“Indians Smell Like Curry”: A Response
Me in all my curry-loving glory throughout the years
“Indians smell like curry.” My eleven year-old self startles, looking for the source. The voice is male; the tone is derisive. My eyes dart around the hallway, trying to find the voice among the din of slamming lockers. This was clearly not for my ears to hear. But I heard.
“Indians smell like curry.” It’s never ever said nicely. Even when curry smells so good. I’m thirteen. I discreetly sniff my shirt. Do I smell? I ate curry last night. I sniff again. Look away, look around, check my surrounds. No one is looking. Sniff one more time. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t smell like curry. At least I hope I don’t.
“Indians smell like curry.” It’s become a joke now, a bittersweet reclamation of something that never should have been derogatory. I’m sixteen. I laugh. Little do they know, it still stings. Still hurts to think the rich spices and warmth of home is subject to scrunched up noses and vitriolic smirks. My mother and grandmother slave over the stove every night. It is reduced to a stupid joke during the day.
The scents of spices waft up the stairs and I inhale. Turmeric, cardamom, cumin. They are burned into my memory. I have a sixth sense for them. Hearing my mother’s call, I rush down the stairs. My clothes will smell like curry. But I’ve learned to wear perfume now.
