My dosa misadventure
My wife had to join my expectant daughter who
was settled abroad and I assured her that I would certainly manage my affairs
and that after all, I was not a child. I
was determined not to pay any exorbitant bill for a meal in any of the
restaurants nearby. So,
adopting a style that only I could comprehend, I jotted down in a note pad the
recipes of the usual dishes she used to make and kept the written treasure
safely somewhere to be retrieved as often as I could for my sustenance. I spent an entire sleepy afternoon labeling
the umpteen containers that were stacked in every conceivable corner. All kinds
of insects erupted from nowhere, obviously disgruntled by unfamiliar
provocation. When all the preliminaries were laboriously completed, my wife
wore a now-you-can-manage look that emboldened me to sport the expression of an
expert chef. My neighbours cast a compassionate glance at me when my wife bid
good-bye to them. I kept telling myself that managing a few months without her
would do good for both of us. But a great drama unfolded on the first
morning. When I eyed a large can of dosa batter that was
thoughtfully stored by my wife, I was rather optimistic about the prospective
breakfast. I nearly burnt my fingers when I steadied the griddle to get my very
first dosa. The fluffy batter when poured on the hot griddle, however did not
take the promised shape. It required a
lot of nerve and strain to evacuate the adamant and awkward stuff from its
inhabited place. One could hardly recognize the heap of mess there. Hurriedly I
disposed it off and tried my luck once again. This time I managed to spread the
batter almost in a shabby round. The gaping holes all over it did not
discourage me. I kept murmuring that no guests are being entertained and so the
inadequacies of my dosa caused by my
newly acquired, amateurish culinary skills would be rightfully excused. The
steel spatula in my hand wore a helpless look since it could not turn the
dosa upside down. A couple of times the
object of my interest inclined to the edge of the griddle ominously. But before
it was burnt by the fire underneath, I managed to get it back to its rightful
place. I wish I were watching my wife when she was performing this miracle.
After many disasters, to my utter gratification, a perfect dosa was getting
ready, brown and round. I congratulated myself on mastering this art in the kitchen.
Humming my favourite tune, I removed it from the hot griddle. All of a sudden,
while I was maneuvering it towards the plate nearby, the unforeseen accident occurred.
The crisp brownie disappeared into the can of batter and got drowned.
Alarmed,
I did not know how to retrieve my ill-fated dosa. With a spoon and spatula I
hopped here and there. Fortunately, none
were there to read the expression on my face. How would I narrate this tragic
tale to my wife? I could not but recall those listless days when my wife would
announce from the kitchen that my breakfast was ready. She even repeated her
calls so as to make me put away the newspaper in which I would lose myself.
There were occasions when I suggested her that the dosas came better if she had
done this or that. Quietly I swallowed whatever I had made that rainy morning,
cursing my fate. A great salute to the angels that monitor this small kingdom.
a
No comments:
Post a Comment