Special to the Press-Citizen

When I moved from Memphis to Montana for my graduate program in environmental philosophy, I missed the Indian community I grew up around. Montana mountains are gorgeous, but for me, Montana was also snowy in more sense than one.

I could not even find a Patel Brothers shop for achar, or mango pickle, and there were no aunties around for miles. The nearest Indian restaurant was run by nice white folks who charged 50 cents for chutney with an order of aloo ki tiki. That is like charging money for ketchup when someone orders fries.

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