The Dosae Deception

Just after the morning coffee, the daily ritual began. “What would you like for breakfast tomorrow, Amma?”

“Ask your Appa”, Amma responded nonchalantly, not lifting her head from the newspaper. 

“Whatever you want,” came the familiar, dismissive reply from Appa, when posed the same question. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

He suppressed a smile. To Appa, it mattered immensely. Since his last bout of illness, his father’s palate had become a fortress—finicky, fastidious, and guarded by a long list of grievances. Appa always had been finicky with food, but it had exacerbated with age and ailments. He recalled the nutritionist at the hospital, her face flushed with exasperation. “He’s given me a list of forbidden vegetables as long as my arm!” she had practically wailed. “No meat because of Navaratri, no this, no that... how am I supposed to feed a patient who won’t eat?” He had simply smiled and translated the complex code of Appa’s preferences.

Today’s reason for him asking about breakfast was the house help’s absence. She had taken a few days’ off to attend a wedding in her village. He called the office guesthouse and spoke to them to send in breakfast. By 8:00 AM, the doorbell chimed—the boys from the guesthouse had brought in the breakfast.

Appa looked up from the sofa, eyes narrowing. “What have they prepared today?”

“Avalakki,” he replied casually.

“Oh, Lord.” Appa let out a theatrical wail of agony, pulling a sofa pillow over his head as if to shield himself from the very idea of flattened rice. “How can any civilized human being be expected to eat avalakki?” 

Amma said, “It’s just for a day right? Why make a fuss?” It fell on deaf ears!

A while later, his morning puja finished and his forehead marked with fresh Vibhuti, Appa wandered reluctantly toward the kitchen, braced for the dreaded poha. Instead, he found his son standing over the cast-iron tava, the air thick with the nutty aroma of fermenting batter and ghee.

Appa’s face transformed. The grumpy patriarch vanished, replaced by a child with a broad, toothless grin. “But you said it was avalakki!” he exclaimed, his eyes dancing. “In that case, please—a masale dosae for the first, and a plain one to follow.”

Watching his father hover expectantly by the stove, he felt a quiet surge of warmth. He remembered a version of himself years ago that would have been triggered by this rigidity, seeing it only as stubbornness. But time had a way of polishing edges. He no longer saw a difficult man; he saw a man with the rare, enviable gift of knowing exactly what he wanted.

And as the first dosae sizzled on the pan, he realized that Appa’s clarity wasn't just about the food—it was his way of holding onto himself.