Sacred Wine Cannot Be Hurried
Text by Rini Barman
The making of judima is a long and slow labour of love. The meticulously detailed process is based on the Dimasa community’s knowledge of medicinal plants and relies largely on locally grown ingredients. Photograph courtesy Barshine Naiding.
When you think of local rice wines, what comes to mind? Japanese shochu or Chinese shaoxing wine, perhaps. Closer home, the Dimasa community from Assam in India’s north east also brews a rice wine called judima, which has a light, exquisite punch. The Dimasas, an indigenous tribe residing in the Dima Hasao, Karbi Anglong, Hojai and Dimapur districts of Assam and Nagaland, love their rice wine. It holds supreme stature in their festivities and folk memories. In the mist-covered hills of Haflong, judima is prepared with complete care and meticulous filtration. Once ready, it can be consumed the whole year round. And because the weather is mostly pleasant, or moderately rainy, the perfect ratio of sweetness and strength does wonders for travellers from outside.
The serving vessel, traditionally a lao-thai (a bong-like vessel made of bottle gourds), acts as a ritualistic vessel of worship as well. The use of these organic materials tell us that the Dimasas had likely mastered the art of brewing alcohol long before the ‘80s global craft beer movement. Even though the women tell me that the manufacturing process isn’t easy, it is this elaborate recipe that also ensures high standards.
As part of a wedding celebration, the bridegroom’s party carries lao-thais filled with judima to the bride’s home. Photograph courtesy Chiranjeeb Nunisa
To make judima, apart from rice grains, the bark of the Acacia pennata plant, locally known as thembra, is also used to make starter cakes. These starter rice cakes supply a mix of fungal and bacterial microbes and provide the drink with its signature aroma, pungency and consistency. These ingredients are mixed, powdered or crushed with medicinal plants such as the leaves and twigs of the Asian butterfly bush or Buddleja asiatica and Hedyotis scandens. Apart from adding medicinal value, these ingredients also contribute to the intoxicating properties of judima. Although abundantly found in the wild, they are increasingly being affected by forest cover depletion.
The plain-dwelling tribes of the region commonly use Scoparia dulcis or licorice weed (a flowering plant in the plantain family) to make their own rice beers They also use other medicinal herbs such as Centella asiatica or gotu kola (a kind of Indian pennywort that grows in wetland areas) and Pteridium aquilinum, a fern that is locally known as bih dhekia. Although other ethnic groups also ferment rice to brew liquor, it is these little additions that makes the heterogeneity of these liquors such an interesting subject of study.
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According to residents of these regions, the quality of each ingredient influences the final product. Abhijit Thaosen, a resident of Haflong, says that the quality of the rice and yeast used and the experience of the person making the wine all play a part. According to him, a small, glutinous kind of rice called maizu is best suited for brewing judima. In the plains, this variety of sticky rice is called bora saul. Another kind of rice called bairing, which is rarely consumed as a grain, is also used to make wine.
“The quantity of ju (or wine) increases when bairing is mixed with maizu,” says Thaosen. “Besides, it also moderates the sweetness of judima. Sometimes, maisa (a rice variety that is commonly eaten) is also used, when the other varieties are not in stock.” As a result of this mixing, Thaosen says that taste and colour of each batch also differs.
Given judima’s sacred importance as an offering to the deities, there are a set of beliefs that govern its consumption. “Supposing there’s a feast in the village and judima is being prepared, or say someone is about to deliver a baby or someone is about to die, and next day there is a ceremony, we just shift all the judima vessels outside the perimeter of that [place] so that the sanctity is intact.” If this is not followed, it is believed that the drink turns sour. Although the proof is only anecdotal, Thaosen says these rules are religiously followed. “It is very important for us to keep it sacred to practise our rituals,” he says.
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The women of the Dimasa community have traditionally been tasked with making judima. Photograph courtesy Abhinash Das
Judima has a sweet taste, especially if it is prepared with red sticky rice. According to the women who are largely responsible for brewing it, the fermentation process usually takes approximately 24 hours in the summer. Barshine Naiding, a friend of mine from Haflong, tells me that her aunts brew judima very mindfully. Brewing larger quantities means even more meticulous care. Unclean hands, consuming sour foods, erratic weather and even something trivial as a bad mood is believed to be capable of ruining a batch of judima. Besides, it takes roughly two weeks to produce just one litre of judima. The patience and care required makes it a labour of love.
Historically, indigenous brewing has been the task of women, and it still continues to be. Kanak Hagjer, who blogs about Dimasa food and drink at Blending Flavours, remembers judima being prepared in her parents' house as a seven- or eight-year old. Her mother would take out the cooked rice from a large vessel onto a bamboo mat. This is the way the rice was cooled before being mixed with the starter cakes known as ‘humao’. According to her, after fermentation, the ingredients must remain untouched for at least seven days. “After ten days, the brew can be taken out and tasted. One kilogram of rice yields nearly a litre of judima. But it is also all about the hand. Two different hands might yield absolutely diverse tastes,” she says.
Despite modernity and urbanisation catching up in the hills, a lot of this tradition is still intact. Hagjer highlights the continued importance of local markets and wild trees and plants in making judima. “Local markets sell the bark of Acacia pennata which is used for making humao,” she says. “And the trees grow in abundance in the wild. The sticky rice is also locally grown, so making judima isn't difficult at all.” The only nod to modern convenience has been that the bamboo baskets traditionally used for fermentation have now been replaced by plastic buckets.
Maiphal Kemprai, a lecturer at the District Institute of Education and Training in Dima Hasao, has been brewing judima since she was an adolescent. She shares that for indigeneous tribes, the ancestral knowledge about the use of wild plants or medicinal plants is highly valuable. For example, the use of thembra bark in the making of judima is one of the discoveries of Dimasa people. “Even in traditional cuisines, you will get [a number of dishes] made from plants or herbs,” she says. “Even for dyeing threads, we use wild plants. We still follow age-old processes.”
Kemprai says that there are specific norms that govern brewing for occasions. “If the judima is for the purpose of worship, then it should be brewed when the woman is not menstruating. Or it can be brewed by menfolk,” she says. When prepared for worship or prayers for family or community welfare, judima is referred to as ‘ju-gtharo’. ‘Gthar’ means holy, sanctified or purified.
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Wine making also counts as a form of household labour for tribal women. However, the men of these communities increasingly favour sulai (or rectified spirit) and other IMFL (Indian Made Foreign Liquor) products. According to Rohit Jahari, a PhD scholar whose maternal side hails from a remote village in Dima Hasao district, “drinking judima on Dimasa cultural occasions is not frowned upon, regardless of gender.”
Jahari adds that beyond cultural occasions, the consumption of whiskey, among other IMFL products, is far higher in comparison to judima. “Sulai, the colourless rectified spirit that is also brewed in homes, is far more commonly drunk,” he says.
Jahari mentions that there are some major differences between judima and sulai. The sulai brewed by Dimasas is not adulterated. As opposed to other places in the state where chemicals have been reportedly used, among the Dimasas, sulai is bought and sold with a high degree of trust. “We do this to prevent adulteration,” says Jahari. “We can make out if chemical substances are mixed — even if someone wishes to trick us. We can distinctly identify the kick, you see.”
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The production and consumption of judima also offers an interesting insight into the gendered nature of these activities. Women often expertly multitask, managing the kitchen and fermentation simultaneously. However, given that women shoulder a higher share of household chores, they have fewer opportunities to drink judima or sulai.
The remnants of judima are further distilled to make juharo, a stronger brew. Chiranjeev Nunisa, research scholar at Delhi University says: “I think men prefer IMFL, but they do consume a lot of juharo. I have also heard that men at times do prepare the drink for their pleasure or probably because they want to learn.”
Nunisa’s family moved to Guwahati in 2008, so he hasn’t witnessed as much judima making in recent years. He saw the practice being followed only at his parents’ native village. “When judima tastes good at funerals, it is believed that it is the reflection of the goodness of a deceased soul,” he tells us.
According to Nunisa, the ritualistic preparation of judima traditionally required a separate room, which was kept isolated and out of the reach of too many people. “I remember my aunty telling me that one has to be careful of words used inside the room where judima was prepared,” he says. This is because it is believed that using bad language can affect the flavour of the final product and even cause the drink to sour.
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In 2016, the Youth Association for Development and Empowerment (YADEM), a youth-focused organisation working in the Dima Hasao district, conceptualised a judima festival for the preservation, celebration and nurturing of ethnicities. They collaborated with the Dibarai Mahila Samiti (DMS), a Dimasa women’s group. The name of the festival was meant to evoke its importance as a cultural artifact. During this time, there was also some talk about applying for a Geographical Indicator tag for the drink.
“[Judima] represents the traditional knowledge of the Dimasa community,” says Uttam Bathari, associate professor of history at Guwahati University, who has been working on preserving the knowledge systems surrounding traditional wine. “The hills of Dima Hasao are home to many other neighboring tribes, like Nagas, Karbis and more but their manufacturing ingredients are different, thus resulting in a difference [in] taste,” he says.
The commercialisation of judima brings up questions of brewer’s rights and the need to preserve community knowledge. Photograph courtesy Barshine Naiding
The move to apply for a GI tag also brought up several other issues, primarily related to the commercialisation of traditional brews. How feasible is the possibility of bottling local brews? Most important, perhaps, are the implications it holds for traditional wine manufacturers. In response to the amended excise rules that the Assam Government passed in 2017, Bathari critiqued some vital points pertaining to hygiene, commercial brewing and standardisation of local wine. He writes: “A brewery with an investment of half a crore will require a good number of workers. Local communities, such as the Dimasas, are not used to working in establishments like factories, which means these breweries will have to be manned by labour from outside. This would not only adversely impact the local demography, but there is also a possibility of community knowledge being compromised.” Bathari also emphasises the challenges of bottling, including the availability of materials such as cork, recycling bottles and procuring the right machines.
After speaking to Bathari for hours about the challenges posed by a brew that cannot be instantly mass-produced and needs time to yield the best results, one gets a vivid picture of the crossroads at which judima stands today. “Why can’t we market judima without standardization, besides?” argues Bathari. “Come on, that’s the beauty of the handcrafted drink. To keep standardization intact, one would have to stop the fermentation process at a certain governed percentage. This would inevitably kill the microbes and entail a rigorous intrusion in the fermentation, thus hampering the final taste of the product.”
While taste and markets are of pivotal importance, labour issues such as the need to protect brewer’s rights and livelihoods are just as crucial. While there is definitely interest among the Dimasas in commercialising judima and making it available for a wider audience, they are also keen to retain the way in which they practice brewing, even if it is slow and on a small scale. Can this happen without giving in to the capitalist impulse to homogenise the drink to make it more marketable? More education about the drink and respectful awareness about its cultural importance could go a long way in helping meet this ambitious goal.
