Amma’s Dosas

This story was my favourite one in last year’s FlashNano – November 2020.  It was first published on 19.11.2020 and later, on Momspresso too.  Here goes..

 

FlashNano Day 17

“Day 17: Watch the 1924 short film Le Ballet Mechanique and use any angle/aspect as a prompt.”

This scene in the short film reminded me of an old fashioned iron griddle, with a ladle on top, spreading something over it in a circular motion. Of course, it’s something else in that video shot, but I chose to write on what it reminded me of.

The other photo is from my dear school friend Renu. Thank you so much, @Renu Khetan Nemani.. Those yummy dosas make me hungry.. 😍😍

Here goes:

Amma’s Dosas

The year was 1959. I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, watching my Amma make dosas. Ah, yummy, crispy dosas. I was drooling.

Dosas have always been my favourite dish. I was otherwise pretty picky about my food. Anything I ate should have the proper accompaniments. Idlis should come with chutney, else I wouldn’t even touch them. Curd rice won’t pass down my throat without a dash of pickle. But dosas? I would merrily wolf down half a dozen of them just like that – all plain and crisp. I wouldn’t wait for the accompaniments of chutney or sambar.

Maybe it was Amma’s special touch. Or her way of preparing it.

One day before she planned to make them, she would soak parboiled rice and lentils separately. “Three parts rice, one part lentils,” she would tell me.

In the evening, out came the grinding stone. She would pull out the heavy mortar and pestle from its corner and grind the rice and lentils separately. I would sit and watch Amma roll the heavy pestle over the grains for what seemed an eternity. “The lentils should be ground as fine as butter.”

Grinding over, she would mix them, add salt and allow the batter to ferment overnight.

The next morning, I would wake up early, finish my bath and rush to the kitchen, just to watch her making the dosas. Errr… And also to eat them first, I must admit.

Amma would heat the big, shiny iron griddle over the stove. Then she would pour a spoonful of oil on the hot griddle and spread it with a cloth. “So that the dosa doesn’t stick to the pan.”

And then she would pour a huge spoonful of the batter on it and spread it into a perfect, big circle.

“Quickly, before it solidifies..”

“Hshhhhhh,” I would mimic the sound the cold batter made on the hot pan.

Amma would laugh.

Then followed a spoonful of oil. A few moments later, Amma would flip it over with a flat spoon. The side below would be well browned. Some more time and she would take it off the stove and place the thin, crisp dosa on a plate. A few seconds later, I would take it off the plate and start eating it, slowly – enjoying its crunchy taste.

In the beginning, Amma would scream at this act. “Behave like a lady!! Wait for your turn and eat without noise!! You are going to get married someday and go to another house. What will they say if you behave like this?”

And Appa would respond from the verandah, head buried in a newspaper, “Let her enjoy while she can. Don’t shout at her.”

Ultimately, Appa won.

One day, we attended a function in a neighbour’s house. They had hired a cook for the purpose.

When we returned home, I told Amma, “When I grow up, I will also become a cook. I will specialise in dosas.”

Amma would smile indulgently at my childish fancies. In an era when educational opportunities beyond basic schooling were slowly opening up for girls, all that could be done was educate me till the equivalent of today’s twelfth standard. That itself would make me a prize catch in the marriage market. Going out to work was a distant dream even within one’s dreams.

So I was the only person who knew that my childish whim was neither childish nor a whim. But a child in the fifties would rather keep quiet than say so.

Five years later, I was married. By then, I had not only learnt how to make crisp dosas, but also to serve them on a plate and eat them with proper accompaniments, in a civilised way.

Another year later, I was a mother. My life now revolved around the unbreakable routine of taking care of husband, in-laws and kids.

The years flew by. The age old stone grinder gave way to modern mixers and then to electronic stone grinders. “Because it’s the stone that grinds the batter effectively.” Amma’s words.

Iron griddles gave way to lightweight non-stick pans. “Cooking on iron is good for health.”

Unfortunately, tastes were also changing. Though the dosa had its share of fans, it had to concede considerable space to modern fast foods. My younger children would often prefer them over my delicious dosas. I somehow learnt to put up with the disappointment.

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Present day – 2019

I’m seventy years old now. By God’s grace, I’m still fit and fine and very active. My six children have flown the nest and are settled in different parts of the world. Despite their entreaties, I refused to join them and continued to reign as the queen of my ancestral bungalow.

I spent my time cooking, cleaning, sewing, reading, going to the temple, gossiping with fellow members of the Senior Citizens’ club.. ah, time was never enough for so many activities. I was contented; yet I would feel something nagging me at the back of my mind.

What was it? I could never make out.

It sometimes woke me up in the middle of the night and I would find myself sitting and pondering over nothing.

It would disturb me in the middle of a juicy gossip session with the ladies. There would be that breaking news that the young woman next door was having an affair when her husband was in office. And I would suddenly lapse into my own thoughts – about nothing in particular.

I first put it down to old age, though I never thought of seventy as old. I mentioned it once to my youngest daughter and she simply said, “Amma, the loneliness is getting to you. Come with us.” I vehemently disagreed.

And one day, I found the answer.

The Senior Citizens’ club decided to meet at my place over the weekend. I was preparing and serving us dosas, when suddenly one of them piped up, “It’s heavenly!! I could eat a dozen if I were twenty years younger.”

I actually blushed. It reminded me of the days when my husband and children used to happily gorge on my preparations. The dosas would earn me special compliments. I was missing them now.

And then it struck me. So that was it!!

I couldn’t sleep that night. By the morning, I’d arrived at my decision.

I called up my children one by one and mentioned it to them. They all said the same thing. “Are you insane? Are we not there for you?”

I silenced them with my answer. My teachings still worked – never argue with your elders.

Over the next few days, I had to convince, nah, force all my friends, relatives, neighbours and well wishers to accept my idea.

Finally, I set out to work.

==========×==========

A month later..

I wake up at 5 am. After bath and breakfast, I soak rice and lentils for the next day’s dosas. Then I prepare chutney and sambar and get ready with the fermented batter of the previous night.

At 8 am, my customers start trickling in. I take orders and start preparing the dosas. Soon, the trickle turns into a crowd – so much that I’ll be shortly hiring a couple of assistants.

I’ve had the front portion of my bungalow converted into a small eatery, specialising in, what else, dosas.

After decades of toiling for my family and putting their needs above mine, I was finally free to pursue my own lifelong desire to make dosas for everyone around me.

My days are now even more hectic, but I’m happier than ever. That unknown nagging within me has stopped.

And at the end of the day, while downing the shutters, I look up at the name of my little place and feel a sense of immense fulfilment:

“Amma’s Dosa Corner”

 

Photo courtesy:

1. A still from Le Ballet Mechanique

2. Actual serving of dosas by my school friend Renu Khetan Nemani