Dirty Indians

By: Kavya Karuppusamy

I hope your mom didn’t decide to cook curry today because you’re going to smell. Bad. My parents are divorced like half the population. My dad doesn’t really cook and when he does it’s always some slightly off variation of Korean food. My mom though, holy fuck does she whip it up, and I hate it. Every day this woman would send me to school with a hotpack filled with lemon rice and mango pickle. Everyday I would sneak out of class to flush it down the toilet. I know I was an ungrateful spoiled brat but at least I realize it now. That has nothing to do with this story. I thought I would just add it in. 

Anyways, if you're Indian you know the inevitable shame that comes with the creation of curry for breakfast, lunch, and, dinner not because it tastes bad (because it most certainly does not) but because it saturates the house in some combination of spices that if you sniff too hard will surely burn off a bit of your nose hairs.  

It wasn’t until I was a freshman in highschool that I became aware of the curry molecules which had saturated every inch of my existence. One day my dad picked me up from my mothers, and as soon as I entered the car he said,

“My god do you smell Indian.”

What do you mean I smell Indian?? The smell of my mothers apartment had inevitably carried into my clothes, my hair, and my duffel bag which I used to transport between my parents' places. It was at this moment when I realized the day had come that the stereotype of Indians smelling like curry had truly come to life. As inevitable as the wind rustling the trees, becoming a curry muncher, a “dirty Indian,” had become my prophecy. 

My dad was not the only one to point this out. One day a family friend came to pick me up for some random Indian event. We brown people like to call it a “function,” or better yet a “get together”. As I entered the car and sat down, before my ass even touched the old fuzzy 2001 Toyota minivan seat, I heard the next confirmation which brought my awareness of how brown I really am through the roof. 

“Did your mom just cook?”

“No,” I said,

“Was she cooking earlier?”

“No,” I said again,

“Oh, well you smell like she's been cooking”.

I soon began to radically change the way I lived. Partly due to anxiety, partly due to shame, but largely because I cared so much due to insecurity. I’m not saying that it was okay for me to smell like curry, unless you have a genetic condition that you cannot control then it's not really okay to smell bad. You don’t have to smell like daisies and flowers all the time but if you buy aluminum free deodorant because you're a hippie that believes it's bad for your body and I can smell you from across the room, then you need to get it together and just buy the real shit.

I definitely didn’t smell bad but I just smelled Indian and looking back at it, there was nothing wrong with that. What does this even smell like? A sharp spice. There’s no other words to describe it but if you're an Indian you just know. 

I started spending a lot more time living with my dad. I used to live with my mom on weekdays and with my dad on weekends, but I began to make elaborate excuses so my dad could pick me up every morning a couple hours before school even started so I could go back to his place, shower again, and change into clothes which were curry free. Even my hair had particles of this spice filled scent trapped between the follicles. I shampooed, conditioned, and scrubbed my body the best I could because I could not shake the hyper awareness of my Indian heritage. As if I was trying to rub the melanin off my skin I tried to rub the particles of cumin, turmeric, fennel, chili powder, and clove, the best I could, but it seemed to be a stain which was recurring.

Every day I became more distant from my mothers house. Every day I left early to rid myself of what I believed was a stench. Every night I made an excuse to sleep at my fathers instead so it would be easier for me in the morning. Even if I walked into her house for a second, just to pick up something which I left behind, I was saturated hair to toe in the savory smell of brownness. That’s how Indian coded her apartment was but what more can an immigrant do?

I feared to have anyone over. I was ashamed of the smell of my house, I was self traumatized, self pitying, and for some reason I was apologetic to other people. To this day I still say “Sorry if it smells like curry,” before I open the door to my house. I do my best to rid the smell. I open all the windows. I nearly empty a bottle of febreze. I try putting lemon and vinegar in a pot of water and boiling it so the vapor cancels out the smell of the curry but what am I apologizing for? Having a culture that can never be erased? Or being shown how much I am loved by having a steaming hot plate of rice and khuzambu ready for me before I get home? 

Struggling to make ends meet my mom still provided me with a full stomach. I never complained of hunger, I only complained about the variation of food. I wanted American food. I was tired of rasam and sambar everyday. I did not want dosa and dhaal again. I wanted pasta, I wanted grilled cheese, I wanted whatever white people eat. She tried her best to explore new options but we all seek comfort wherever we can. 

While I might seek comfort in being surrounded by the people I love, she seeks comfort in finding a piece of home 9,000 miles away from where her home really is. Her home is in India. She may not have come here alone but unfortunately one day she found herself in solitude, with no one to support her and a child who she needed to provide a good life for, all while living for the first time herself. So as I caught her wiping her tears away, as I could hear her sniffling trying not to wail out loud, I failed to recognize that for my mother, cumin, cloves, ginger, and all these spices which I tried so hard to disassociate from, were the only thing left that gave her peace. It gave her a connection to the place which she never wanted to leave. These spices traveled 9,000 miles with her. Perhaps I failed to realize it when I was fourteen but today if you called me a “dirty Indian” I would fall to your feet and pray, because I may be a “dirty Indian,” but at least my food is seasoned.