The Scent of an Indian
An auntie tells me
her neighbors complain
when cooking smells
float out of her window
and into their apartments.
But no one mentions the reek
of grills heating upon patios
and decks, the stench
of burning meat that wraps
around several blocks
every day.
Another shows me how
to burn incense, sandalwood
or jasmine, or beads of camphor
to clear the air of spicy smells,
and how to cleanse
the kitchen with lemon
and orange peel. Baking soda
and vinegar. And one day
a friend shares her secret —
boil a pot of coffee for awhile.
Or bake cookies, or a cake.
Let the aroma fill your hair,
your clothes, your house,
and fill the neighborhood.
Otherwise the curry smell
will follow you everywhere.
People will glare. Especially
at the office.
I get it. Ginger, garlic, cumin,
coriander, turmeric aren’t
your everyday spices. But
they’ve been used for eons.
See how they are co-opted now?
Garam masala is a buzzword.
Turmeric capsules are a rage.
Suddenly coconut oil is a miracle.
This food is hip to some, but not
when we live, cook next door?
Yet another auntie who has lived here
a long time and now has a nice house
in the suburbs explains that she
fries fish in her garage in cold
weather. The fumes dissipate
quickly in the open air. Fresh
peppermint sprayed after.
Freed-Om.
“Free smells”. You should make
a sign! Like Jimmy John’s,
quips a feisty second-gen
kid when we talk about this.
Yeah, I say, and laugh. In India,
every home’s cooking smells
mingle and shimmy in the streets.
Stray dogs, cats, and crows
hang around for scraps.
Sometimes a neighbor will
bring us a bowl of what
she’s made. Sometimes we take
her a dish of something new,
chat over chai and Time-pass
and Good-day biscuits.
Fun facts. Vasco da Gama
sailed from Portugal, looking
for India, for spices. Opened
our world to the west. Forever.
European raiders never
stopped coming. They
conquered for cinnamon.
For pepper. Killed us
for clove, cardamom.
Tell me, whose food then
exploded with our flavors?
With the fruit of our soil, our
ancestors’ blood? And when
we fry our fragrant masalas
we get complaints, curses?
Live to Eat
All I think about is food.
The TV programs I watch
are all about food, food, food. Alton
Brown dressed as Colonel Saunders,
talking southern, making crispy fried
chicken, his food anthropologist
Deb adding her kernels of info,
the food police arriving in helicopters
to confiscate his raw egg egg-nog.
Beat Bobby Flay — where Bobby
flays his opponents. How much
I learned from Confucius was a Foodie,
Lucky Chow, The Chew. I know
enough (or think I do) to write a book
full of cooking tips and my origin stories.
My eyes are fixed on those jewel-cut
vegetables, the hand-pulled noodles, the
hands of the maker of pigeon pie, foraged
truffles, chianti swirling and breathing,
the bottles of single malt being turned daily
in cellars in Scotland and Ireland.
While Covid strikes the world, and death
waits to knock on our door, I crave
a cocktail. While lungs brim with
coronavirus and bodies pile up
in morgues, in streets, I switch
between news and food channels.
I cheer on Maneet Chauhan. YES!
She won Tournament of Champions!
Some world leaders move fast to quell
the plague. Some, like the saffron-robed
king of India condemn the poorest
to death- marches and starvation,
and the police beat those who leave
their homes during curfew.
Lockdown after lockdown.
Skinny and sickly as a child I played
with my food, threw bread I did not
want to eat to our dog under the table.
Once, an Auntie told me she never
wasted a crumb. Told me about how
Churchill’s laws caused the great
Indian famine—how in Calcutta starving
people who looked like skeletons lay
strewn on pavements, and one day
a man walking by puked on the street
and several men who could still walk
ran up and scooped up his vomit and ate it.
Who would not be haunted by that forever?
How can I forget the beggars, the crippled
children tugging at my school-girl
sleeves, the bedraggled women
with hungry infants on their hips.
We gave alms, we gave food. But how to
feed millions? My mother stocked
cupboards and the refrigerator well.
Even during bandhs, riots, emergencies
we never went hungry. God bless
my hard-working parents,
the sacrifices they made.
May they rest in peace.
So glad they do not have to suffer
what the world is suffering now.
The crowned virus has struck every land.
The Angel of Death does not pass over.
He lingers at door posts. His magnificent
robes touch palaces and slums.
My doors are shut. I hardly
go out. I fill my freezer with
more and more take-out. When Covid
closed down everything, I watched
long lines of cars at food banks
in the US, and in India, hungry
people being given food and water
by ordinary citizens who could
barely feed themselves. But the
government and the great Kahuna
was AWOL. My phone was flooded
with videos of migrant workers
walking hundreds of miles towards
home. No transport, no food, no water.
Jobless, homeless, overnight.
Then the cyclone hit Kolkata.
Hurricanes, floods there, and wildfires
here. Is there no end to suffering?
And in the most prosperous and powerful
country on earth thousands still die
everyday, and the orange-faced leader
shrugs. His yellow-bellied minions
laugh. Criminal negligence?Homicide?
Let people of color die? Is this a kind
of genocide? This is how they care
for us? And now the mutated virus rages
on in India. No hospital beds open, no
oxygen, no firewood to cremate, no
room to bury loved ones. Still the
leaders do no cancel Kumbh mela
and the virus spreads like blessings.
And since it is election time, the mighty
Pooh bah orders all to go vote.
Yes. While they take their last breaths?
Will democracy survive in India
and America? God help us all.
Death rules the planet. Hunger
is everywhere. Still, I am safe.
For now. For those like me, whom
luck has favored, our bellies are
never empty. We send our small
donations to charities everywhere.
Gleaners, World Central Kitchen
(Go Chef Jose Andres!), Vibha
(Go Chef Vikas Khanna!), Calcutta
Rescue (Go my friends!), and Covid
relief organizations. Pray for our
homeless, jobless, bereaved,
and dying brothers and sisters. Just
tiny drops, just tiny drops
of good intention in this vast
ocean of human pain.
And so, I trick my human brain.
The one that lives to eat, while
others eat to live—or go without.
Freeze guilt with every bite,
numb memory, send checks,
check on friends and family
via WhatsApp. Weep for those
I’ve lost, calm my nerves with
cooking shows, share a bowl
of chips and a vodka or two with
my love, load up my shelves, my
freezers with food. Bless the hands
of every farmer, laborer, picker,
packer, transporter, that touched
each bag or box of food! Oh all who
work at Trader Joe’s, Bombay
Grocers, Meijer’s, Kroger’s,
Costco. Patel’s! You rock.
You are our rock. You feed
us all. You feed,
you save my soul.
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