Smells Like Guilt
I wrote this essay in an ethnographic writing class I was taking at The New School. I'm adding it here because I've always been quite proud of it and had nowhere to place it before. If you know me, you know about my “veganism” (read not vegan). This essay contends with this lifelong tug of war of mine.
If you liked it, here is another essay I wrote in this class: Oh Shit
The low hum of the exhaust fan almost recedes into the background. A light breeze blows through the netted screen drowning the sounds of cicadas outside. None of this matters within the kitchen. Three people are standing around the cast iron pan staring, rapt, at a bubbling pot of Kerala red fish curry.
I run across the house to ask my mother how much rice we should make. “not for me” she murmurs through the grey shawl covering her mouth and nose. She sits on the balcony, undeterred by the mosquitos buzzing around her shins. Outside, the cicadas' symphony is unmistakably present. It is dark enough to catch flashes of fireflies as they flit around. The Raat ki rani planted in the garden is in full bloom- the sweet, thick scent making its presence known. My mother looks uncomfortable, and it is hard for me to determine the cause.
As soon as I step into the house, I am hit by a wave of fishiness. My mother's distaste for the smell fills within me. It tugs at a forgotten memory: “Is this a classroom or a fish market!”, my teacher used to yell in the morning to get us, rowdy students, to settle down. I always found the saying comedic despite the wrath with which it was delivered. After years of hearing it, I associate fish markets with loud, yelling kids zipping around the class in the sweaty, moist summer morning.
Even now, I can’t escape the similarities when I visit the fish market. The air is drenched with the smell of the sea; pools of saltwater drip from tables lined with seafood. People talk over one another, throwing specifications or requests at the butcher–clutching at their green notes. I revert to a student again, towered over, my years of training prohibiting me from speaking without raising my hand.
Back to the fish, a mullet, simmering in the kitchen. I am attacked by the smell as soon as I step into the house. As I walk back, the tangy smell of kudumpuli and burning chilli powder become distinguishable. The layers of the dish slowly emerge as does the unmistakable growl of my stomach. But, there’s a pang of guilt in my voice as I inform my father that the smell is too strong for my vegetarian mother.
After garnishing the fish with dried methi, a greenness floats up as I set the pot directly onto our dining table. Seafood is more than just sustenance and warmth; it is culture, family recipes, culinary prowess and a coming of age. At least it is for me. I know that I should follow my mother’s suit, especially because the meat industry is horrible. However, it’s difficult to let go of the promise of forgotten memories, a connection to my past self. As I sit beside my father and eat, we spoon delicious fish curry and rice onto our plates, and he reminds me to look out for bones.
The seafood on my plate is a searing reminder of my selfishness and my choice to prioritise momentary fulfilment over my mother and over the climate. The smell of seafood automatically makes me flinch, scanning the area for my mother: to warn or shield her. As fireflies disappear from our gardens, this guilt follows me around now. Now, my mind has a resident teacher, yelling over hordes of unruly temptations, reminding me: the fish market is meant to be unappealing.