Khad and Hāngī - Buried feasts

Khad of Rajasthan

In Rajasthan, where the sun beats down relentlessly, the technique known as khad emerged from necessity. Rajput soldiers, to avoid detection by enemies, would cook underground to conceal smoke and fire. By digging pits and covering them with mud or leaves, they could prepare meals without revealing their location. This method of cooking was also adopted by Rajput hunters, known as shikaris, to prepare game meat like wild rabbit, partridges and wild boars during royal hunts. Taking guests hunting became an integral part of a tradition in Rajasthan, a way of sharing not just meals but experiences.

An image of the khad cooking process. Image: Supplied/Overlander India

But Bhanu Pratap Singh Rathore, born and raised in Udaipur with family knowledge passed down through generations, offers a different origin story. He believes that khad's true genesis lies in a happy accident involving Rajasthan's famous Bhaati (small wheat bread balls served with ghee). Soldiers preparing wheat cakes were forced to abandon their cooking when enemies intruded, their dough balls accidentally buried under sand. Returning a day later, famished and desperate, they dug up their forgotten meal to discover the underground heat had transformed the raw dough into something extraordinary. The taste, he suggests, was a revelation that taught them the earth itself could cook—knowledge that eventually evolved into khad.

Dal bhaati, cooked underground via the khad technique. Image: Supplied/Overlander India

“Originally, it was khad khargosh—rabbit cooked underground—because wild hares were plentiful prey for Rajput hunters. But as hunting restrictions tightened and times changed, lamb stepped in to fill the role,” explains Uday Bhan Singh of Overlander India, whose work with rural experiences near Jodhpur keeps these traditions breathing.

According to Uday, the process is deliciously elaborate in its simplicity. A leg of mutton gets smothered in a paste of red chillies that carry a hint of sweetness, coriander, turmeric and garam masala. The meat is then wrapped like a precious gift: first in rotis, then banana leaves, sometimes aluminium foil in modern adaptations, and finally a wet gunny sack to prevent overcharring. This bundle disappears into a pit two or three feet deep amongst burning coals, then is buried under mud and forgotten for two hours.

The process of khad means digging a pit two or three feet deep and adding burning coals to cook the food. Image: Supplied/Overlander India

As with any recipe, there are variations. Bhanu prefers to use young meat between six to eight months as the tenderness and marbling are just right. “I add a layer of mustard oil after the marination and mint leaves over the rotis. This is my USP.” In Jaisalmer and Jodhpur, a special wild and tangy melon called Kachri is dried and powdered to tenderise the meat.

Today, khad cooking teeters on the edge of becoming a museum piece. A few restaurants in India keep this buried coal alive to revive and protect indigenous recipes. But in rural areas, in communities that still remember the old ways, you might occasionally catch the sweet whiff of a khad pit at work during festivals or special celebrations.

Food cooked by the khad method. Image: Supplied/Overlander India

Hāngī in New Zealand

Half a world away, across oceans and time zones, the Māori of New Zealand were developing their own relationship with underground cooking. The hāngī represents something deeper than just sustenance. It's woven into the very fabric of Māori culture, inseparable from concepts of whakapapa (genealogy), whenua (land), and manaakitanga (hospitality).

Food being prepared for the hāngī. Image: Supplied/Te Puia - Rotorua NZ

The Māori understanding of cooking extends far beyond the mechanical act of applying heat to food. Their connection to the land runs so deep that cooking becomes an act of communion with the earth itself. In some regions, particularly around Rotorua, they harness the geothermal activity that makes the ground itself hot, using natural steam vents and thermal pools as nature's own pressure cookers.

Piripi Taylor from Ngāti Awa and Te Arawa in the Bay of Plenty actively works on building connections between cultures and specialises in Māori translations and editing articles. He takes us through his process. A traditional hāngī begins with selecting volcanic rocks that won't shatter under intense heat. A round hole, about half a metre deep, is dug in the ground reserved for cooking. The pit gets filled with tinder and kindling, then larger logs stacked to burn for at least three hours. River stones or lava rocks are stacked on top, heated until they glow like angry stars.

Lowering food into the hāngī pit. Image: Te Puia - Rotorua NZ

Once the wood burns off and ash settles to the bottom, baskets of kai are placed over the red-hot stones. The feast typically includes meat like lamb, pork, chicken or beef—wrapped in tin foil, stacked with vegetables like potatoes, kūmara, pumpkin, taro and cabbage, with loads of bread stuffing, all held in mutton cloth pouches. Everything gets covered with large taro leaves or wet potato sacks, water triggers intense steam, then the pit is sealed with sheets and earth. After three to four hours, the earth opens to reveal the feast.

For Piripi’s family, hāngī are always associated with special occasions and large gatherings, ranging from birthdays, funerals, weddings or Christmas. “Hāngī and umu are very special and well-loved by Māori. I have made hāngī for all my children's 21st birthdays and numerous other occasions, the last being for my family Christmas feast, which I hosted in the backyard of where I live in Ohiwa Beach”. The preparation itself is ceremonial, with everyone pitching in to dig the pit, arrange the food, and share stories while waiting for the feast to emerge. It's community building, quite literally from the ground up.

Today, it remains a cornerstone of Māori hospitality, featured at marae (meeting grounds) across New Zealand and increasingly popular at festivals and special events where Pākehā (non-Māori) New Zealanders get to experience this ancient cooking method.

The similarities between khad and hāngī are striking—both produce distinctive smoky, earthy flavours and demand patience and faith in unseen processes. Yet their differences reveal how environment shapes culture: khad emerged from desert warfare's need for concealment and a means of cooking game meat, while hāngī grew from communal gathering and geothermal abundance.

Earth ovens such as hāngī (pictured) and khad have been used throughout human history. Image: Supplied/Te Puia - Rotorua NZ

But these two traditions are also part of a bigger story. Across the globe, humans have independently discovered the earth's potential as an oven. Bedouin zarb adapts to Arabian desert conditions using hot stones and sand. Hawaiian imu creates the tender, smoky meat for luaus, with pork wrapped in ti leaves and steamed underground for hours. In the Andes, pachamanca employs volcanic stones to slow-cook llama, cuy and potatoes layered with herbs for communal feasts. Mexican barbacoa transforms lamb and beef into melt-off-the-bone delicacies in agave leaf-lined pits.

This technique runs so deep in human DNA that archaeologists consider earth ovens one of the first markers of early civilisation. Some food historians theorise that as nomadic tribes settled, these earth ovens evolved into permanent clay structures, probably eventually giving birth to the mud ovens like the tandoors of India.

Banner image: An image of hāngī by Te Puia - Rotorua NZ

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