In 2010, during a trip to Singapore, my girlfriend, who had lived in Singapore, took me to Little India to buy spices for my chef sister. From our hotel in Balestier Road, we went to Little India through the MRT. It felt like stepping into another realm as there was a stark difference between Little India and the rest of Singapore that I had seen. The streets were quiet and decongested, and the buildings had a rustic sensibility. We passed by stores selling intricately embroidered saris, colorful garlands, and fruits. We passed by a marvelous Hindu temple, its façade decorated with Hindu characters and statues.
We went inside a modest grocery selling dried goods, and I was immediately enamored by the collective pungent, musky fragrance of the spices—it told me that this was a brimming depository of culinary possibilities. An Indian man behind the counter approached us with a warm smile and attended to my grocery list. He reached for them inside huge glass jars, each one seeming to tell a story in the grand tapestry of Indian cuisine. While bagging them, he suggested some spices and mixtures we could use for other dishes.
Seeing this jovial man talk about spices and cooking reminded me of an Indian man who stayed a floor below in the apartment we had lived in when I was younger. I remember being extremely scared of him because he bore a stern expression, and scowled at us children all the time. Unfortunately, this uneasiness with Indians had carried on until I was older, mostly because I hadn’t met many Indians back home.
When the man handed us our bags of spices, he wished us well and hoped for our return. I felt my slight fear diminish as I reached for our purchases. I realized that I had no reason to ignorantly fear Indians, especially when this man was so concerned about my nourishment. There was so much about Indian culture I had to discover and celebrate, so we started by looking for restaurants to find delicious curries and roti.
