I used to love jalebi. It is a funny looking sweet, all knobbly and looping in on itself. And that colour! An orange that seems like it cannot come from nature, but it does. Saffron gives it that vibrancy, or turmeric if you are on a budget.
It is headache-inducingly sweet, as so many Indian sweets are. For a diabetes-prone people, we eat a lot of sugar. But jalebi has this khatta taste as well, slightly sour, which so intrigued me when I was a kid.
I grew up in the 1980s in North Queensland, without access to Indian sweets stores. And jalebi is a pain to make, so we did not have it often. When we did, I would keep eating it until my mum would chase me away from the plate.
For a recipe on how to make jalebi, visit
Nilima Rao (in a skirt) surrounded by friends and family. Source: Supplied
Finally, I ended up at Holy Spirit in Year Four, my first time at a Catholic school. My first year at Holy Spirit was going well. As a Hindu, I was different from the other kids, but it wasn’t really apparent until the Great Jalebi Incident. In the middle of the year, an intriguing new concept was introduced to me – the morning tea. Every kid was to bring a plate, so mum packed my favourite - jalebi. I couldn’t wait to share the best sweet ever with my new friends.
We collectively wriggled through our lessons until our teacher bemoaned that she had ever suggested a morning tea. A trestle table had been placed outside our demountable classroom, covered in plates of fairy bread, lamingtons and iced vovos still in the packet. In the centre, glistening orange in the blinding North Queensland sun, was my plate of jalebi, homemade with love.
Jalebi - deep fried spiral batter soaked in sugar syrup. Source: Supplied
We encircled the table, forming a small wall of restless humanity. My teacher, through the sheer force of her will, held back the surging hordes of eight-year-old kids. She spoke about the rules of civilised society, but we were operating on instinct at this point. One made a break for it and we all descended like locusts on the food, while my teacher stood helpless at the side crying out about how uncouth we were being. I learnt a new word that day. Uncouth.
Eventually we fell away from the table, bellies distended. The table was bare, everything had been demolished. Except … my untouched plate of jalebi. Not a single sticky morsel had made its way into the mouths of any of my classmates. I was inconsolable. Why didn’t anyone like my dessert? Why didn’t anyone like me? The Great Jalebi Incident changed me. It made me look at my life, so different from the lives of my classmates, with fresh eyes. My mother’s cooking is wonderful. But proper Indian curries have bones in them and are best eaten with your hands. Was that grosser than using cutlery? Not to mention the tell-tale turmeric stained fingernails.
I didn’t know how to eat with a knife and fork until I went to boarding school in Year Nine. You do not reveal such a weakness to a group of teenage girls trapped in close confinement. I was very hungry until I figured it out on my own. I wondered, were we messier than the Australians? Were we, in fact, uncouth? I was ashamed. And to my shame, I think that some element of that has persisted, even into my 40s.
Nilima Rao (front) with her mum, grandma, and older sister. Source: Supplied
Nilima Rao (standing) with her parents and older sister. Source: Supplied
For her daughters who live inter-state, my mum freezes takeaway containers of curry. Coming back from Brisbane, I carry freezer bags full of home, heritage and my mum’s love through airport security.
It is still hard for me to share our home cooking with friends. For her daughters who live inter-state, my mum freezes takeaway containers of curry. Coming back from Brisbane, I carry freezer bags full of home, heritage and my mum’s love through airport security. I rarely share these meals with friends, partially because I hoard them for when I am homesick. And partially because I worry that my Australian friends won’t understand my mum’s food.
I kept the two parts of my life separate for many years. But as Australia evolved in its multiculturalism, so did I. I started to wonder, why was I hiding? I decided that I needed to be braver, more authentic. I have learnt to take a deep breath and share my life despite my anxieties.
Nilima Rao with her mum and sister. Source: Supplied
I wish I could take that disappointed little girl’s hand and tell her that it wasn’t her. They were just kids who weren’t used to being exposed to new things. And that she would still like jalebi.
This story was originally entered in the 2020 and forms part of a special SBS Voices and SBS Food collaboration series: 'Food of My Childhood'.
