India has always had a love affair with chickpeas. From the smoky depth of chana masala to the golden crunch of pakoras, chickpea flour (besan) is practically sacred. It thickens gravies, binds fritters, sweetens laddoos and even stars in festive dishes like dhokla and kadhi. So why did hummus, the creamy Levantine chickpea spread, never make it to the Indian table until globalisation shoved it through the cafe door?
The answer is not culinary ignorance. It is cultural irrelevance.
Hummus was born in the Levant, not in Persia or Central Asia, which shaped much of India’s medieval food vocabulary. The Mughal kitchens brought biryani, kebabs and korma, but they never brought tahini. And that matters. Because hummus without tahini is just mashed chickpeas. India had sesame seeds, yes, but never turned them into a paste. No tahini, no hummus. Simple.
Even if tahini had arrived, hummus would have struggled to find a role. Indian cuisine does not crave creamy neutrality. It wants heat, tang, crunch, and drama. Chutneys already ruled the dip domain. Tamarind, mint, coconut, tomato, garlic—each one sharper, louder, more theatrical than hummus could ever be. Hummus, in contrast, whispers. Indian food shouts.
Besan, too, had its own destiny. It was never meant to be pureed. It was meant to be fried, steamed, roasted, or sweetened. It gave texture, not softness. It built structure, not spreadability. Hummus simply did not fit the grammar of Indian cooking.
And yet, here it is now on wraps, in fusion thalis, beside pita or even dosa.
What changed?
Not India.
The world did.
Globalisation brought health trends, Instagram aesthetics, and a hunger for novelty. Hummus rode that wave. But it did not arrive unchanged. Indian chefs spiced it, tempered it, tinted it. Tadka hummus. Beetroot hummus. Mango hummus. It had to earn its place by becoming Indian.
So no, India did not reject hummus. It just never needed it. Until it could be reinvented.