How Indian cooking helps me cope with cultural appropriation

The yoga class seemed calm and serene on the outside. Like any other, it started with “Namaste,” a traditional greeting in Hindi and Sanskrit. Except no one there spoke either. A woman next to me had a large lotus tattoo. I wondered if she knew what it meant. 

Soon, the asanas (exercises) started. I had a difficult time doing them because I couldn’t catch up with the English names, and they were not using the Sanskrit ones. Then why did they start with ... doesn’t matter. The instructor ended the session after Vrikshasana (tree pose). What, no breathing? She just exhaled and said, ”Namaste.” The session ended without any meditation. We were asked to leave before we could gather our senses. 

Afterward, I thought long about why this session bothered me so much. Then I realized it was the same reason that turmeric lattes, chai tea, and yogurt rice bother me. It wasn’t yoga – it was colonized yoga. 

Ever since I arrived in the United States in 2018, I have heard Americans tell me the benefits of asafoetida, an ingredient that Indians have used for centuries. Influencers on my Instagram and TikTok pages are constantly “introducing” recipes I have been eating since I was a child. I see luxury brands champion marigold and turmeric for skin care, and cafes emulate drinks from my culture to sell as their own concoctions. All this felt to me like being colonized. 

A difficult dichotomy

The easiest way to describe colonization is that an entity in power inserts itself into another’s space, dispossessing them of it, enforcing rules that marginalize them, and diminishing their identity. While historically the possession taken over has been land, in modern society the definition can be extended to culture, language, and identity. Cultural appropriation occurs when a power takes something from a marginalized culture and positions it in its own image, often profiting from it. 

For people from formerly colonized countries, this cultural dynamic rests in a difficult dichotomy, but the end result is usually some form of cultural erosion. On the inside, we often have our own leftover obsession with light skin and preoccupation with learning English over our mother tongues. Although English was the third language I learned to speak, after Gujarati and Hindi, it was the first I was taught to read and write. And I have experienced a range of privileges because I am light-skinned. 

All the while, on the outside, fragments of our culture are taken out of context and commercialized by culturally powerful Western nations like the U.S. When that happens, the item – a practice (yoga), spice (turmeric), or drink (chai latte) –  becomes popularized worldwide through an American eye that ignores and alters its original identity. Cultural exchange is a beautiful thing, but when that exchange happens between entities with stark power imbalances, oftentimes the one in the weaker position gets overlooked.

Seeking refuge in my kitchen

One day after seeing “ginger tea milk” offered in a cafe, I felt unusually uncomfortable. The cafe credited it as “our house special,” but when I tried it, it was adrak waali chai (chai with ginger) – an extremely popular form of chai that millions of people across India enjoy.

Riddhima Dave/The Christian Science Monitor

On the left is an Indian-style preparation of beans and rice known as rajma-chawal, a popular north Indian dish, prepared in Riddhima Dave’s Boston apartment. On the right is a staple meal from Ms. Dave's home state of Gujarat, consisting of thepla (bread), kadhi (yogurt and chickpea flour), and spiced gherkin.

In response, I went straight to an Indian grocery store and bought $70 worth of spices. Then I went home and began to cook. I really wanted sev tameta, a tomato-based dish that has always given me comfort. The smell after Mom tempers spices filled my apartment as I followed her instructions. I felt as though I had reclaimed my food, my culture. 

I have since learned to cook many more items. I also made my personal space as familiar as possible. On one trip back to India, I got agarbattis (incense sticks) in flavors of Indian flowers. I also got a pair of ghungroos (ankle bells) that I keep on my dresser to remind me of my dancing days, along with a Natraja (dancing god) bust. I have listened to a lot more Indian music since I left India. I also practice yog (known in English as yoga) by myself, following the method I learned at home. 

But I am not an island in America. 

I drink Starbucks’ chai tea latte, even though the name exasperates me. Chai is milk tea, so they’re actually advertising “Milk tea tea latte.” And the recipe is not very authentic, but it tastes OK. 

Sometimes the Indian-style things that people sell aren’t bad in themselves. The problem arises when there is no acknowledgment of the product’s origin. They are named improperly and taken out of context, and often their source is not credited. Any company that takes from a culture should understand the original context of the product and what people call it. Then they should consider how to integrate that information into their business. 

Companies might ask themselves whether their actions are socially responsible. Are they doing anything to empower the communities they are taking from? Are they elevating the culture they’re appropriating or diluting it? Are they rebranding the cultural products in their own name? 

Even a little acknowledgment of the culture of origin would make a world of difference to someone like me. I would feel as though my identity, which is so closely tied to my culture, was being seen and valued. 

But until that happens, I have the ability to create my own space filled with the scents and sounds of my culture. And I can always get to work in my kitchen when I need to feel more grounded in my identity. 

It’s a feeling I like to share. When I invite people into my space, I always ask, “Would you like something to eat?”