India Cash and Carry

“Twenty years ago, we had to go all the way to Berkeley to get to the nearest grocery store, and now we are only a five-minute drive away,” my dad remarked as he passed me a closely inspected ringan or eggplant to put into a clear India Cash and Carry plastic bag. My dad wasn’t blind; he simply wasn’t looking for the Trader Joe’s and the Safeway that were in the shopping plazas that were walking distance from his apartment. As I pushed around the shopping cart, we dropped in the essential items we were going to need for the week: a big bag of chevda for my sister, a treasured packet of Patel Brothers bhel mix, some paneer, some ghee, dudi, and of course a couple handfuls of bhindi for my favorite sabji. Later, my dad ushered us over to the stack of mango boxes at the front of the store. Together, we softly squished each and every mango until he came upon a box he was fairly satisfied with. We had found a box of Kent mangoes which, according to my dad, meant that they were pretty good. Because it was a Friday, we also picked up something special: a large tub of malai paneer, whose creamy, cashew gravy was to die for.

[pullquote]What we didn’t have were the many traditions that were dear to us when we grew up.[/pullquote]

For me, these weekly grocery trips were a routine: a time for me to joke around with my parents and help around the house a little bit. But for my mom and dad, the grocery stores were an anchor, one which brought them a little closer to a home they’d left behind. Sorting through the jumbled, somewhat suspect vegetables, meeting and chatting with the other Indians in the community, and picking up freshly made chapatis, dosa batter, and haldi was part of a way of life they had grown used to. To them, going to the grocery store was about preservation: finding a way to replicate the culture they lost by immigrating to America. As my mom described, “We had Indian friends in California who had come before us. What was harder was replicating the traditions that were dear to us when we grew up.”

Having been born and raised in America, I’d always been amused by my parents’ dependence on the Indian grocery stores. I was different, I thought, an independent American college student who would make do with the grocery stores around me. As I drove to Wash U for the first time, I realized I couldn’t be more wrong. The first thought that crossed my mind was “where is the closest Indian grocery store?” For some reason, I had almost assumed that there would be one near me; St. Louis was itself a pretty big city and I thought all big cities had an Indian grocery store. As I anxiously scoped my options for passable Indian food, I felt myself holding onto my parents’ anchor more tightly than I ever had. I was incredibly incomplete without it.

[pullquote]I didn’t find my St. Louis Indian grocery store but at last I found solace.[/pullquote]

I dropped the black mustard seeds into the crackling vegetable oil, beginning to dole out the chopped onion into the Crock-Pot. The familiar aromas enveloped our kitchen on a damp July evening in my St. Louis apartment. I didn’t find my St. Louis Indian grocery store, but at last I found solace. When I was younger, I thought these grocery stores frequented my life out of mere convenience. I was surrounded by tradition, and partaking in this tradition was what everybody else did. What I failed to understand was how this bedrock of the Indian community was shaping me as it served my parents. My innate desire to be surrounded by the familiarity of the Indian grocery store is part of who I am: I will never lose this fear of being disconnected from my ethnic identity. This fear didn’t become visceral until I felt the familiar domain almost escape, but it has lived dormant inside of me this entire time.

[pullquote]My innate desire to be surrounded by the familiarity of the Indian grocery store is part of who I am: I will never lose this fear of being disconnected from my ethnic identity.[/pullquote]

An opportune shipment of fresh spices from my family saved me this time, but what about the next? What can I afford to hold on to and what am I most afraid to lose? These are the questions that I don’t want to answer because I’m afraid I won’t be able to. At the very least, I can come to terms with my fear and embrace the yearning I have for these Indian supermarkets. Maybe, I don’t have to lose the familiarity the pungent fragrances bring to me every time I walk by the freshly fried pakodas. Food is an aspect of my upbringing I have a choice to preserve. It will just take a little bit of reading. And so my dad pulled out the loose leaf pages with Gujarati scribbled on them and started translating. Following his instructions, I dropped the chopped ringan into the Crock-Pot and let them simmer.

Ishaan Shah ‘20 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. He can be reached at ishaanshah@wustl.edu.