Dosa- A Memoir

 Dosa- National Geographic(be like)

It was a fateful day, the sun illuminating the dining room through its tinted windows upon the firm wooden table stapled to the ground. I was expecting a casual meal, one without much flare, but one that would do the job right in order to ensure satisfaction and fuel me for the day. What I got was a thin, flat, tortilla shaped chunk of bread with a sizzling cheese dulcet to my ears as it sank into the meal coined as a special South Indian dish. Ten year old me could not think of what to conceive of this queer meal, so instead of pondering it any longer, I bent down and took a parsley test bite. What followed was a spear, tinted with a glossy white pigment and inscribed with markings, paving the way for the future, past, and present all to collide into a universal harmony. What followed was the spark of a revolution, a meal where the slightest mention of its name would flashback the caliber and have me jumping like a subsonic monkey with an overdose of caffeine. Thus was the commencement of dosa.

But that was only the beginning. The true journey unfolds in the kitchen, with an olive black pan perched upon a counter, the knobs up high, but not too high, and the stove breathing it’s laborious heaves of displeasure. A gargantuan pot rests dormant, with lentils, urad dal, chana dal, and rice seasoned in to commence the mixture. As water is soaked, and salt iodized, a faint, familiar, fathomable flavor ascends its scent upwards and pulls out a histrionic whimper from me as my nose moves sporadically. In the foreground, a member of the wild Aryan species has caught a whiff of its prey, with only the grumble of his belly disrupting the stealthy silence he emanates as he stalks closer.

The flaky matter below bubbles, frothy and smooth, a volcano on its second stage before eruption. Some more rice flattens the curve, and a slight temperature adjustment ferments the batter as it is drawn to perfection. The resulting material waits, embrittling apathetically as it bubbles up the pot before fermenting back again. It hisses like a serpent against batches of hot oil and torrid flames, which are cautioning the batter to watch its next steps. It hesitantly obeys, sizzling down to be adjourned by a single swipe of a spatula. It cooks to a cool autumn brown, its edges as brittle and as crunchy as one’s brain during exams. The wild Aryan, fully perceptive of the progress made thus far, skulks closer, teeth protruding and saliva drenching its quivering chin, attempting to traverse on the fine balance between speed and quietude.

The batter has been made. Aloo Masala, Coconut Chutney, and Piping Samber are conjured like sorcery, and the elements of seasoning unite to top off the consecrated meal. The dosa is ready, and as soon as it sets foots on uncharted ceramic territory, the Aryan strikes, inconspicuous yet ferocious, portentous yet nimble, and with the plate mere inches from his stubby grasps, ravenous with greed. Suddenly, the food is swiped, levitating several feet in the air as the cook, Aryan’s mother, stares needles down his neck.

“Not so fast! Wash your hands first, or this dosa will meet you in the afterlife,” she enjoined. Aryan reluctantly obeyed, and it wasn’t until 127 seconds later that Aryan finally invoked his first bite. And his last. The meal, having taken several hours to prepare, was golfed down in a matter of seconds, and the predator ruled triumphant once more.