Overview:
IC columnist Sweta Srivastava Vikram takes us on a lip-smacking culinary journey towards decolonization.
There’s a certain irony in how the story of Indian food mirrors the story of India itself. For centuries, colonial powers took our spices, our recipes, and our people—exporting flavor while erasing its origins. We have all read literature and seen movies about white people cringing their noses at Indian food.
Friends who grew up in several American states confessed that they were bullied growing up because sometimes their clothes carried the smell of curry leaves or cumin seeds. People looked at them weirdly if they brought Indian food in their lunch box. The same places now boast Haldiram’s frozen kebabs in their grocery stores’ freezer aisles or even Nanak’s Rasmalai at Costco.
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A satisfying course on decolonization
Today, Indian food has traveled farther and more freely than the empire that once tried to control it. And that is the most satisfying course of decolonization I can think of.
An African American colleague’s daughter drinks masala chai and pairs it with a samosa before heading out to school on some days. My meditation retreat had ordered lunch from a healthy Indian chain, and people at the retreat were swooning with delight at the burst of flavors in their mouths. Literally, everyone (including myself) enquired about the catering.
Indian food as nourishment
I was in Spain in September 2025 to speak at a conference on Ayurveda. A few days of work, a few days of vacation … that was our plan. For us, vacation almost always means hiking through tough terrains and exploring the local cuisine.
But in this beautiful small town of Granada, Spain … I struggled with food. Mostly because it was ridiculously hot, so aside from freshly squeezed orange juice, nothing felt refreshing. Then the food here was red meat or pork-heavy and devoid of green veggies. Lastly, the Spaniards eat very late. Lunch was served after 3 pm, and dinner was often at 10 pm onwards.
Nine miles of daily hiking and speaking, plus networking at full days of conference on a glass or two of orange juice and coffee, started to throw me off. On the fifth or sixth day of the trip, I said to my husband, “I need real food.” My mind and body were starting to rebel.
We found this amazing Indian restaurant, a 10-minute walk from our hotel, owned by a young fellow from Mumbai. The food was non-spicy (how we like it) and so light (as if cooked at home). The service was exemplary. My body literally danced with joy as “Palak chicken” and “vegetable medley”, along with dal tadka and tandoori roti, entered my mouth.
From Empire to everyday table
Let’s be honest: colonial hangovers still linger—in accents, aspirations, and even appetites. For decades, Western palates treated Indian cuisine like a curiosity. Butter chicken and tikka masala became shorthand for “Indian food,” while thousands of regional dishes—each steeped in geography, ritual, and memory—were left off the menu.
I remember over two decades ago, when my husband brought homemade saboodana khichdi to the office, a colleague commented that it looked weird. But food, much like history, refuses to stay boxed in. The Indian diaspora, through sheer resilience and creativity, has reclaimed those recipes and reshaped global eating habits.
Forget the United States and the people you and I know. Look at London, where “curry houses” once catered to colonial nostalgia. Today, the city celebrates chefs like Asma Khan, who lead all-female kitchen brigades and champion unapologetically authentic recipes. The same Britain that once ruled India now counts chicken tikka masala—an Indian-born-in-Britain dish—as a national treasure. I haven’t seen Balti chicken in any country’s menu aside from Great Britain’s pubs, where it’s served with fries or, as the Brits call it, “crisps”.
Bunny Chow
I recently met a doctor from Durban, South Africa, and he raved about Bunny Chow. When I looked it up, the bunny chow is a loaf of bread hollowed and filled with spicy curry—it could be mutton, vegetables, or chicken. The bread acts as both a dish and an edible utensil, with the removed portion used for dipping into the flavorful curry. The dish is designed to be eaten without utensils, making it a convenient and messy street food. Bunny Chow stands as both an emblem of Indian ingenuity under apartheid and a beloved symbol of South African street cuisine.
When flavor becomes resistance
Food tells stories that textbooks can’t. Every pinch of turmeric and swirl of ghee carries centuries of migration, memory, and resistance. When colonizers called Indian food “too spicy,” they weren’t just talking about heat—they were reacting to independence of taste.
Today, Indian cuisine is reclaiming that narrative. There are several Michelin-starred Indian chefs across the world.
Beyond mysticism
Ayurveda, once dismissed as mysticism, now informs the wellness industry from New York to New Zealand. The humble haldi doodh has been rebranded as “golden milk.” The Cumin-Coriander-Fennel Tea is becoming increasingly popular due to its strong reputation for aiding digestion and detoxification. Think about it—the ancient concept of ahimsa (non-violence) aligns perfectly with modern veganism. Even the global shift toward plant-forward diets owes much to Indian culinary philosophy, which has always seen vegetables not as sides, but as stars. And can we please talk about the variety in Indian cuisine?
At a non-Indian friend’s Galentine’s Day potluck party, I brought homemade vegetable kebabs and saboodana tikkis. People were so curious about how I’d made them and equally appreciative of warm, cooked, spiced, and homemade, vegetarian appetizers instead of the usual cold cuts with cheese or a salad platter with hummus. For an Italian-Jewish friend’s engagement party in the very classy Upper East Side neighborhood of NYC, he asked if we could bring vegetable samosas.
Indian food’s rise isn’t about assimilation; it’s about expansion. My non-Desi clients rave about how it’s been a game-changer in their health journey. It’s a reminder that authenticity need not bow to Western validation. The turmeric latte may be trending, but your grandmother was sipping it before Instagram existed.
Food as a cultural equalizer
We often talk about decolonizing history, art, or fashion. But food might be the most delicious place to start. Colonial hangovers persist when we believe “French cuisine” is refined but “Indian food” is heavy; when “fine dining” means white plates and Western sauces instead of banana leaves and chutneys.
It’s time to change that vocabulary. To say “food,” not “ethnic food.” To recognize that the masala dabba is not a relic—it’s an archive. That our spices didn’t just flavor trade routes; they shaped civilizations and continue to heal those who are sick.
Today, chefs of Indian origin—whether in Copenhagen or New York—are redefining luxury dining with roots intact. They’re proving that you can plate khichdi like art, serve vodka pani puri, pair rasam with wine, and still stay true to tradition. The decolonization of food is not about rejection; it’s about re-centering.
The future is (unapologetically) spiced
When I travel and see mango lassi on the bar menu in Berlin or dal featured in a wellness retreat in upstate New York, I smile. Not because Indian food has gone global—but because it has gone home, everywhere. We are no longer chasing validation. We are setting the table.
Indian food, in all its diversity and depth, tells a story that transcends geography: one of endurance, adaptation, and joy. It has survived conquest, migration, and misunderstanding. It has healed communities, built bridges, and inspired generations of cooks who dare to season boldly.
So yes, colonial hangovers are so last century. The future tastes like cardamom and courage, cumin and connection, mustard seeds popping with possibility. And if history taught us anything, it’s this: you can’t suppress a civilization that knows how to cook.
“A good curry is like a good friendship – warm, comforting, and made with care.”