In this story, Madhushree Ghosh — the author of Khabaar: An Immigrant Journey of Food, Memory and Family and a scientist working in global oncology diagnostics— shares about her experiences as a daughter of refugees, immigrant, and woman of color in science. Read on for her insight and perspectives on food and culture, writing styles, mentorship, and more!
I grew up in India. I am the daughter of refugees and come from a family of Freedom Fighters. When the British ended their 200-year colonial rule, they tried to prevent India from becoming the superpower in South Asia by dividing it into what's now India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. My father and his father were all involved in what we called the Freedom Struggle. So, I come from a very politically active family, and from a part of the country where we are very politically conscious. By that I mean, you're looking at traditional ways of living, traditional roles and responsibilities, but you're also looking at equality in many ways.
I am an introvert, so I was very quiet as a child. But my mother used to say if I was quiet, then that meant I was up to no good. That's what it was. I was curious. I was supremely confident with absolutely no backup plan, and I think I got my mother’s snark and my dad’s sense of humor. I also began my writing journey as a child. My poems were not very good, but they would get published in local newspapers. My mother would cut them out and scrapbook them.
A lot of family members on my mother’s side are journalists or editors of magazines/newspapers in India, so I continued to write for quite a while. Language and political discourse were part of my life. But I also happened to be good at science. I ended up getting my bachelor’s degree from the University of Delhi, then my master's in chemistry from the Indian Institute of Technology. The next step was to get a PhD, as my ultimate aim was to teach and be in research. I could have gotten a PhD from IIT directly, but it would have taken 7-8 years. Even then, since India is a very patriarchal society, my chances of getting a job of the same stature as a male scientist would’ve been pretty bleak. America was the direct choice because of its cutting-edge research, so I came to New York for my second master’s, then a PhD and a postdoc. I had to give up writing during that time.
Finally, when I got my first job, I started writing again. I was very homesick for India, and the only way I could try to staunch that was to talk about what I missed. So, I would write about food, my childhood, the politics of what was happening in India. I kept writing alongside my “paycheck job” in science. I used to wake up at 5:00 AM, write until 7 or 7:30, go to work, and come back at 6:00 pm. Then, I’d cook, eat, and write again from 7 to 10 or 11.
Originally, I was writing from the Indian perspective/style. I had to learn how to write for a Western audience. The Vietnamese American author Viet Thanh Nguyen has talked about the writing styles of South Asians and Asians. It's very different from the white American way of writing, which is to “show, not tell.” Meanwhile, we Indians were brought up on folklore, comic books, and mythological stories where there was a king, a queen, a god, and a goddess. There were multiple different characters, everybody doing something or the other. We show and tell at the same time, which makes our stories so engaging, imaginative, and long-winded.
Later, I realized that I did not want to write the way American workshops were telling me to write. So my essays have a lot of story weaving and nonfiction. They tell a story, but also give a political opinion and make you think. It’s not just straightforward. It's not for everyone, but you can't be loved by everybody as a writer.
In terms of my science career, I now have a leadership role in strategy for a cancer diagnostics company based in Belgium. Not very many people achieve that level, so I'm very grateful and fortunate. But I've had to work really hard, and I don't think that would have been possible if I'd stayed back in India.
Everybody asks me if I would do this again, and the answer is no. It’s a very, very lonely life. As a student, you come here knowing nobody, missing your food, family, and festivals. Most Americans don’t know about traditions or festivals outside the U.S., so we’ve lost all that for three decades. I think we need to be a little brave about talking about these things because immigrants don't always have to be grateful. If you really look at it, are we grateful? Of course, we are. However, we also are very strong, productive citizens of this country who bring a lot of value. So, gratitude goes both ways. In her memoir The Ungrateful Refugee, Dina Nayeri has talked about the power differential between an immigrant and the new country. The new country is supposed to be seen as magnanimous for “letting” immigrants come in. But at the end of the day, you have to ask, “What does that even mean? Do you have the right to let me in when this is not even your land?” Another book that I think everybody should read is This Land Is Our Land by a fellow immigrant and an English professor at NYU, Suketu Mehta. I think we need to talk a lot about that at this time of the year, when the Nobel prizes are given. If you find out the lineages of American winners, most of them will be immigrants.
We also asked Dr. Ghosh a couple of other questions. Here are her answers (edited for length/clarity):
1. What drew you to food writing? What role does food play in your life and roots?
The name of my book is Khabaar: An Immigrant Journey of Food, Memory and Family. As immigrants, when we move from our country to a foreign one, we hold on to a few things — maybe a couple of outfits, shoes, photographs. But mostly, we will hold on to food. We look for the Asian or Indian market. We look for vegetables that grow only in our country of origin. Why? Because when you cook food, your brain reacts to the smell, the taste, the flavor, the sound. It triggers memories and a sense of comfort.
I travel a lot for work. Every time I return, I have to make a pot of rice and lentils — dahl. Even though I've lived in this country longer than I've lived in India, I still consider both of them home. For me, home is dahl and rice.
Anthony Bourdain, who was a food writer and amazing essayist, always talked about food as a conversation piece. You don't have to love food to have a conversation. Let's say I put dahl and rice in front of somebody who’s never tried it before. They’ll ask, “What is this about? How do you make it? Can I taste it?” They’ll say, “I like it” or “I hate it.” Whatever it is, they’ll have a reaction, which means that we are negotiating through food. For me, food is actually very important for us to continue a conversation like this.
Also, with class differences, some of us are able to eat certain foods, and some of us have been deprived of certain foods. Food is an extremely political issue. You can talk about an American growing up eating only McDonald's food, or somebody in the South growing up eating pig’s feet because they did not have the money to access any other part of the pig's body. For example, black slaves were not allowed to have anything, so they made food out of scraps. What did that do to their bodies and their minds? The intergenerational trauma continues today. People have diabetes, heart disease, high cholesterol because of not only what they ate, but also the traumatic way they were forced to eat what was there. If we don't acknowledge all those things, we are not acknowledging each other. For me, talking about food is not just talking about, “Oh, is this dahl nice? Do you like it?” It's more than that. It is a conversation that actually asks, “Where do you come from, and do you feel you belong?”
2. You’re also involved with social justice and advocate for women of color in science. Could you tell us a little bit more about your work, and what drew you to this cause? What does diversity, equity, and inclusion mean to you?
I think we need to talk about diversity, equity, inclusion and belonging going forward. Ten years ago, the gender pay gap was huge, which meant white women were getting $0.85 to a white man's dollar, brown women — including Asians and South Asians like me — were getting about $0.69 to $0.75 to a dollar, and Latino and black women were getting about $0.59. If you really add this along the career of a woman, she will be earning millions less than a white man. She’s putting in the same effort but getting paid less.
That's only considered “fair” if you don't talk about it. McKinsey has a Women in the Workplace report every year, and knowledge is power here. If you don't know your rights, you won't be able to negotiate for yourself. The problem is that Brown women, South Asian women, Asian women are stereotyped as submissive, non-problem makers. Black women are stereotyped as loud problem makers. That is not true. But those are the stereotypes that we have been pushed into. If you do open your mouth, then they say you're being a problem person. I've been told I'm extremely aggressive. I'm like, “OK, so that means I achieve the goal; I get the final success for the company.” But people would not say this to a white man, right? It's offensive, but you don't have to be mean about it. I make it into a joke, saying, “You know what that might be? I'm like Spiderman because my gift is my curse.” They don't know how to argue with that.
It's very important for me to continue to educate people — especially women of color — on their rights, the importance of data when negotiating salaries, and how to pay it forward. I actively chose not to have children because I want to make sure that women of future generations understand what I learned. I think there are ways to transfer information besides through genes, so I’m a strong believer in mentorship. As soon as I understand something, I tell somebody else, and they will tell somebody else.
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