dossshhhhhha

Kenny Sebastian was right when he said dosa is South Indians’ weed. The love I have for you might mostly be based on how much you respect dosa- you don’t even have to love it, just give some maryadai (respect) da.

Dosa is an emotion- yemosan. As long as I have dosa in my life, I know there is hope. And dosa also has lots of memories attached to it. But before I start rambling- I can’t say ‘dosa’ without sounding little fake- it is always dosha for me; no not like problem/ bad dosha- but like dosha with one shhhhh (shhhhh of silence).

Dosha is the only food that amma can make three times a day every day and I still won’t be bored. Maybe it’s a bit of a stretch- but I DID have dosha almost every day for lunch for two years. You see, during 11^th and 12^th, I had to reach my school- which is almost 12 kilometres away- by 8am. And when I was in 12^th I wanted to get there earlier so that I could chill with my then-boyfriend without teachers watching us like hawks. Amma had to make both lunch and breakfast for me before 7am, so I used to eat curd rice every morning for breakfast- because either curry won’t be ready or too hot (and I rarely fell sick during those years thanks to daily consumption of curd) and take dosha with either some sort of chutney, rarely, or with staple ‘molaapodi’ (chutney powder made with some sorta dal (I guess) and red chillies) mixed with oil. The best molaapodi I’ve had, after my mother’s and ammammai’s, is Aachi’s (try it, it is nice). My classmates were amused, and weirded out also I guess, by me eating dosha on a daily basis without complaining. Ideally those years should have made me hate dosha. But no, what idli is to Kichu is dosha is to me. (Random kutti story- my brother, Kichu, got hospitalised with bad tummy once and the best food he could eat was idli. So for a week the only food he had was idli- petal soft idli with nutritious molaapodi by ammammai. And we all thought he’ll run even if he heard about idli after that. But he got addicted to the thing and even started ordering it whenever we went to restaurants.)

Dosha from different places have different bittersweet memories attached to it. Dosha from Green Bakery is Kinnathu and her pouring her heart out to me. Dosha from Sai is Amrita finally realising the dosha from mess isn’t dosha and falling in love with it. It is also the departure of the man whom I loved unconditionally. Dosha from mess is a mess. Dosha from Mother’s Plaza is a fancy experiment- they can pay me but I still won’t have chocolate dosha; it’s worse than pineapple on pizza. (I realised Deepika Padukone is a proper South Indian when she asked the people making epigamia “are you sure you can try it with the dosa?” yeah, because you don’t usually associate sweets with dosha.) Meherin getting me Dosha from Taj, yeah fancy, is comfort mixed with masala. Also Meherin’s dosha with Dheeraj’s aloo masala and my burning chutney is the warmth of sitting in Suresh’s sunlit hall and the peace of a full tummy. Shreosi making dosha for me right after a bad cab journey is a sigh of relief and contentment coming straight from an almost sick stomach. Dosha from ammammayaam (grandmother’s- mother’s mother- home) is giving in to her “eat and go” after saying a lazy weak ‘no’ once or twice; her dosha>>>>>>. Dosha when it is crispy and/or with tomato or onion chutney is eating 5-8 doshas in one go and amma begging me to stop so that there’ll be batter left for the next day. Dosha when I make for myself is like carrying a huge boulder on my shoulder- dosha tastes best when someone else makes it for you. Dosha is not just urad dal and love, it has also got rice and salt in it, it is a million memories and beautiful people and places.