Crisp Golden Dosas

Usha Aswath Iyer

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Any South Indian will tell you that a Sunday breakfast means crisp golden dosas, a dollop of butter, green, coconut chutney, and as an additional option, gun powder–the red, spicy powder mixed with oil (sesame oil, please).

Sharada tucked into her favourite breakfast as if she had been starved for a week. Her mother was making the dosas in the kitchen, and she was eating them. After eating three, she went into the kitchen, leaving the dining table.

“Sit at the table, Sharu,” Mother said. “When will you learn that it is not done to sit on the kitchen platform, breathing down my neck?”

“But, Mummy, the dosa loses its heat and crispiness by the time it comes to the table!” lamented Sharada, aka Sharu.

“Twenty years old, and she still wants to be fed by her mother. When will you learn to make dosas? Do you even know the proportion of rice to lentils?” Mother’s tone was showing strains of exasperation.

“One more crisp, really crisp dosa, Ma.  Please.”

Mother waved the hot spatula, warningly at her. “You have already eaten seven!”

“Which mother counts the number of dosas her child eats?” Sharada grumbled.

“Well, this mother does. And this is no daughter, it is the demon, Bakasura come to haunt me.”

Sharada hurriedly gobbled her seventh dosa and went off to the sofa. Her favourite serial would start now and her mother would soon bring the steaming hot cup of coffee. What more could any Tamilian ask for?

***

Music was blaring from the mobile as Sharada hummed along with it. She had made her favourite breakfast–dosa with chutney powder. She had been too lazy to grind the green chutney. And the coffee was ready in the flask. But the taste was never like the ones her mother made for her. If she waited and made five dosas, before eating, the dosas became cold and tasteless. If she stood and ate, while making the dosas, she did not feel it was a pleasure. It was more like a punishment given by her teacher–stand and complete your work.

But there was no other option. Her mother was caught up in her son’s life, looking after the grandson. Her whole world revolved round the little tornado of four. Sharada too loved him to distraction and did not grudge her mother staying with him. But she sorely missed the dosas her mother used to feed her, with love and spicy remonstrations.

Crisp, golden brown, perfectly round, and piping hot from the griddle. Sharada could almost taste them. But the dosas on her plate, though round and brown, were not crisp and hot.

Her phone rang. Oh, Mother!

“Oh, Ma, I miss you and your dosas!” Sharada started her lamentation.

“Now, Sharu, keep quiet and listen to me.”

Sharu had an injured look on her face. Her mother was not even interested enough in her to listen to her woes.

“Your father and I are coming to your place, next week. Stop squealing like a pig. We have checked out some horoscopes, and have shortlisted three boys. This time I am going to finalise your marriage.”

Sharada listened, mouth agape. What?

“And don’t make any excuses. Your father also seconds me, so no trying to wriggle your way out of this.” Mother’s voice was grim.

Mother and Father landed as promised. Sharada was ecstatic. She would make her mother make all her favourite dishes, and there would be dosa for breakfast every single day!

“Here, I have brought your favourite Grand Sweets and savouries.” Mother brought out boxes of adirasam, mysore pak, murrukku, and mixture.

Sharada opened the boxes, sampling the goodies. Her father came in and shared some of the sweets.

“Now, listen, Sharu. We will start seeing the boys next week. Take this seriously please.  You are almost twenty-six now. And I will spend the time in teaching you to improve your cooking.” Mother’s eyes had a glint and even Sharu, brave though she was, decided to remain mute. Anyway her mouth was stuffed with mysore pak.

Fortunately, Sharada could not skip office for the next three days, so she was spared some of the cooking lessons. She had taken two days off, to spend time with her parents.

“Ma, Dad! Let’s go out to watch a film. We can eat out too.” Sharada was happy, to be able to spend time with her parents.

“No, Sharu.” Mother’s voice was firm. “We have to go shopping first. I don’t think you have any good saris in your cupboard, and you will not wear mine. Then we have to go to the parlour. I want my daughter to look her best next week,” Mother’s voice softened as she looked at her darling daughter.

The next four days went in a whirlwind of shopping, grooming, cleaning. Fortunately, it had been decided that the families would meet in a restaurant or hotel. Sharada was relieved.  Her mother would not have to slave over the stove to cook for unknown people. And, she thought, I won’t have to prove or disprove their theories about their future daughter-in-law’s culinary skills.

“Ma, Dad, I want to make one thing clear. I want to talk to the boy, privately. Don’t make a fuss there.”

Dad said, “We are not as old-fashioned as you think. Of course, you can chat with the boy, if he agrees.”

“But no saucy remarks or long lectures on how women need emancipation,” her mother added. She loved her daughter, but did not fully trust her.

Six months had gone by since her parents had visited her. Sharada sat on the kitchen platform, eating hot crisp dosas–almost like those her mother used to make. She had already eaten four. Would he think her greedy if she ate one more? Before she could decide, he had made one more crisp, golden, perfectly round dosa and had plonked it on her plate. He generously added some chutney and a dollop of butter. Sharada licked her fingers appreciatively and kissed her husband’s hand.

Whom had Sharada chosen? Not the professional chef. He would have made dosas, but they would have been cheese dosas and chaat masala dosas and a hundred other varieties. Nor the IT professional who would make her eat bytes of chips, as he would have no time to cook. It was Rakesh she chose, a true blue TamBrahm, as the romance novels called them. A true blue-blooded Tamilian, who had grown up on his mother’s dosas and chutney.

She grinned at him. He smiled back, relishing the sight of his wife gobbling up dosas like a professional.

“Go and sit on the sofa, and switch on the TV.  I am coming with the coffee.”

Sharada realised that marriages could be made in heaven, if one’s spouse could make perfect dosas on earth.

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Usha Aswath Iyer is a post-graduate in English and Education. She has worked as a teacher, Principal, and Director in Kendriya Vidyalaya Sangathan. Her collections of short stories, titled The Quilt and Other Stories and The Last Laddoo-Colours of Childhood, have been published.

IG: @usha58iyer

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Featured photo by Saveurs Secretes (Pexels)