Long ago, when the hills were younger and rivers still sang, there lived a spirit of the earth known only as Bhumiyai. She was neither goddess nor demon- only the ancient one, older than stone, older than flame. Her hair was the roots of trees, her bones were the mountains, and her skin was the Earth itself.
In those days, the people of the hills of Kumaon did not cook with the fancy pots and pans of today, neither did they have access to sharpened blades. They cooked with fire and soil, and they understood that the earth could feed them – if only they knew how to ask. But no one dared to speak directly to Bhumiyai, for it was said her hunger was ancient and terrible.
Instead, they made offerings.
When the harvest moon rose and the pumpkins swelled golden in the fields, the people of the hills would choose the largest, ripest pumpkin – heavy with sweetness – and they would offer it to Bhumiyai, but not by placing it at her feet, they would bury it in the earth, as if placing it in her womb, and build a fire above it.
“Feed the earth, and she will feed you” the elders would say.
The fire would burn for hours, the soil would smolder and beneath the ground, the pumpkin would slowly surrender itself. Its skin would blacken and blister, but inside, its flesh would turn molten – as though the fire has kissed it from within.
When the fire died and the pumpkin was unearthed, the people would gather around it – cracking its skin open. And the taste – oh, the taste – was unlike any food cooked by man. It tasted of soil, smoke, salt and spice; it tasted like the blessing of the land itself.
And so it was said: those who fed the earth would never go hungry.
The Curse of forgetting
But the story did not end there.
As days went by, people forgot the old ways. They began cooking in iron pots, hanging meat over the fire, and drawing water from distant wells. The pumpkin was no longer buried; the fire no longer burned in the soil. And the Bhumiyai – forgotten and unfed – grew cold.
The hills changed, the pumpkins grew smaller, the taste of fire cooked sweetness vanished. Hunger crept back, and the people no longer understood why.
But sometimes even now –in the deep corners of the forests, when the monsoon has passe and the air turns to gold, someone remembers.
A family will dig a small pit in the ground, bury a pumpkin filled with spices and meat and vegetables and light a fire above it. Smoke will curl into the air, and the ground will smolder. And when they unearth it, when they crack the pumpkin’s blackened skin open, the flesh will still taste like the blessing of the land.
And the spirit of Bhumiyai will stir—just a little – beneath the ground.
So, if you make this dish….
Understand that you are not merely roasting a pumpkin. You are feeding Mother Earth. You are awakening something old and half forgotten. And when you eat it – when the molten, fire sweet flesh meets the sharp bite of bamboo – you are tasting something that once belonged to the snow capped mountains of Uttarakhand.
And if you listen closely, as you crack the pumpkin open….
You may just hear the earth sigh in gratitude.
For the recipe Pumpkin that fed the spirits click here:
