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THE TAGORE FAMILY, with its sprawling branches across Bengal and beyond, has long been a hub for intellectual and artistic innovation. But within its walls, the kitchen has always been just as much a place of creative experimentation. Over generations, the Tagores have blended traditional Bengali flavours with influences from around the world, transforming their culinary practices into something far more than just a means of nourishment. Who cooked these dishes? Where did their inspiration come from? And more importantly, do these recipes still resonate with the generations who now live far from the hearths where they were once born?
Food in the Tagore family has always been a reflection of cultural evolution—a living dialogue between heritage and innovation. From meticulously kept recipe books passed down through generations to a bold willingness to experiment with new ingredients and methods, the Tagores have carved a unique space at the intersection of tradition and modernity. But in today’s fast-paced world, where global influences and convenience often win out, how relevant are these recipes now? Do they still carry the same weight, the same connection to a heritage that is as much about memory as it is about taste? In exploring the Tagore family’s culinary legacy, we dig into what these dishes mean today and how they continue to shape the family’s evolving relationship with food, culture, and history.
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Feasting through generations: The Tagores and their timeless culinary traditions
The Tagore or the Thakurs were a powerful presence in 19th and early-20th-century Bengal, each branch contributing to the socio-cultural landscape in its unique way. The most prominent of these is the Jorasanko branch, home to Rabindranath Tagore, which became a cultural epicentre, hosting intellectuals, poets, and artists. The family’s patriarch, Dwarkanath Tagore, was an industrial magnate, philanthropist, and a key figure in the economic and cultural life of Kolkata, cementing Jorasanko’s place as an elite hub of privilege. The Pathuriaghata branch, founded by the illustrious Raja Gopi Mohan Tagore, another wealthy zamindar, continued this tradition of affluence and influence, with members contributing to the arts, music, and education. Similarly, the Koilaghata and Chorbagan branches, though not as famous, were also deeply enmeshed in the city’s upper echelons of society. These branches not only had access to significant wealth and resources but also occupied a space of privilege that allowed them to shape the intellectual and cultural fabric of the time.
Ever since childhood, Sudripta Tagore, Founding Principal, Santiniketan Sishutirtha School and descendent of Rabindranath Tagore, recalls seeing “this longish notebook where Indira Devi Chaudhurani had compiled a lot of recipes.” This handwritten notebook, along with a collection of loose sheets preserved within it, formed the primary sources for Thakurbarir Ranna, a cookbook later compiled by his grandmother Purnima Tagore. He mentions something rather interesting here: "Indira Devi herself never cooked. I’ve heard this from my grandmother, Purnima Tagore. Indira Devi was much more interested in documenting the dishes than in participating in the kitchen herself. She did instruct the cooks, but she never personally cooked."
Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
While explaining how the cookbook happened, Sudripta remembers how his grandmother faced challenges in documenting the precise quantities of ingredients, as she had always relied on experience rather than measurement. “My mother, who’s also a culinary buff, helped out with this,” he adds, noting that her familiarity with Western culinary standards played a role in translating the recipes into a more accessible format. The process was deeply collaborative and rooted in memory: “Obviously, memory and oral anecdotes were a part of this entire process.” Interestingly, the book was never a planned project. It came about due to the encouragement of a family friend, Partho Bose, who repeatedly stressed the importance of documentation. “Although my grandmother never believed in it, ultimately, his persistence prevailed, and that is how we have Thakurbarir Ranna,” Sudripta says.
In Jorashanko, different cooks were responsible for various types of cuisine. A Bamun Thakur (a Brahmin chef) oversaw the preparation of traditional Bengali dishes, while a Khanshama managed the Islamic-style cooking. Given that the Tagore family frequently hosted foreign guests, especially Westerners, their culinary repertoire also included Western dishes, or Indian dishes adapted to suit Western tastes. "If I’m not mistaken, there’s an Ilish dish in which the fish is deboned, and the preparation is something like a bake or roast, which obviously reflects Western culinary styles. These culinary experiments were a result of the diverse guests who visited the Tagore family," recounts Sudripta.
Souraja Tagore, a noted Bharatnatyam dancer, belongs to the Pathuriaghata Tagore household. She is the third generation after Rabindranath and would be his great-grandniece in relation. There, the meals were primarily prepared by cooks, though women occasionally added their personal touch, especially when it came to Indian dishes. "I must mention that my father, Sreejit Tagore, is a remarkable cook and a repository of Thakurbarir's recipes, which he learned from his mother (my Daduma) and his grandmother," says Souraja. The family maintained two kitchens—one for Indian cuisine, managed by Odiya cooks, and another for Western and Anglo-Indian dishes, prepared by Christian men from Chittagong. While lunch consisted of traditional Bengali dishes like luchi, rice, dal, and curries, the evening meal was more formal, with a focus on Western fare such as roasts, chops, and puddings. Some lesser-known dishes like Husseini Curry, a lamb and vegetable dish simmered in curry sauce, were also served. Interestingly, "biryanis and kebabs never made their way into the menu, not due to any prohibition, but simply because they were not widely considered or popular at the time," Souraja mentions.
Meals were served with a sense of decorum, especially at lunch, where silver or copper plates, along with distinct bowls and subtly perfumed water jugs, created an elegant setting. "Lunch was served on silver or copper plates and glasses, complete with distinct bowls (batis). The water jugs were subtly perfumed with a drop of Kewra," recounts Souraja. While eating with one’s hands was customary, etiquette was of utmost importance: chewing with an open mouth was strictly prohibited, and dinner followed a formal, Western-style table setting with specific utensils for each course. Elbows were never rested on the table, and eating with a knife was unheard of. "These practices were rigorously instilled by household managers, with my grandmother, Maharani Surity Tagore, taking particular care in training me and my brother Pramantha in these traditions," Souraja further adds, mentioning how she would be reprimanded often for not following them closely.
Courtesy: Google Art and Culture
The Tagore family has always valued the preservation of culinary traditions, with recipes passed down through generations in diaries and notebooks. "We had never encountered the concept of 'categorisation' such as 'thakurbarir ranna' until its emergence on social media, where it was seemingly created," says Souraja. This term was never a cultural reference within the family, and according to her recollections, "there were no established food rituals per se."
Souraja highlights the importance of authentic research when preserving the family's culinary heritage. "The most crucial aspect of preserving our culinary heritage is the authentic research of recipes still present within the family." She notes that much of what circulates about thakurbarir ranna, apart from select media sources, has little connection to the actual traditions of the Tagore household. "The term thakurbarir ranna has, in many instances, been co-opted to draw attention to recipes that were never part of our family’s traditions," she recounts, stressing that while some of these dishes are commendable, they do not trace their roots to the family. Souraja believes that referencing the authentic recipes in family-authored books would be far more meaningful, allowing the true flavours of Tagore cuisine to be shared in their original essence.
However, as the heir to the noted cookbook Thakurbarir Ranna, Sudripta Tagore offers insight into its understated significance within the broader cultural legacy of the Tagore family. “Whenever I do take a glance at the book or refer to it, I find it to be an amazing documentation. It captures how the culture coming from the Tagore family wasn’t restricted to literature, music, or artistic heritage. It quietly found its space in the kitchen, too,” he shares. Yet, he’s quick to point out that there was no deliberate attempt at legacy-building. “I don’t think they were doing this to be remembered or anything. That was just the way the family thought. It was a mindset that was different from the norm.” While acknowledging its quiet cultural contribution, he adds with a note of caution, “Time will tell whether these have any archival value.”
Outside the family kitchen: Perspectives on Tagore cuisine
Culinary historian and chef Pritha Sen offers a nuanced perspective on what is today popularly referred to as 'thakurbari ranna'. “When you say Tagore household, I see it as not every Tagore household could have been making those recipes on a regular basis,” she notes, highlighting that much of what survives today are curated compilations by educated Tagore women who were exposed to formal learning and liberal thought long before many other Bengali women. Their Brahmo background fostered a progressive outlook that shaped their culinary sensibilities. “They took regional dishes and, through the creativity that flowed through the household, they pushed boundaries… borrowing from other regional cuisines as well,” says Sen. She points to figures like Pragyasundari Devi, who incorporated Assamese recipes into her repertoire after marrying into an Assamese family — a reflection of how mobility, exposure, and curiosity shaped their approach to food.
Still, Sen cautions against imagining a singular, codified tradition. “I’m not sure there was something known as thakurbari ranna as a codified tradition. It felt more like a creative compilation,” she says. Her own experiences dining in various Tagore homes suggest the absence of a uniform culinary identity, with unique dishes such as Pathar Bangla (a thin mutton curry) appearing only in certain households. “It was more about creative expression and novelty — unless it was a completely traditional recipe,” she explains, suggesting that many experimental dishes faded with time precisely because they were not created with longevity in mind. The experimental ethos extended to both men and women: while women recreated and improvised on dishes, men — including Rabindranath — often returned from their travels with culinary inspirations. “In the Khamkheyali Sabha, Rabindranath often took credit for many of the dishes that his wife, Mrinalini Devi, actually prepared,” she adds.
Courtesy: Amarnath Mukherjee (@gastro_mancer)
Sen also addresses the unspoken gaps between what was eaten and what was documented. She observes that pork and beef were largely absent from published cookbooks, despite being privately consumed by many Brahmo Tagores. “They were pandering to the larger Hindu religious identity in what they chose to publish — not necessarily reflecting their personal reformist identity,” she notes. The kitchens, she stresses, were defined by hierarchies — of caste, gender, and class — but class, above all, played a determining role. “They had access to many rich and exotic ingredients that most Bengali households at that time did not… That gave them the opportunity to experiment and create new dishes,” says Sen. It is precisely this access and privilege that allowed the Tagore kitchens to leave behind a culinary imprint — one remembered as much for its innovation as for the elite materials it relied on.
From a cookbook-making perspective, Thakurbarir Ranna by Purnima Tagore, which came out in the mid-1980s, can be seen as a successor to Lila Majumdar’s Rannar Boi, says food writer and social media strategist Poorna Banerjee. Both use a first-person, intimate tone that feels like someone older in the household gently guiding a younger woman — possibly a new bride — through the steps of cooking. “The instructions are often in ‘korbe’ rather than ‘korben’,” says Poorna, pointing to the informal, conversational way of speaking in the recipes. This tone, she notes, may have been influenced by Amish o Niramish Aahar by Pragyasundari Devi, where a similar approach is visible. Many of the recipes in Thakurbarir Ranna seem to be adapted from there as well.
What stands out is how much global culinary influence shows up in the book. There are references to Fish Moilee, a dish that also features in Lila Majumdar’s collection, and other recipes like baked fish, Irish stew, and brown stew. “These were part of the Tagores’ culinary vocabulary thanks to their exposure to European lifestyles,” says Poorna. However, Purnima Tagore often skips specific measurements for ingredients, simply listing them without quantities. According to Poorna, this lack of clarity leaves the reader with the freedom—or the burden—of figuring things out. “You can see how recipes moved from one book to the other, changing slightly, sometimes becoming more detailed or getting reimagined,” she says.
There’s also a deeper historical layering in many of the dishes, shaped by colonial and cross-cultural influences. “Look at Potoler Dolma,” mentions Poorna, “it has Ottoman roots, filtered through Armenian and Turkish traditions.” Similarly, Kalia dishes come from Mughal and even Abyssinian connections, and the Niramish Chop is essentially a vegetarian take on the English croquette. “Sometimes the adaptations are very Bengali,” she says, citing how in some versions of Mocha Chop, there’s no crumb coating—likely because whoever tried it first hadn’t seen a crumb-coated chop before. Even a phrase like “baganer mashla,” used by Pragyasundari for ‘garden herbs,’ shows how unfamiliar ideas were translated in ways that made sense locally.
Still, Thakurbarir Ranna isn’t always consistent in quality. “Some recipes are wonderful, some are just okay, and a few are simply not workable,” says Poorna. She points to the example of Kacha Ilish er Jhol in the book, which she feels is not convincing in terms of recipe construction. A more modern version of the book could offer dual formats: one that preserves the original tone and another that gives clearer instructions for readers today. Poorna notes that the book’s charm lies in its openness, but that very openness also demands a lot from the person using it.
Underlying all of this is the Tagores’ Brahmo background and openness to the world, which influenced their approach to food as well. “The men would go out, eat, and describe the dishes, and the women would recreate and refine them at home,” says Poorna. This process wasn’t documented but was key to how new recipes entered the household. It also points to the gendered nature of culinary labour, with women doing the heavy lifting of experimentation and adaptation. "It makes one realise just how silent women have been through history, and how little their voices were acknowledged,” says Poorna. “Each recipe that’s been painstakingly preserved is likely the result of many failed attempts, experiments that women quietly conducted until something worked—and that’s what finally got written down.”
From family heirloom to public table: Spreading Tagore’s culinary legacy
One of the defining strengths of Thakurbari cuisine lies in its simplicity, says chef Subhajit Bhattacharya, who runs the YouTube channel Lost and Rare Recipes. “The dishes were easy to cook, yet they carried a distinct elegance,” he notes. Even in the early 1900s, ingredients like vinegar found their way into these recipes — a testament to Kolkata’s exposure to colonial trade and influence. Vinegar, introduced by the Portuguese nearly 500 years ago, had entered elite kitchens in the city, and the Thakurbari was one of the few Bengali households where it was actually used. “It wasn’t just about affluence or education,” Subhajit explains, “but the cosmopolitan exposure the family had — they met international guests, travelled widely, and had a curiosity that extended to food.” He points out how Gyanadanandini Devi, wife of Jyotirindranath Tagore, had learned to drape the modern sari from Parsis in Bombay and brought that style to Bengal. “In the same way, pies, stews, and bakes came into their kitchens.”
What also stands out, Subhajit adds, is the remarkable documentation of these recipes. Books by Pragyasundari Devi record more than 1,000 dishes. Purnima Tagore added at least 150 more, and even Leela Majumdar made contributions to this growing archive. “These texts open up a culinary treasure trove — dishes that were once everyday meals, now being rediscovered,” he says. Some notable examples include the celebrated Dwarakanath Pulao and now-lost dishes like Poddo luchir payesh, Tameda, and Mukshamdi, whose names evoke a forgotten world of taste and ritual.
One of the biggest challenges in tracing this cuisine, Subhajit points out, is the lack of visual documentation. “There are no photos, no videos — that absence makes the process of reconstruction both difficult and exciting.” Yet there’s growing public interest in these recipes. “We organise several pop-ups every month, and they are hugely popular,” he says. “I think it’s because most people either don’t have access to the food or the books — or maybe both — and they’re eager to reconnect with this culinary heritage.”
Subhajit recently conducted a workshop at the Kolkata Centre for Creativity, where he cooked four delicacies sourced from these old recipe books. The menu included Chal diye thor (banana stem with rice), Doi diye alur dom (Dum Aloo with yoghurt), Beguner jhal posto (spicy eggplant with poppy seeds), and Lau-er halwa (bottle gourd halwa). Through such events, he hopes to create a deeper understanding of how food in the Thakurbari was not just nourishment, but an evolving, thoughtful expression of culture and time.
What initially drew Jaydeep Das to the Tagore family’s culinary traditions was not just the food, but what it represented. “It’s not just food but a reflection of Bengal’s cultural renaissance,” says Jaydeep, a 32-year-old food vlogger from Baruipur who runs the channel Real Flavours of Bengal. He was struck by the simplicity of ingredients and flavours, and how the Tagores — positioned at the intersection of tradition and global exchange — had kitchens that mirrored their progressive worldviews. He began documenting these dishes a few years ago, driven first by personal curiosity. “But over time, I realised this culinary heritage had very little digital presence,” he adds. What began as an artistic fascination soon turned into a project of cultural preservation and storytelling — often told through shil-nora ground masalas and traditional cooking methods that evoke familiarity and nostalgia.
So far, Jaydeep has explored and recreated over 14 recipes from the Thakurbari. “The process is often like culinary archaeology,” he explains. “I dig through old family manuscripts, memoirs, and historical cookbooks.” When sources are incomplete or vague, he turns to oral histories, comparative analysis of old recipes, and even the literary works of the Tagore family where food might find subtle mention. He mentions that these recipes often involve refined techniques — spice infusions, careful marination, and slow cooking — which aren’t always found in typical Bengali kitchens. His most trusted sources include Amish O Niramish Ahar by Pragyasundari Devi and Thakurbarir Ranna by Purnima Tagore. “Since both Pragyasundari and Indira Devi Chaudhurani were Rabindranath Tagore’s nieces, the authenticity was never in question,” he notes.
Courtesy: Jaydeep Das
Jaydeep does see himself as part of a revival movement—an effort to reintroduce and celebrate the nuanced, cosmopolitan heritage of Bengali cuisine. “One challenge is adapting these intricate, sometimes century-old recipes for modern kitchens without diluting their essence,” he says. He sometimes adds his own inputs to make them more approachable for viewers trying them at home. Capturing the cultural context behind each dish is equally important, and that can be difficult to communicate through digital formats alone. “But the joy is immense,” Jaydeep adds. Viewers often connect not just with the recipes but also with the emotions and stories they carry—sometimes even rediscovering family memories through the process. “Digital platforms let us bridge the past and present in ways that are deeply personal and widely accessible,” he says.
The revival of Thakurbari cuisine, through both workshops and digital platforms, offers a chance to rediscover lost culinary traditions. This ongoing effort not only preserves a rich cultural legacy but also fosters a deeper connection between past and present generations, keeping these unique flavours alive for the future.
