Learning to pause with ‘pa’ and other kitchen lessons by Thomas Zacharias

There’s a small packet sitting at the back of my fridge. It’s been there for close to three months now, wrapped carefully in paper, nudged behind pickle jars and hot sauce bottles. Inside it is pa, a yeast starter I brought back in October last year from a research trip to the Elopa-Etugu Community Eco-Cultural Preserve (EECECP), deep in Arunachal Pradesh’s Dibang Valley. Every few weeks, I’d think about brewing with it, and then put it back again. Some things ask for a pause. And pa is one of them.

Pausing doesn’t come easily to me anymore. Most days are spent moving: travelling, working, juggling projects at The Locavore—a multidisciplinary platform I founded four years ago that champions local food and sustainability through storytelling, advocacy, partnerships, and on-ground projects. Time is usually something I compress, not something I leave open-ended. But pa doesn’t respond well to that instinct. It asks to be waited for, not worked around. In a world that constantly urges food to move faster—arrive sooner, cook quicker, be more efficient—this feels increasingly unfamiliar.

In Elopa-Etugu, the days were long and slow, shaped less by itinerary than by weather, terrain, and the people. On our first evening in the town of Roing, at Naba Jibi’s guesthouse near the Eze river, we were introduced to yuchi, the locally brewed rice wine that sits at the heart of Idu Mishmi life.

The Idu Mishmi tribe has, in recent years, declared parts of their ancestral land a community-conserved area—the EECEP— choosing to protect forest and wildlife through their own customary rules. Food here grows out of those decisions. What enters a pot is never just availability, but belief, memory, and limits.

The Idu Mishmi don’t speak about yuchi as a “drink” in the way many of us usually do. It’s closer to a companion—something that marks time, holds people together, and signals hospitality. It is offered at the start of conversations, shared during meals, and present at moments of gathering. Brewed primarily by women, it begins with rice or millets fermented using pa, a wild yeast starter prepared from rice and local herbs gathered from the forest.

What yuchi becomes depends on how it’s handled. Left to ferment and settle, it develops depth and strength. When the mash is squeezed through a cane strainer, the liquid that emerges is yutuhi, which is lighter, cloudier, softer on the palate, and lower in alcohol. What remains after the liquid is drawn off isn’t discarded. Water is added back to the spent rice, creating yu aachi, a thin, nourishing gruel, usually consumed the next morning.

As we moved deeper into the forests of the Elopa-Etugu, yuchi kept reappearing at meals, by the fire, and during conversations that moved easily between food, conservation, joy, and loss.

Elopa-Etugu is governed collectively by four Idu Mishmi clans and protected through customary practices rather than state mandate. Certain beings such as gibbons and big cats are considered misu—inauspicious, taboo to hunt. These distinctions quietly determine what enters the kitchen and what never does.

Lunch one afternoon at Nani Heli Elapra’s farm made this entanglement unmistakable. We ate eliso yama puhi, pork cooked with finger millet wrapped in ikuna leaf; anga eka anunu, river fish with eka (local ragi) millet; amooli chutney made from fish mint and tree tomato; and andoye, a local legume.

By evening, the pace slowed down further. Close by in Kebali village, at Aho Nani’s home, we gathered around the hearth and cooked together. As we prepped the vegetables, Nani started a fresh batch of yuchi. Thick red keshu rice was boiled, and spread out to cool. When it reached the right temperature, pa was gently crushed into it—just a few tablespoons’ worth. The rice was mixed, covered, and left alone.

Six days later, on our final day in the valley, it was ready.

The yuchi we brewed together was soft, cloudy, faintly sweet. The sweetness came from the rice alone—no added sugar, no coaxing—just time, patience and fermentation. It was the kind of drink you sip slowly, attentive not just to the bamboo mug in your hand, but to the landscape holding you.

I’ve encountered similar wild yeast cultures in other parts of the country—starters shaped by place, grain, and climate—but pa felt especially held. On the last day, at my request, they called over Chili Thapo, a woman known across villages for her skill in making pa.

She prepares it by milling rice into a fine powder, mixing it with water, then kneading it continuously with ahopi, a locally known forest herb, along with a handful of other plants. It’s labour-intensive, precise work. Once ready, she supplies pa across the valley. Each puck sells for about five rupees. I asked if I could carry some back with me. She obliged.

It’s tempting, especially as someone who spent years in professional kitchens, to treat ingredients like souvenirs. To use them quickly, translate them into recipes, make them legible and productive. But pa resists that urge. It doesn’t belong on a recipe card.

I keep thinking about the conversations we had around the fire about language loss, about customs that aren’t followed as closely anymore, about the Taju Taye programme, an informal Idu Mishmi storytelling practice where elders sit with children to pass on ancestral stories. People spoke about how losing stories can feel like a form of erasure—of history and identity. Pa carries that weight. It’s yeast, yes, but it’s also continuity. Knowledge passed hand to hand, something alive that only works when you give it time.

I haven’t brewed with it yet. Not because I’m afraid it won’t work, but because I want to do it properly. I want to cook the red keshu rice I brought back, wait for it to cool, crush the pa in gently, and then step away.

When I finally brew with that pa, it won’t be because I’ve stopped rushing altogether. It will be because, in that moment, I choose not to.

Thomas Zacharias, aka ChefTZac, is a chef, storyteller, and founder of The Locavore.