Curry leaf tree and Shaan masala
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This week’s readings reminded me of the curry leaf plant that towers over my mother’s garden back in Delhi. This tree has been a part of my family longer than I have. It has seen harsher winters than I have, and a Delhi where the air was fit for humans. It was planted when my parents first moved to Delhi as a young married couple from Kerala- twenty something year olds finding their place in the scary, scary North. Curry leaves being essential to southern Indian cooking, this plant was a symbol of home for my parents amidst the hustle and bustle of an overpopulated colony in East Delhi. With the lack of South Indian stores back then, this little plant became an important part of their household and moved with them over the years.
Much like the comfort this plant brought my migrant parents, I feel at home at the sight of the colourful boxes of Shaan masalas neatly lined on a shelf at Supermarche Mizan across my street. I feel at home when I order biriyani from Student Tasty Biriyani after forcing smiles on video calls where my friends and family show me their outfits for Diwali. Every now and then I fear I am losing myself in this big and scary place, but I come back home from a hard day and crave a bowl of hot dal chawal to realise that the food I grew up eating has not just nurtured my physical body, but has woven together my very being. It is this realisation, I think, that makes food such an important factor in the experiences of immigrants, or as Ketu Katrak mentions in her essay, a “physical and emotional anchor” (Mannur, 28).