In the late sixties, my elderly cousin’s first job in Delhi brought him to our home as the new entrant to a large family of seven members. The space in our house and the salary of my father, the sole earner, were both modest. Yet my cousin’s father a worldly-wise man so tied up since he knew that it was our home where his son could fit in with dignity at minimal or no cost.
Tall, handsome and soft-spoken, my cousin had many good attributes except his miserliness. With his witty comments, concocted and real stories and flattering words, he could win the hearts of many, especially the ladies. One evening he returned from his office with a bruised right hand and torn shirt after a slip from the bus. As my father got ready to take him to a doctor, he pleaded that the wound shall heal naturally and he had enough stamina to tolerate the pain, “Why to pay the doctor?” This was not acceptable to my father. The doctor administered an anti-tetanus injection, dressed the bruise and gave pain killer. After dinner, my mother enquired about the condition of his pain but he showed more distress at the shredded shirt.
One evening my tight-fisted cousin surprised me by an offer of Dosa, which I had so far only heard of, in Sarojini Nagar Market as he was just engaged. Soon we were inside Kerala Restaurant. Together with Madras Hotel close by, these two spots were the only destination in the radius of 8 km where one could have the taste of Dosa, Idli, Vada, Uttapam, etc. Delhiwalas were not used to South Indian dishes in that era. With aristocracy writ large on his face, he ordered: “Two crisp Masala Dosa, fast”. Then, looking at his wristwatch, he added in a commanding tone, “Two filter coffees five minutes after that!”
Till Dosa was served, my cousin referred to the folly of spending five paise extra i.e. 35 paise for a Dosa at Madras Hotel only for cushioned chairs since the quality was the same. Saving ten paise on two Dosa is not a small amount, he declared.
Far from stimulating my desire to consume the novel delicacy, the sheer large size of Dosa with the smell of coconut oil subdued my interest. “Let us start it, man,” said my cousin. By the time he had almost finished his coffee, I could somehow devour a third of the Dosa. Sensing my unease, he asked the waiter to pack the leftover as a takeaway.
Tastes change with time and age. In the span of 50 years now, breakfast or main food, Dosa is my first choice. There is more to the global popularity of Dosa than safety, palatability and health considerations, I ruminate.