Picnics and community feasts – nostalgia, tradition and the lost art of reuse

Picnics and community feasts are not merely gatherings – they are living tapestries, woven with the fragrance of fresh-cooked food, the cadence of shared laughter, and the quiet comfort of belonging. The years may have altered the way we come together, yet the glow of those earlier days still shimmers in memory, as vivid as the winter sun on the Hooghly. These were not just meals; they were expressions of sharing and community – values that bound us together more tightly than any convenience ever could.

When I think back to my childhood in Kolkata, these occasions were disarmingly simple, yet brimming with life. Families, friends, schools, and local clubs all organized their own outings, so the ‘picnic season’ often meant several trips each winter. We ventured to riversides, waterfalls, historic monuments, and leafy picnic grounds, each trip a world of its own.

The settings varied – a breezy terrace, a riverside clearing, a banyan’s shade, or a hired picnic ground. Costs were shared democratically, based on the menu and venue. At dawn, fresh vegetables and spices were purchased from local markets. Large vessels and platters were rented from utensil-hire shops, and the best cooks among us took charge, while others became eager helpers. Later, some groups would hire local cooking teams, but the essence remained the same – food prepared on-site, for and by the people gathered.

The beauty of the serving arrangements lay in their simplicity and togetherness. In the earliest days, meals were served on banana or sal leaves, with drinks in clay cups cool to the touch. Later, glass plates and steel tumblers took over. In smaller house feasts, everyone carried their own plates, glasses, and serving spoons, pooling resources naturally and without fuss. Sadly, this gave way to plastic-lined cups and disposable plates, an intrusion accepted too casually, even while reusable options were still available.

My fondest memories, however, are tied to picnics with my queer friends. These were not just outings, but celebrations of community and belonging. Unlike childhood picnics, these gatherings carried a different warmth and anticipation. Preparation began days before – buzzing chats over outfits, playlists, and game plans. My picnic bag looked more like a travel suitcase, stuffed with badminton racquets, flying discs, sunglasses, caps, and often even an extra outfit for photos. The journey itself was half the celebration – we set off at dawn in a hired bus, chatter and songs filling the air, while another vehicle followed, laden with provisions and cooking equipment.

On arrival, old sarees and bedsheets were spread on the ground, simple but comforting. Breakfast was humble – boiled eggs, bananas, and local sweets. Yet, it tasted perfect in the crisp winter air. Though caterers eventually took charge of cooking, we still carried a bag of homemade snacks to share during the ride. Alongside the fun, our group was deeply committed to causes like climate justice and not polluting the picnic ground with waste. We made it a point to clean up after ourselves. At the time, our knowledge was limited to plastic waste management. We did not fully grasp the deeper politics of plastic production and supply. Looking back, I see that we were unknowingly part of something bigger.

In those days, our gatherings were instinctively sustainable. Utensil-hire shops, clay cups, banana leaves, home-brought plates – reuse was the norm. Without thinking of it as ‘green’, we proved that reuse was easy, affordable, and communal. These practices were woven into our sense of community. Our togetherness depended on sharing and caring, not on throwing things away.

Gradually, a shift occurred. Convenience disguised as progress brought in single-use plastic. What appeared practical and modern was, in truth, costlier and far less kind to health, environment, and tradition alike. Temporary convenience traded away something deeper – the health of our bodies, the happiness of community, and the sense of sharing that reuse once symbolized.

Today, we understand the hidden costs of this shift. Plastics are made with over 16,000 chemicals, of which 4,200 are known to be hazardous. When exposed to hot food, plastics can leach microplastics and harmful substances like bisphenol A (BPA) and phthalates into meals and drinks. These chemicals have been linked to hormonal imbalance, reproductive issues, metabolic disorders, and even cancer. Microplastics are now detected in air, water, soil, and even in human blood, posing grave threats to immunity, cardiovascular health, and long-term well-being.

The problem is undeniably complex, but the solution need not be. Reuse offers a simple, practical way forward. Even today, old utensil-hire shops quietly persist. Many caterers still offer reusable options, if only we ask. Then there are innovations like Bartan Banks (community-run utensil rental systems) in rural areas. In cities, dishwashing centres are being designed to safely wash and reuse thousands of plates, tumblers, and cutlery every day, powering a circular economy for events and street vendors alike. And in picnics or rural gatherings, the old methods – banana leaves, steel plates carried from home, and clay cups – remain just as effective. Reuse adapts to context; it does not need to vanish when we step outside urban infrastructure.

The old ways are not relics; they are blueprints. To revive them is not to return to the past, but to lead the future – showing that sustainability can be joyful, communal, and deeply rooted in who we are.

About the main illustration: Emojis sourced from www.emojicombos.com/picnicking