“What’s That Smell?”

There are few tests of childhood confidence quite like opening a lunchbox full of Tamil food in a very quiet school dining hall.

You know what is inside.

Your mother knows what is inside.

Unfortunately, within approximately four seconds, everybody sitting within a three-table radius also knows what is inside.

Sometimes it is lemon rice.

Sometimes dosai wrapped in foil.

Sometimes yesterday’s curry, packed with the supreme confidence of a parent who has never personally had to transport gravy inside a school bag.

And sometimes someone looks over and asks:

“What’s that smell?”

For many people growing up Tamil in the UK, the school lunchbox can quietly become one of the first places where the ordinary world at home meets the outside world.

At home, nothing about the food is unusual.

The food has not changed.

The room has.

The Lunchbox Moment

At home, rasam is just rasam.

Sambar is dinner.

Idiyappam is breakfast.

Fish curry is something somebody has already complained is not spicy enough.

Then you take the same food somewhere else and suddenly it has an audience.

You open the container.

Someone looks over.

Their face changes.

And suddenly you become conscious of a smell you had never previously considered unusual.

For children growing up between cultures, lunch can become one of those strange little places where you first discover that what counts as completely normal inside your house may be considered unusual somewhere else.

It is not necessarily a dramatic revelation.

Sometimes it is just:

“What is that?”

Sometimes it is genuine curiosity.

Sometimes somebody wants to try it.

And sometimes the tone tells you immediately that this is not really a question.

“Can I Just Have Sandwiches?”

There is a particular stage of diaspora childhood where the sandwich begins to represent freedom.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing leaking.

Nothing requiring explanation.

Bread.

Filling.

Done.

At some point, a child who happily eats rice and curry at home may begin requesting something different for school.

“Can you just make me a sandwich tomorrow?”

For parents, that can sting.

Especially when the rejected lunch was cooked early in the morning, perhaps before work, specifically because they wanted their child to eat properly.

It can sound like:

“I’m ashamed of our food.”

But that is not always what the child is saying.

A child may love the food and still hate the attention.

They may eat rasam happily at home and desperately not want to spend lunchtime explaining rasam to eight other nine-year-olds.

They may not be rejecting Tamil culture.

They may simply want twenty minutes in which nobody notices them.

Those are different things.

Food, Normality and Belonging

Children are extremely good at detecting difference.

Names.

Accents.

Hair.

Clothes.

What everybody’s parents apparently let them do.

And what everyone has brought for lunch.

The lunchbox therefore becomes about more than nutrition.

It can quietly teach a child what the world around them considers normal.

They notice which foods need explaining.

Which ones people recognise.

Which ones attract questions.

Which ones attract jokes.

And eventually some children begin editing themselves before anybody else gets the chance.

No curry tomorrow.

Nothing with gravy.

Nothing too spicy.

Definitely no fish.

And perhaps, eventually:

just give me what everybody else has.

That does not mean every Tamil diaspora childhood included some great lunchbox crisis.

Some children genuinely did not care.

Which brings us to an important group of people.

The Children Who Absolutely Did Not Care

We must acknowledge them.

The fearless ones.

The child who opened a container of fish curry at 12:14pm and proceeded to eat it with complete emotional stability while everybody else dealt with the consequences.

No shame.

No hesitation.

Possibly requesting extra gravy.

These children existed.

Some even discovered that curiosity could work in their favour.

A classmate would ask:

“What’s that?”

Then:

“Can I try some?”

And suddenly the food that made you different became the food everyone wanted a bite of.

There is something lovely about that.

But we should resist rewriting every diaspora childhood into:

“Eventually everybody realised our food was amazing and I became proud.”

Sometimes they did.

Sometimes they did not.

Sometimes somebody was simply horrible about your lunch and you went home asking for cheese sandwiches.

That happened too.

“Smelly Food” and Not-So-Innocent Comments

Food has smells.

This should not be controversial.

Cheese smells.

Tuna smells.

Eggs smell.

Vinegar smells.

Fish fingers certainly have ambitions.

But foods associated with migrant and minority communities are often described differently.

Smelly.

Weird.

Strange.

Exotic.

Sometimes those are clumsy descriptions.

Sometimes they become ways of marking the food — and, by extension, the person eating it — as something outside the norm.

That does not mean every child who says:

“Your curry smells strong.”

is committing a calculated act of racism.

Children are children.

Sometimes they are simply spectacularly unsubtle.

But there is a difference between curiosity and repeated disgust.

Between:

“What are you eating?”

and:

“Eww, what is that?”

followed by everyone at the table performing as though somebody has released industrial fumes into the dining hall.

Children tend to understand that difference long before adults explain it to them.

Meanwhile, at Home…

There is another side to the whole story.

The parents packing these lunches were not necessarily contemplating diaspora identity at seven o’clock in the morning.

They were trying to feed their children.

There is perhaps no purer expression of parental optimism than putting a liquid curry into a container, placing that container sideways inside a school bag and thinking:

Yes. This will be absolutely fine.

Tamil food was not designed around the structural limitations of the average school bag.

We have gravies.

We have oils.

We have sambols capable of permanently altering nearby materials.

We have sauces that view a loose lid as an invitation.

And rasam?

Rasam is practically a beverage with ambitions.

The Great Rasam Escape

Unfortunately, the problem does not end when you leave school.

I know this personally.

I once took rasam to work.

I was an adult by this point.

Employed.

Responsible.

In possession of a respectable work bag containing things that probably should not be marinated.

And the rasam spilled.

Inside the bag.

There is something deeply humbling about reaching adulthood only to discover that one of the central engineering problems of your childhood remains unresolved.

The school bag had simply become a work bag.

Now there were electronics nearby.

The stakes had increased dramatically.

Somewhere in all of this is a profound lesson about cultural continuity.

There is definitely also a lesson about buying better containers.

Mostly the containers.

When Your Cupcakes Smell Like Karuvadu

Then there are the incidents that could only emerge from a Tamil household.

I once made cupcakes.

Perfectly innocent cupcakes.

The sort of cupcakes that should smell of vanilla, butter and modest domestic competence.

Except our oven had another job.

It was also storage.

Not for baking trays.

For the things that could not be safely trusted anywhere else in the house.

Karuvadu.
Maasi sambal.
Vathal.

Anything powerful enough that putting it in an ordinary cupboard felt like an act of aggression against everything else stored there.

The oven was not cooking the karuvadu.

The oven was housing it.

Because the door shut properly.

And once the door was closed, the smell was at least temporarily somebody else’s problem.

The oven had become the unofficial household containment unit.

Unfortunately, apparently the containment was not entirely one-way.

The cupcakes came out carrying a faint but unmistakable suggestion of karuvadu.

There are certain flavour combinations modern chefs describe as fusion.

This was not one of them.

Nobody requested karuvadu cupcakes.

Nobody needed karuvadu cupcakes.

And yet, briefly, history produced them.

That is another thing about Tamil kitchens.

They develop ecosystems.

Spices migrate.

Smells settle into things.

Containers acquire permanent assignments.

A tub that once held maasi sambal has made a decision about its future.

Karuvadu requires diplomatic containment.

Vathal appears in storage places you had forgotten existed.

And every household eventually owns at least one tin, cupboard, tub or apparently innocent kitchen appliance whose smell has become structurally permanent.

The Foil-Wrapped Era

Before sophisticated insulated lunchboxes and collections of leakproof containers came the foil parcel.

Dosai folded into quarters.

Idiyappam.

Maybe a roll.

Sometimes something wrapped so thoroughly that opening lunch became a minor archaeological excavation.

And then there were the reused containers.

Ice-cream tubs that did not contain ice cream.

Margarine tubs that absolutely did not contain margarine.

A visiting child could never safely trust packaging inside a Tamil home.

Open the innocent-looking container.

Surprise.

Yesterday’s curry.

Diaspora kitchens were practising circular economies long before anybody put the phrase into a sustainability strategy.

The Food You Wanted to Hide Becomes the Food You Miss

Something strange can happen as you get older.

The foods that once felt inconvenient become precious.

You leave home.

Go to university.

Start working.

Move somewhere else.

Cook for yourself and discover that Amma’s:

“Just put a little bit.”

is not actually a recognised unit of measurement.

Suddenly the lunch you once found embarrassing begins to mean something completely different.

Someone cooked for you.

Someone remembered what you liked.

Someone got up early.

Someone packed part of home into a container and trusted you not to turn it upside down.

That final part may have been wildly optimistic.

But still.

Food acquires meaning retrospectively.

You understand certain kinds of care differently once you have had to provide them yourself.

But We Should Not Shame the Child Who Wanted to Blend In

This is where nostalgic diaspora writing can become unfair.

The adult looks backwards and says:

“I should have been proud.”

Maybe.

But the child was dealing with the social world available to them at the time.

An eight-year-old should not have to become an ambassador for Tamil cuisine because everyone around them has decided their lunch requires commentary.

We should not replace one kind of shame with another.

First:

“Your food is embarrassing.”

Then years later:

“You were embarrassing for being ashamed of your food.”

Neither is particularly kind.

A better interpretation is possible.

The food was worth being proud of.

And the child wanting to fit in was understandable.

Both can be true.

What Tamil Parents Can Do Differently

If your child asks for sandwiches, do not immediately assume you have produced a cultural traitor.

Ask why.

Maybe they simply like sandwiches.

Maybe the curry container is awkward to open.

Maybe their school has nowhere to heat food.

Maybe it keeps leaking.

Maybe everybody comments when they open their lunch.

Maybe someone has been making fun of them.

Maybe they are just tired of explaining what everything is.

A child wanting some control over what they take to school does not mean Tamil food has disappeared from their life.

Perhaps Tamil food stays at home some days.

Perhaps you choose dishes that travel better.

Perhaps the child decides which Tamil foods they are comfortable taking.

Perhaps you rotate between both.

These conversations are part of growing up between cultures, not a betrayal of one of them.

Culture survives through affection much better than obligation.

And, if at all possible, solve the rasam problem before it reaches the backpack.

Please solve the rasam problem.

Tamil Lunches That Actually Travel Well

Not every Tamil dish was born for lunchbox life.

Some cope considerably better than others.

Depending on what your household normally eats, easier packed options might include:

• lemon rice;

• coconut rice;

• tamarind rice;

• dosai rolls;

• idli with podi or a thicker chutney;

• vegetable or egg rolls;

• cutlets;

• dry potato or vegetable curries;

• roti wraps;

• string hoppers with relatively dry accompaniments;

• savoury snacks; and

• fruit alongside a smaller Tamil main dish.

Then there are foods requiring confidence, exceptional container engineering or a complete disregard for risk.

Rasam belongs in this category.

You have been warned.

Let Children Bring Their Friends In

One of the easiest ways to make home food feel less like something belonging to a hidden private world is to allow ordinary curiosity.

If another child asks:

“What’s that?”

the answer does not need to become a defensive lecture on civilisation.

“It’s lemon rice.”

Done.

If they genuinely want to try some and sharing is allowed, brilliant.

If they hate it, civilisation will continue.

Tamil food does not require unanimous approval.

Neither does British food.

We have all seen what can happen to a perfectly innocent potato under certain circumstances.

Schools Have a Role Too

Teachers and school staff do not need specialist knowledge of every cuisine represented in the dining hall.

They do need to recognise when curiosity becomes humiliation.

There is a difference between:

“What are you eating?”

and a table repeatedly holding their noses, making disgust noises or targeting another pupil because their food is unfamiliar.

Food-related teasing can look trivial to an adult.

For a child, lunchtime happens every day.

Small humiliations become large when they are repeated often enough.

Schools do not need a themed cultural celebration every time somebody brings idli.

Sometimes inclusion is much less dramatic.

Let the child eat lunch without turning them into an exhibit.

And Workplaces Are Not Entirely Exempt

Adults are theoretically more mature.

Theoretically.

Lunch at work can recreate many of the same conversations.

Someone reheats fish.

The office enters diplomatic crisis.

Someone brings curry.

Someone asks what it is.

Someone else wants the recipe.

And sometimes your rasam escapes inside your work bag before any of those things have had time to happen.

Adulthood can change your relationship with food, though.

Many people become less apologetic.

You no longer necessarily need your lunch to look like everybody else’s.

You may actively bring yesterday’s curry because yesterday’s curry is excellent.

The lunchbox stops asking:

“Will this make me look different?”

and begins asking:

“Will this survive until 1pm?”

Growth.

The Lunchbox Is a Tiny Archive

A cultural archive does not consist only of ancient manuscripts, famous people and major festivals.

Sometimes it is much smaller.

The flask your father carried to work.

The container your mother refused to throw away.

The way dosai had to be folded to fit.

The food your grandmother insisted would still be perfectly good by lunchtime.

The smell in the school corridor.

The sandwich phase.

The first friend who asked for some.

The rasam disaster.

The oven full of karuvadu, maasi sambal and vathal.

The inexplicable cupcakes.

These things sound ordinary because they were ordinary.

That is exactly why they are easy to lose.

Diaspora history happens in kitchens as much as institutions.

It happens when one generation packs food from one world into a lunchbox designed for another.

It happens when family recipes travel through schools, universities and workplaces.

It happens when the food you once wished nobody would notice becomes the food you later miss.

Sometimes it travels beautifully.

Sometimes it leaks everywhere.

Either way, it came with us.

Frequently Asked Questions

Why Can Children Feel Embarrassed About Cultural Food at School?

Food can make differences between home and the wider social environment unusually visible.

A child may enjoy the food itself but dislike comments, questions or attention from other pupils.

Embarrassment therefore does not necessarily mean rejection of their family or culture.

Should Parents Stop Sending Tamil Food If Their Child Is Embarrassed?

Not automatically.

First ask why the child is uncomfortable.

They may dislike a particular dish, find it difficult to eat or transport at school, or be experiencing comments from classmates.

Giving children some choice does not mean abandoning Tamil culture.

Is Wanting Sandwiches a Sign That a Child Is Ashamed of Being Tamil?

No.

Sometimes a sandwich is simply a sandwich.

Food preference, convenience and a desire to blend in can overlap, but parents should avoid deciding what a child feels without asking them.

What Tamil Food Works Well for School Lunches?

Drier dishes usually travel more easily.

Options might include lemon rice, dosai rolls, idli with podi, cutlets, dry curries and wraps.

Suitability will depend on the child, the school's food-storage arrangements and any allergy policies.

How Can Parents Make Tamil Packed Lunches Easier?

Use genuinely leakproof containers, choose dishes that travel well and give children some say in what they take.

Take particular care with liquids.

Especially rasam.

We cannot stress this enough.

What Should Schools Do About Comments on Children’s Food?

Curiosity should not automatically be treated as hostility.

However, repeated mockery, disgust gestures or targeting a child because their food is culturally unfamiliar should not be dismissed as harmless lunchtime teasing.

Sources and Further Reading

Research specifically focused on British Tamil school lunch experiences remains limited, so broader work on migrant and second-generation food experiences should be used as comparison rather than treated as evidence that every Tamil child has the same story.

Research into school lunch experiences among Asian diaspora communities has explored the idea of lunchbox shaming and the way culturally distinctive foods can become connected with embarrassment, identity and belonging.

Studies of second-generation and migrant communities have also examined the importance of culturally familiar food for comfort, identity and connection, alongside the ways family eating habits adapt after migration.

These comparisons are useful, but they do not replace Tamil people's own accounts of ordinary diaspora life.

That is partly why stories like these are worth recording.

Related articles:

• When You Understand Tamil but Cannot Speak It: Language Shame in the Diaspora

• Growing Up Between Two Worlds

• String Hoppers: A Tamil Kitchen Staple

• Coconut Sambol: A Simple Tamil Favourite