) the following year, it began production in 1967 becoming Pakistan’s pioneers in packaged biscuit manufacturing.
EBM introduced the famous Peek Freans range and introduced the idea of biscuits as more than a tea-time luxury. By marketing them as “food between meals,” the company transformed biscuits into an everyday food, presented as wholesome, modern, and hygienic. What began as a colonial import soon became woven into Pakistani diets, marking a shift in how people consumed wheat-based products.
Colonial carbs and the celiac crisis
Pakistan is on the list of countries hardest hit by diabetes, ranking third globally in overall cases, behind only China and India, with about 33 million people living with the disease. Of greater concern is recent data that shows that Pakistan has the highest age‑standardised diabetes prevalence rate in the world at 31.4 per cent among adults aged 20 to 79, and approximately 230,000 people die each year due to diabetes-related complications. Experts warn that if current trends continue, Pakistan could have 70 million diabetes patients by 2050, making it one of the most severely affected countries in the world.
According to nutritionist Tahir, in traditional South Asian vegetarian diets, millets and pulses played a crucial role in providing essential nutrients, especially protein, iron, and, to some extent, B vitamins. Pulses and millets are excellent sources of plant-based protein. For vegetarians, they are easily accessible, and we usually rotate them; we don’t stick to one type of daal every day. This variety is intentional.
For example, if one lentil lacks a certain amino acid, another will make up for it. That way, over the week, amino acids are balanced and the body gets what it needs.
When it comes to iron, plant-based sources are significant, but the challenge is that the iron isn’t as bioavailable as it is in animal-based foods. However, traditional practices like soaking and fermenting pulses and grains overnight greatly enhance iron absorption.
Vitamin B12, however, is where vegetarian diets fall short. Millets and pulses do not contain B12, which is why this nutrient has to be supplemented through fortified foods or other sources. Overall, traditional vegetarian diets were reasonably good at meeting protein and iron needs, but B12 was and still is a concern. With modern fortification, though, that gap can be addressed.
So is gluten the culprit? Were our subcontinental guts not built for gluten?
Dr Faisal Wasim Ismail is an associate professor of gastroenterology and the vice‑chair of education at the Aga Khan University, Karachi. He also serves as the medical adviser to the Karachi Celiac Society, playing a key role in promoting awareness and support for individuals with celiac disease through expert guidance and community-based initiatives. “Yes, I do believe that gluten intolerance, celiac disease, and non-celiac gluten sensitivity are significantly under-diagnosed in Pakistan. In fact, we mentioned this in a 2022 research study that we published as well. I think among the reasons for that are limited awareness among healthcare providers about celiac disease and gluten sensitivity,” he told Images.
“An overlap of symptoms with other gastrointestinal conditions, particularly IBS, is another reason as well. And finally, I think a lack of widespread access to diagnostic testing contributes to many cases going unnoticed for many years.”
It would be unfair to demonise wheat altogether, as every body is built differently but the truth is, access to wheat and zero diversity with grains is doing more harm than good. “I think diversifying grains could possibly reduce the risk of gluten-related issues. They may also improve fibre intake and support better metabolic health for the things I mentioned a little while ago, such as brain fog and inflammatory states within the body,” Dr Ismail explained. “Things like millet, maize, and even newer grains like quinoa can contribute to a more balanced diet and reduce our dependence as a nation on wheat.”
Decolonising the plate
Reclaiming our health begins with reclaiming our food heritage. Across India and parts of Pakistan, a revival is underway — millet rotis, sorghum batter, red rice bowls, and ancestral recipes are returning to kitchens.
This is not just a culinary trend — it’s a form of resistance. As Ngũgĩ says, land and food are not only material but also cultural. Eating like our ancestors is an act of memory, identity, and defiance.
Dr Ismail believes eating like our grandmothers is the solution: “We can begin by reclaiming the food wisdom passed down through generations — one that values locally grown, seasonal grains over imported or colonial-era staples. Encouraging whole foods, reducing processed items, and incorporating traditional grains like bajra, jowar, and makkai into daily meals could help urban populations realign with culturally rooted, nutritionally sound eating patterns. This return to ancestral diets may also foster better gut health and overall wellbeing.”
Dr Asifa Qureshi, founder of Qureshi Farms, recalls how marriage introduced her to an entirely new world of flavours. Coming from a household where wheat roti was the norm, she initially found it difficult to adjust to the earthy textures and tastes of the roti her in-laws ate. These new flavours of bajra, makki, and jo were all harvested directly from their farm were something she had to get accustomed to. But with time, she came to love them. What began as a dietary adjustment soon became a lifestyle shift and she soon noticed a significant improvement in her overall health.
Eventually, Dr Qureshi realised she was gatekeeping something powerful — these grains were nutritional treasures. In 2017, she formally launched Qureshi Farms, a farm-to-table venture rooted in the philosophy of “khidmat-e-khalq” — service to humanity — which aimed to help people adopt a healthier lifestyle. She realised she had kept these life-changing discoveries to herself for too long.
A trained gynaecologist, Dr Qureshi found her interest in nutrition deepening as she became more involved in agriculture. Over the years, her product range expanded to include a variety of flours and rotis: oat, multigrain, flaxseed, and even gluten-free wheat alternatives.
Today, she receives regular testimonials from customers from photos of glucose meter readings showing dramatic improvements after switching to her flour. “Our red rice roti, for instance, is rich in antioxidants,” she explained. “It’s not just beneficial for people with gluten intolerance; it’s a great choice for anyone looking to eat healthier. We even make red rice bowls and desserts using our flour as they’re amazing substitutes for refined flour.”
Dr Bazgha Ali, a Karachi-based nutritionist and doctor, works with Pakistanis to help them understand food rather than fight it when trying to lose weight. “Emphasis is also on increasing the amount of fibre that you consume in your diet. Fibre basically serves as food for your gut bacteria, and when you make sure that you’re consuming around 20 to 30 grammes of fibre every day, it helps in a lot of things — including dealing with insulin resistance, decreasing your chances of developing diabetes later on in life, improving your gut health, reducing the chances of colon cancer, and a lot of other things,“ she explained.
“Basically, the number of good bacteria in your gut is directly related to the amount of serotonin your body produces. So, good gut health equals good hormonal health, good mental health — it’s all interrelated.”
There’s a certain irony to it all. During the Green Revolution, grains such as barley and sorgham were dismissed as “poor man’s food,” yet now, a five kilogramme bag of whole wheat flour sells for Rs700 to Rs1,000, while jo or barley can cost somewhere between Rs400 to Rs600 per kilogramme. The poor, it seems, are eating poorer than ever while the affluent are returning to grains once considered inferior.
But as Dr Qureshi explained, the pricing reflects the process. “Sourcing these grains is incredibly labour intensive,” she said. “At our farm, everything is done by hand, unlike wheat, which is machine-processed. That naturally raises the cost.”
Other millets are labour intensive — the grain is harder to sow, clean and process. Still, for her, the effort is worth it. It’s not just a business, it’s a return to nourishment, to heritage, and to health. A number of upscale eateries are now using food indigenous to us in trendy new twists, from the falsa lemonade at Evergreen, seaweed pakoras by Chef Asad Monga, or palak chaat by Khaadi Cafe — a wave of local ingredients seem to be making a comeback but the tragedy is that they’re only available to those who can afford them.
Dadi’s roti walked so sourdough could run
So does this mean that we eliminate wheat completely from our diets? Is the brown man’s gut not made for wheat? Is bread the bearer of evil?
The answer isn’t complicated; it’s actually very easy. “The gluten-free diet originally emerged for people with celiac disease — an autoimmune condition where the body attacks itself in response to gluten,“ believes Dr Ali, the nutritionist. “While celiac is rare among South Asians, non-celiac gluten sensitivity is becoming more common, especially in people with thyroid issues, autoimmune conditions, and joint pain,” she explained.
“Modern wheat has also changed — it’s higher in gluten and lower in fibre due to agricultural interventions. Refined wheat, or maida, is now widely consumed in foods like pizza, cookies, and cakes, far beyond the traditional roti. So while a strict gluten-free diet is only necessary for medical cases, a low-gluten diet is definitely a healthier choice for many.”
Based on research, the opinion of medical professionals, and history, the answer is moderation. We’ve made wheat not a part of our diet but rather the entirety of it. We start the day with parathas, bread, and rusks, move on to lunch with chapatis, have tea with biscuits and samosas or sandwiches, and then for dinner we have another helping or two of chapatis. Where did the moderation go? If we mix things up, keeping our wheat intake to once a day, things might start looking up for us.
Our ancestors ate wheat on special occasions, days of worship and celebrations — puris and atta ka halwa were made, a nursing mother would have mithi lollis and panjeeri.
It was a part of our diet but not the entirety of it. While researching for this story, I found studies suggesting wheat can cause cancer, but I don’t believe that demonising a food group is the solution to anything. It can create an eating disorder and an overall bad relationship with food. Misinformed nutritionists and health professionals have done that enough for us.
First, they told us not to have ghee, then switched back to it when the Kardashians had it for “good fat”. We were told not to have achaar because of the amount of oil, but suddenly everyone is talking about gut health and fermentation, so we’re switching to high-quality pickles. Recently, kanji has been making a comeback as a drink of choice. Think of turmeric lattes and then recall how our grandmothers told us about haldi doodh way before it was a social media trend.
So why do we only see a food as a superfood once a Western country makes it into one?
Peruvian sociologist and decolonial theorist Aníbal Quijano introduced the influential concept of coloniality of power in the late 1990s. In his 2000 essay, Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America, Quijano argues that even though colonial rule has formally ended, the systems of domination it created have not — particularly in terms of race, knowledge, and global hierarchies as they continue to shape the modern world.
In South Asia, eating is never just about eating. It’s a moral, political, and social act. And we’re holding on to the practices of those who saw as uncivilised but are now hijacking our culture and rebranding it in ways that are then reintroduced to us as “theirs”.
This is nothing new for colonisers — the Israeli occupiers did this with Palestinian food. A 1936 Zionist cookbook shows European settlers using local ingredients and making them more palatable to themselves. For example, they suggested replacing olive oil, which was too overwhelming for them, with vegetable oil. How to Cook in Palestine is a cookbook written by Erna Meyer and published in 1936 by the Women’s International Zionist Organisation. It is widely regarded as the first Jewish cookbook printed in Palestine during the British Mandate period.
More than just a culinary guide, Meyer’s trilingual publication — released in English, German, and Hebrew — functioned as a nationalist tool, using food to encourage ideological and cultural hijacking rather than adaptation among Jewish settlers in Palestine. We now find ‘Israeli’ olive oil sold all over the world.
Now, it’s up to us and whether we’ll unfollow that white influencer telling us the benefits of barley brownies and instead attempt to make the barley roti our grandmothers used to eat. It’s time to de-influence ourselves.