“We don’t eat wog food,” Rachel’s mother spat. “You should know better than to bring that poisoned rubbish into this house!”
For years Rachel had watched the small, dark woman with the red dot on her forehead, tightly wrapped in her bright coloured, exotic clothing, as she would make the short walk to her husband’s workplace.
There would always be a stacked silver canister-looking thing in her hand. Rachel didn’t know it was called a tiffin carrier but she did know it held the hot lunch of the woman’s husband.
On more than one occasion, Rachel had placed herself on the footpath strategically at 11.50am so the woman would pass her.
She would always look at Rachel and give a slight smile and almost imperceptible nod of her head. Rachel barely noticed these as her attention would time and again be drawn to the metal food containers, captivated by the strange but enticing smell coming from them. It always made her mouth water which was a new sensation for her.
Her mouth never watered at the routine fried-to-death meat and boiled-to-within-an-inch-of-mush three veg her mother would serve every night.
But young Rachel longed to know the contents of the container but dared not look the woman in the eye.
Over time Rachel had come to realise the woman was Indian though her and her husband were often referred to as “paki” or “wog’ or some other name intended to dehumanise them to any impressionable young children and make the adults feel better about their lives.
Rachel’s mother was particularly venomous towards the woman, while her father’s anger was reserved for the husband who, he would frequently remind them, had “taken a job from a hard-working Aussie”.
For as long as Rachel could remember, it had been made clear to her she should have nothing to do with the few foreigners who lived scattered around their small but growing rural neighbourhood. Neighbourly-ness was to be reserved for the Australian born and bred only.
But as Rachel grew older, she started to question this more and more. As far as Rachel knew, the Indian woman and her husband had never hurt anyone. Yes, there were plenty of rumours they ate cats and dogs and some other unspeakable things.
However this so was at odds with the timid woman Rachel saw each day making the walk to her husband’s workplace every day – regardless of how hot or rainy or cold it was – she started to wonder more and more about the woman.
When word started to filter out that the little Indian woman was taking lunch orders from her husband’s workmates, there was quite the kerfuffle in Rachel’s house. Her parents were outright furious friends and neighbours would open themselves up to being poisoned or “who-knows-what-else”.
Rachel’s parent’s anger didn’t little, if anything, to deter the food orders.
The little Indian woman soon found herself running quite a business as she also started taking orders for evening meals. Word had spread through the town that the food was incredible and affordable and different.
She was so successful, the little Indian woman soon had another Indian woman working with her to keep up with the orders.
It wasn’t long before Rachel’s growing curiosity overtook her parents strong warnings and she timidly climbed the stairs of the little Indian woman’s house, the smells wafting through taking Rachel to far away places she could never have dreamt existed.
The little Indian woman was pleasant and welcoming of this neighbour she had seen on the street many times as she took her husband his lunch. The Indian woman wondered why she would always stand there looking into the distance, seeming to ignore her.
Rachel explained this was her first time and she wasn’t sure what to order and was nervous. The little Indian woman sat the young teenage Rachel down offering her a taste plate of a few of the meals she had prepared – butter chicken, lamb korma, even a goat curry.
But it was the breads she loved the most – the fluffy naan bread, the roti, the papadums.
For weeks Rachel would sneak to the little Indian woman’s house every chance she could to absorb the flavours and smell and the love the food had been prepared with.
She soaked it all in and soon her and the Indian woman were having animated conversations. The woman’s head would bobble from side to side with as much regularity as Rachel would nod her head up and down in agreement, both never realising how similar their gestures were.
After a few months, Rachel felt compelled to share her incredible discovery with her parents and took home some naan bread and a very mild butter chicken – the mildest and tastiest dish she could think of which her parents may enjoy.
“We don’t eat wog food,” her mother spat. “You should know better than to bring that poisoned rubbish into this house!”
And with that, she scooped it up and threw it in the bin, yelling at her husband they needed to go to the pub to get a steak otherwise they would go hungry.
Rachel’s parents never tried Indian food.
Rachel moved to India.
Angie Kay's travels 