Cumin and Crisis: My Quest to find my True Self through Food

My upbringing was odd. There is no better way for me to describe it. When I think of my childhood years and who I am today, there is one distinct word that comes to mind: identity. I have lived in California all my life. My parents immigrated here from India in the late 1990s, and they too, have spent more than half of their lives in the United States. When my parents first moved here, they only knew other Indian families. It is these few families whose children I have been the best of friends with for the past 19 years. Soon after my younger sister was born, my family moved to a predominantly white and small town in California. Looking back at it, living in this town wasn’t a culture shock for me by any means, as I was only 4 when we moved there. Yet, I definitely felt much more “Indian” in my elementary years than I ever have in my life. I almost felt like I was leading a double life. Every friend of mine at school was white, yet I would return to my immigrant family, celebrate Indian festivals, practice Hinduism, and best of all, enjoy my mom’s delicious Indian food.

I have always loved Indian food. Both my parents are South Indian, but my mom was born in New Delhi -in the north- while my dad was raised in the South in Karnataka. For this reason, I have grown up eating a fusion of both North and South Indian food. Food from the north is centered around various breads such as naan, roti, paratha, and more. The main spice used is Garam Masala (literal translation is hot spice). On the other hand, food from the south almost always incorporates rice, lentils, and most importantly, raw chillies. For this reason, South Indian cuisine tends to be spicier due to the raw spices being used in almost every meal. When I was 8 I lived with my grandmother in Bangalore, Karnataka for a few months. I would wake up and be given boiling hot milk in traditional Indian steel mugs. Unlike most people, I loved milk. I would watch my grandmother bring it to a boil, the sweet smell rising with bubbles on the circumference of the pot. On special occasions or religious holidays, my grandma would add haldi (turmeric) or badam (almonds) to my milk. I loved the way that the tiny teaspoons of haldi could change my milk. The rich color in haldi powder contrasted the sweetness of the milk in the most effervescent way possible. Haldi and badam are both Hindi words, and are commonly used in my household due to my mother’s upbringing in New Delhi. Yet my mother is a Tamilian who speaks Tamil, so it was often that Haldi milk would become Manjal milk. Similarly, my dad is fluent in Kannada, so Badam milk would sometimes be called Badami milk. Hindi, Tamil, and Kannada are interchangeable in my household, and have influenced the way in which food is termed as well.

I would drink my haldi or badam milk with Dosa (rice-based batter) and a mint or tomato chutney made from scratch. I liked my dosas crispy on the edges. This was most apparent when the edges were thin, and a darker shade of brown than the middle of the dosa. I liked to eat the crispy edges plain, and dip the softer parts of the dosa into my chutney. You know you’re eating enough chutney, when you taste more liquid than solids in each bite. For lunch, my grandma would ask me to pick anything I wanted for her to make. Rice is a staple in Indian households, but I never enjoyed eating it as a child. I would ask my grandma to make some roti ( Indian flatbread) with a vegetable sabji (mixed curry). I loved the way the roti would tear apart so easily, as I took it with a serving of carrot sabji. The steam from my sabji filled my mouth in the best way possible. The sweet and salty flavors danced together with each bite. Dinner would inevitably be rice with rasam or sambar, two types of South-Indian soups that are mixed with rice. I preferred sambar, as it would include a fusion of dals (lentils), coriander, tomatoes, and much more. I loved the way the flavors united, as if they were meant to be!

Being in a white-dominant area of town, I always thought that I would end up eating burgers, or crave solely mac and cheese. Yet, I would go home everyday and eat all the fresh Indian food I could until my heart was full. I remember a couple of instances, however, when I would bring Indian food to school, and kids would tell me my food looked “gross” or ask “why is it green”? As a kid my only thought when they said this was, “ Has she never eaten mint rice before? Dang, she must be missing out!” The hate comments and stereotypes definitely affected me as a kid, but none of those effects were apparent until recently.

In the beginning of fifth grade, I moved to the East Bay Area, where I lived in a predominantly South Asian and East Asian neighborhood. Despite being South Asian myself, I had quite possibly the biggest culture shock I’ve had in my entire life. I was so used to being around a larger group of ethnicities, that being in an environment where more than half of a class looked like me was daunting to say the least. I have lived in this area for almost a decade, and it has really made me question my identity and my relationship with food.

Living in a predominantly minority community was very difficult for me at first. But it soon became clear to me that I was able to fit in perfectly. Almost all my friends throughout middle and high school have been South or East Asian. In fact, my high school had a population of more than 72% Asian. As I got older however, I began to notice some differences between myself and my friends. By my sophomore year of high school, I realized that though I was Indian, my upbringing was completely different to those of my friends and classmates. All my friends were immersed in Indian culture- whether it may be movies, fashion, or even religion. Their values were of a perspective I could never see eye-to-eye with. The only true cultural topic I could relate to with my friends was food. Indian food is synonymous with unity. No matter the conflict between you and the Indian next to you, you both would gladly share a bowl of Biryani (spicy mixed rice with curry) and a couple of Paneer Parathas (flatbread stuffed with an Indian cottage cheese). In my house, we always eat the bread items first, followed by rice. Regardless of my internal feelings, I would happily come downstairs and be welcomed by the authentic and flavorful smell of the paneer and biryani from the kitchen. No matter how upset my mother would be, she would serve us all 2 paneer parathas with a light sabji. I loved to open the paratha just a tad, and examine the layer of white paneer sprinkled with some coriander that was sandwiched between the flatbread. From there, I’d eat it with a spicy sabji. Before I become too full, I take a whopping serving of Biryani. I love how charred the saffron rice and veggies can be, the orange and brown shades coming together beautifully. Taking a waft of the biryani on my plate, I can feel the jeera (cumin) traveling up my nasal cavities and eyes. Every biryani has a layer of curry along with vegetables and rice. I like to mix a bit of the curry with a larger portion of rice and pieces of the veggies. By the end of the meal, your eyes will be watering from the spice levels, stomach happily bloated, and you’d have forgotten about the quarrels on your mind.

As I enter college, I have been feeling a sort of identity crisis. I was in an environment where I blended in with a crowd, to now being one of the only Indian kids in my classes and social circles. I went from feeling that I wasn’t Indian “enough” to now feeling “too” Indian. All my life, I have had at least one Indian person I could relate to, yet that all changed the minute I decided to go to a predominantly white institution. At the same time in my hometown, my upbringing is significantly different than my peers, as I was raised as a minority (most of my Asian friends have only lived in the vicinity of other Asians), to parents who are now citizens and identify closely with American values as well. It became difficult for me to find that person or thing that kept me grounded with my culture.

It is my love for Indian food that is the constant in my life. I know that after a difficult day, I can walk into my kitchen and taste the various flavors of sweet and spice sitting on my tastebuds, and feel all my problems wash away. My relationship with food in regards to my culture is one that has always been a point of contentment for me. It is with this realization that I shall conclude this piece and make myself a cup of chai!