Fostering Community, the Dosa Way

Guest Post and New Flavors

Dear friends, 

I am greatly delighted to bring to you the first guest contributor to Khichdi Pot—Iv Subramaniam (lovingly called Subbu by all his near and dear ones). Subbu writes with a lightness of touch, and yet what he shares makes you ponder for long and deep. Those of us who are connected to him can sense his generosity groundedness, and humility. Through Subbu’s writings you can inhale the fragrance of community. His writing nourish and nurture.  

Thank you Subbu for bringing your own special flavor to the Khichdi Pot. If you would like to know more about Khichdi Pot, you would want to click here 

Friends do read on.  

There are some moments in our lives which are deeply etched in our memories; recalling them provides warmth, a smile, a happy tear or just makes us feel good. One can remember such events vividly: it’s almost like a movie-- the color, the smell, the feelings, and the surroundings. Here is what I recall from my younger days in Hyderabad. In the 1970-80s India was less populated and Hyderabad even more so and hence one could see vast expanse of open lands and rocky mountains from the building or bungalow terrace.   

During the last stages of monsoon, the days would be particularly hot. The evenings would provide respite and be a bit cooler. On such evenings just after the sun set and particularly when the moon would be in full glory my mother would propose a dosa dinner on the terrace of our independent house.  I was allowed to invite a few friends who were close to me, and I usually invited two of them who lived close by. My mother would pack everything in the round plastic bathtub-- the batter, oil jar, molgapodi (grounded chilly and spice powder), a bowl of chutney, diluted curd, salt and jaggery and carry it to the terrace with help from my school going young sister.   My friends and I would follow behind with the plates, some used towels, spoons, ladles, small mats, gas and the cylinder. My mother never trusted us with the batter; her secret recipe for great dosa included a batter that was left as it is, unshaken. You see she followed James Bond’s recipe for cocktail- stirred batter is ok but shaken batter never okay. My dad’s role was to set up the corner in the terrace-- watering the area to cool it down, cleaning up the place etc, etc. Since his office was nearby, he would be home by 6 pm and would be available to help my mother. By the time the stove was lit and the dosa pan warmed up it would be 8PM; my dad would be the first one to have his dinner while my friends and I would sit in one corner discussing cricket, weather and just some history of the colony we were living in. From our terrace, we could see the Banjara hills which Hyderabad was famous for. On nights when the moon was out, the hills would glisten more intensely and when it would rain, it would be more spectacular. There was no pollution during those days and the skies would be clear.  

In the hills, just above our house, film star Jamuna used to reside. Our conversations would invariably be around her acting or her movies. My mother as she would make dosas for my father would call us near the stove and chat. We would talk about all topics except studies. My friends were diehard fans of her cooking. 

 By this time, we would be hungry and more than ready to eat. My mother would serve us hot dosas fresh off the pan. I still wonder how she could do it all, manage the stove with so much deftness and feed us hungry boys.  

Image from Wikimedia Commons

It was as though during those days, everything came together-- the moon, the rocks that glistened, pleasant weather, great intimate loving conversations to make our evenings memorable. There were no distractions; the focus was on the food, what we spoke and the surroundings. After dinner, we would lie down under the stars and the moon. The company we had was the banter between us, the silence, the aroma of mud and flowers, the oil and the Dosa. Occasionally we could hear silent music of the birds as they flew back to their nests. There was beauty in listening and sharing. 

 It is more than 40 years old now, but every time, I recollect those evenings, I am engulfed by the warmth of companionship.  

Interaction which is listening and sharing is never about the immediate happenings; it has influences of several inputs for us to evolve.  When my father talked about trees and seeds, it had years of cultural influences and knowledge passed on by previous generation just like how the conversation between me and my friends about the weather and stars was also heavily influenced. The moon enticed my mother to share with us her care and her poetry of Dosa making.  

The event I recollected was not just a dot on a timeline but one that carried immense learning.   

I wish the coming generation realizes the beauty of such relationships and spends time nurturing and building those relationships. 

Subbu :)

Subbu likes to observe life and pen short stories and articles. He supports Community living, fostering intimate connections and good health, and his interests lie in walking, varied reading, and investments.