It instantly offends. Divides those who use it from those who don’t. Tells you all you need to know about someone the second it’s uttered.

The c-word.

I’m talking curry.

By the time I retrieved my Indian food from the office microwave, the scent had caressed every nook of the hall. Heavy scrutiny greeted me as I opened the appliance door. People wondered, for better or worse, who had the gall to nuke such a pungent dish, a potential olfactory offender.

I used to feel some reservation. I didn’t want to step on others’ noses. I’d had visions of the future:

Food is in microwave. Employees nearby sniff the air. Noses crinkle.
Female co-worker: “Ewww, what is that?”
Male co-worker: “That stinks.”
Microwave BEEPS. Food ready.
Female: “Everyone has to use this microwave. I wish people would just bring in food that’s norm–”
Indian male walks to microwave. Conversation dies as co-workers’ eyes fill with shock. Whom else were they expecting? The awkward moment seizes the room.
Female (fumbling): “…Have you ever been to Panda Express? I love exotic food.”

Still, the lure of cuisine like my mother’s cooking outweighed the potential disdain of my colleagues. Besides, they should have thanked me. I was taking them halfway around the world for five minutes at a time on “high.”
At first, I was lucky. I received compliments on how wonderful my food smelled. Unsurprisingly, the resident hefty gourmand’s eagerness was unparalleled.

And as I removed my plate from the microwave, another office minion approached me, inhaling the aroma deeply. I awaited another compliment. Instead, I got:

“Is that your curry?”

Viscerally, my face contorted in disgust. I looked away, opting to concentrate on stirring my food in concentric circles. My lips pursed.
“Yeah, it’s my Indian food,” I said, followed by a hasty retreat to my desk.

In between bites, I couldn’t help but ponder why her comment repelled me so. She simply inquired about my food. And no, it wasn’t curry. Yet, I knew there was more. Halfway down the digestive tract, it hit me: “curry” is the n-word of Indian food.

It can’t approach hurling racial epithets. But it does make me feel the same way about our cuisine as racism makes me feel about myself and my people. “Curry” simplifies, limits, and ignores. It’s a term from outsiders who didn’t know what our cuisine was and didn’t care enough to learn the distinctions between the dishes. Mixed with the colonialism from whence it came, it reduces our food to some kind of liquid sideshow, some perversely spicy jungle attraction that’s all the same and is indistinguishable. The blanket term implies that the subject is not important enough to merit further learning, and it smacks of willful ignorance. In terms of music, it would be akin to lumping hip-hop and R and B into “rap.” Would it not be absurd if I were to follow my co-worker to the microwave, wait for her to pull out her lunch, then ask if it was meatloaf, regardless of what she had?

Perhaps I should have edified her about the contents of my bowl. She was misguided, and I might have encountered a receptive ear with some effort. I too am culpable for allowing the ignorance to continue unchecked. But my only objective at the time was to eat my lunch, not to serve as a delegate for the subcontinent.

So for now, at least, I prefer enjoying my curry alone.