In my next novel in progress, Homeland Blues, there’s a lot about food. Specifically Indian food. Exile from it. Diaspora marriages and communities built on it. Craving for it. Craving for regional soul food. For the pungency of flavors that make you temporarily stop breathing as they exact your love. And about perhaps nativist disdain among South Asians for the popular Indian restaurant brand “curry” foods palatable to Americans, and I’d say especially Americans, who tend to be adamant about the sanctity and primacy of American tastes (sorry Ameri ca but you can be tyrannical even outside politics). One of my characters in Homeland Blues talsk about “the local Indian restaurant of the twelve dollar all-you-can-eat-buffet-of-universally-creamed-dishes variety.”
It’s important for us Indians to educate the world about our FOODS. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing called INDIAN FOOD. There’s this vast culinary continent called the FOODs of India. As a little tribute to my region, Bengal, here’s wishing you a happy Maachher Jhol (fish curry).
And then I find this.
Priya Krishna writes this awesome piece in Juggernaut, a South Asia focused newsletter about politics, culture and food that you should try out, maybe, for a TASTE of South Asia-related journalism