<h1 class="left">When 19-year-old Dinesh Chettri was stopped at the Bagdogra airport for a pungent smell emanating from his carry-on bag pack, he found himself in a strange position. How does one explain the process of fermenting ‘gundruk’ to a stern-faced authority whose priority is that you’re holding up a line. </h1>
<h1 class="left">In the scrutiny and gradual conclusion that followed, his identity was condensed into an airtight jar and left behind with airport security as he boarded a flight to New Delhi.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">The smells associated with different foods have been a topic of much contention. The South Asian diaspora living in predominantly white countries, are far too familiar with the “curry-smelling” accusation. A term that reduces the food of the entire subcontinent to one inaccurate, umbrella dish.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">In India, the issue is replicated to that of a smaller scale. Foods that don’t make the mainstream cuisine are often pushed to the boundaries of the lunch table.</h1>
<h1 class="right">Dinesh was carrying the food to Delhi, where he went to University, from his hometown of west Sikkim- for a cousin sister who craved the familiarity of the dish. Ground up to make the star of a comforting winter soup, or pickled as an equally impactful supporting act, ‘gundruk’ is an essential addition to Sikkim’s cuisine. A taste that one, with a familiar palette, cannot forgo from a mouth’s memory. </h1>
<h1 class="right">But travelling with the fermented spinach dish is one that has brought about significant challenges in the past, he knows. The strong smell tickling one’s nostril is a premeditated risk. </h1>
<h1 class="right">“One that I was willing to take, every now and then.” He chuckles.</h1>
<h1 class="full">In one such endeavour, Dinesh was successful in smuggling the culprit back to University, no questions asked. Here, ‘gundruk’ found great joy in being powdered and topped over dry noodles to cure ravenous students, those of whom were acquainted with the dish already. After some initial deliberation, Dinesh decided to carry it to his hostel mess and introduce gundruk to those who’ve not had the good fortune of knowing it.</h1>
<h1 class="full">In a dilapidated hostel mess, where comfort is desperately sought in too-oily bhindi and half-cooked chapatis, gundruk became the centre of speculation for many. A texture and scent so alien to his friends, but so successful at piquing their curiosity. After some explaining, pickled gundruk was added with measure to the lunchboxes of three brave adventurers. </h1>
<h1 class="full">As he watched their approval, and eventual enjoyment, ‘gundruk’ rose in ranks from a “scary, strong-smelling” dish to an assertion of cultural pride.</h1>
<h1 class="full">An outsider’s validation of your food, though oftentimes unnecessary, sure as hell feels good. Do we attribute it to our need to people please? Perhaps it’s the more primal, selfish want to prove my-food-is-better-than-yours. Whatever the correlation may be, the cause is demanding. One that makes us think twice before packing a lunch we’d devour with greed at home, to carry to a safe, sanitised, outside setting.</h1>
<h1 class="full">For Mangalore-born, Mumbai-bred Aaron, a linkage between the two worlds he’s grown up in lies in the vast, sleepy, Arabian sea. Hailing from a coastal town, and living in a coastal city, seafood is an integral part of his life. And his life’s little achievements. “You know, the strong smell of sukka bombil (the dried version of the fish Bombay duck) actually helped us win an important basketball match.” He grins.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Growing up, Aaron played basketball at the YMCA at Carter Road in Bandra, Mumbai. With the community of fishermen dwelling in the locality, the smell of sukka bombil is one that makes itself known to the nostrils of anyone who trespasses. It hangs in the humidity of the air and pervades all senses. For Aaron, the Pavlovian comfort of this smell aids his game.</h1>
<h1 class="full">“The smell was unbearable to the rival team who visited our home ground. They lost focus, we scored a point. Bam.”
The Bombay duck is a fish native to the islands. It breeds in gutters and has an unappealing look about it. Consumed fresh, the fish is fried or curried in a preparation that merits one's mood. But when dried for preservation, it has a smell which is magnified to sit at the back of your throat. When you carry a jar of bombil pickle, you’re bringing Bombay with you. But you’re also preparing to bring along a briefcase of explanations about the bombil pickle. </h1>
<h1 class="left">A dilemma not alien to 18-year-old Sreelata, from the city of Kochi in Central Kerala. She remembers the time her mother prepared a mudcrab curry true to a family recipe when she was in the third grade. A ‘nyandu roast’ beyond perfection, with the soft flesh of the mud crab mixed into brown rice. A dish that requires eloquent cracking and slurping and hand-mixing before being consumed. When lunchtime came around at school, Sree’s excitement was soon replaced with embarrassment when a crowd gathered around her table with shrieks of “this stinks, what is it?”</h1>
<h1 class="left">She recalls never bringing crab curry she loved so much, to school again.</h1>
<h1 class="left">“That was years ago, though.” She laughs.</h1>
<h1 class="left">“Now, I’d probably tell them to fuck off. I’ll eat crack open and eat my damn nyandu roast before you. It’s too good to not.”</h1>
<h1 class="right">Every lunchbox in the country is packed with the cultural history of its carrier. Dinesh’s ‘gundruk’ is fermented by his mother for three months in a bamboo-covered pit in the ground. Its taste will always triumph that of makeshift gundruk in Delhi’s Nepali restaurants, which attempt the process in a jar instead of the traditional way. Aaron will be reminded of a basketball game on a summer evening every time fried bombil penetrates his tongue. Sree’s grandmother’s recipe is the only seamless transition between generations of a family.</h1>
<h1 class="right">And each time they bring their lunch box replete with all its smells to a table, they unpack each of these legacies.</h1>
<h1 class="left">When 19-year-old Dinesh Chettri was stopped at the Bagdogra airport for a pungent smell emanating from his carry-on bag pack, he found himself in a strange position. How does one explain the process of fermenting ‘gundruk’ to a stern-faced authority whose priority is that you’re holding up a line. </h1>
<h1 class="left">In the scrutiny and gradual conclusion that followed, his identity was condensed into an airtight jar and left behind with airport security as he boarded a flight to New Delhi.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">The smells associated with different foods have been a topic of much contention. The South Asian diaspora living in predominantly white countries, are far too familiar with the “curry-smelling” accusation. A term that reduces the food of the entire subcontinent to one inaccurate, umbrella dish.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">In India, the issue is replicated to that of a smaller scale. Foods that don’t make the mainstream cuisine are often pushed to the boundaries of the lunch table.</h1>
<h1 class="right">Dinesh was carrying the food to Delhi, where he went to University, from his hometown of west Sikkim- for a cousin sister who craved the familiarity of the dish. Ground up to make the star of a comforting winter soup, or pickled as an equally impactful supporting act, ‘gundruk’ is an essential addition to Sikkim’s cuisine. A taste that one, with a familiar palette, cannot forgo from a mouth’s memory. </h1>
<h1 class="right">But travelling with the fermented spinach dish is one that has brought about significant challenges in the past, he knows. The strong smell tickling one’s nostril is a premeditated risk. </h1>
<h1 class="right">“One that I was willing to take, every now and then.” He chuckles.</h1>
<h1 class="full">In one such endeavour, Dinesh was successful in smuggling the culprit back to University, no questions asked. Here, ‘gundruk’ found great joy in being powdered and topped over dry noodles to cure ravenous students, those of whom were acquainted with the dish already. After some initial deliberation, Dinesh decided to carry it to his hostel mess and introduce gundruk to those who’ve not had the good fortune of knowing it.</h1>
<h1 class="full">In a dilapidated hostel mess, where comfort is desperately sought in too-oily bhindi and half-cooked chapatis, gundruk became the centre of speculation for many. A texture and scent so alien to his friends, but so successful at piquing their curiosity. After some explaining, pickled gundruk was added with measure to the lunchboxes of three brave adventurers. </h1>
<h1 class="full">As he watched their approval, and eventual enjoyment, ‘gundruk’ rose in ranks from a “scary, strong-smelling” dish to an assertion of cultural pride.</h1>
<h1 class="full">An outsider’s validation of your food, though oftentimes unnecessary, sure as hell feels good. Do we attribute it to our need to people please? Perhaps it’s the more primal, selfish want to prove my-food-is-better-than-yours. Whatever the correlation may be, the cause is demanding. One that makes us think twice before packing a lunch we’d devour with greed at home, to carry to a safe, sanitised, outside setting.</h1>
<h1 class="full">For Mangalore-born, Mumbai-bred Aaron, a linkage between the two worlds he’s grown up in lies in the vast, sleepy, Arabian sea. Hailing from a coastal town, and living in a coastal city, seafood is an integral part of his life. And his life’s little achievements. “You know, the strong smell of sukka bombil (the dried version of the fish Bombay duck) actually helped us win an important basketball match.” He grins.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Growing up, Aaron played basketball at the YMCA at Carter Road in Bandra, Mumbai. With the community of fishermen dwelling in the locality, the smell of sukka bombil is one that makes itself known to the nostrils of anyone who trespasses. It hangs in the humidity of the air and pervades all senses. For Aaron, the Pavlovian comfort of this smell aids his game.</h1>
<h1 class="full">“The smell was unbearable to the rival team who visited our home ground. They lost focus, we scored a point. Bam.”
The Bombay duck is a fish native to the islands. It breeds in gutters and has an unappealing look about it. Consumed fresh, the fish is fried or curried in a preparation that merits one's mood. But when dried for preservation, it has a smell which is magnified to sit at the back of your throat. When you carry a jar of bombil pickle, you’re bringing Bombay with you. But you’re also preparing to bring along a briefcase of explanations about the bombil pickle. </h1>
<h1 class="left">A dilemma not alien to 18-year-old Sreelata, from the city of Kochi in Central Kerala. She remembers the time her mother prepared a mudcrab curry true to a family recipe when she was in the third grade. A ‘nyandu roast’ beyond perfection, with the soft flesh of the mud crab mixed into brown rice. A dish that requires eloquent cracking and slurping and hand-mixing before being consumed. When lunchtime came around at school, Sree’s excitement was soon replaced with embarrassment when a crowd gathered around her table with shrieks of “this stinks, what is it?”</h1>
<h1 class="left">She recalls never bringing crab curry she loved so much, to school again.</h1>
<h1 class="left">“That was years ago, though.” She laughs.</h1>
<h1 class="left">“Now, I’d probably tell them to fuck off. I’ll eat crack open and eat my damn nyandu roast before you. It’s too good to not.”</h1>
<h1 class="right">Every lunchbox in the country is packed with the cultural history of its carrier. Dinesh’s ‘gundruk’ is fermented by his mother for three months in a bamboo-covered pit in the ground. Its taste will always triumph that of makeshift gundruk in Delhi’s Nepali restaurants, which attempt the process in a jar instead of the traditional way. Aaron will be reminded of a basketball game on a summer evening every time fried bombil penetrates his tongue. Sree’s grandmother’s recipe is the only seamless transition between generations of a family.</h1>
<h1 class="right">And each time they bring their lunch box replete with all its smells to a table, they unpack each of these legacies.</h1>