Masala Dosai

Lakshmi Bhavan was flocked for two reasons. One – that ghee-drenched Masala Dosai and two – it was the only hotel in Chalakkudi.

Chalakkudi was another of those numerous towns that sprung in the enthusiasm of the new Independence. The red-shirts and the durais had left the place and all the country was in our own hands like a toy in a child’s that wept long for it. Small businesses flourished, new government buildings mushroomed and the country was toddling its first steps in the world of freedom. Chalakkudi was another of those new towns that were just very slowly metamorphing from the village. The nearby town Malgudi was her elder-sister. Chalakkudi was a beautiful village growing into a town.

Manicka Nadar, the village’s erstwhile zamindar, famous for his shrewd and calculating mind and more infamous for his huge, bushy, intimidating Ayyanar meesai. He was characterized by his unmistakable draconian temperament. It was the residue of all those years of aristocratic nobility which no longer brought the bows and the towels from the shoulders. He was like the reluctant military commander suddenly stripped off his authority and hold over those below him. The sly businessman that he has always been, he ventured into the business of food and thus the village’s first ever hotel was born. The people were ecstatic at the prospect of having not to eat same old food every day. The goodies were just a few streets away. Now, they could have the delicacies of Puri, vadai, dosai or more importantly the masala dosai any time they wanted. The arrays of sweets and snacks did make a good number of fat citizens. They dint have to wait for a special occasion or a festival when the wife or mother would make them at home. Now, they just could walk to Lakshmi Bhavan, have that filter coffee and vadai and in days when they could afford – the special masala dosai! Yes, the Masala Dosai was the symbol of indulgence and the royalty of the plates in this little town.

Murugaiyyan was the uncontested King of their tongues. His throne was the hot, sultry kitchen of Lakshmi Bhavan. Without a doubt, he was a respected man in the village. An honest hard-worker who led his life in a smooth harmony with his society and surrounding. Another cog in the wheel of this village’s social mechanism. His round calm face was always adored by four things – the huge viboothi pattai, the round kungumapottu, his neat moustache and the reds of his eternally betel filled mouth. His paunch and his unusually huge betel-nut case had become his identities.

Every morning, Murugaiyyan bathed in the Sarayu river, put up his little adornments and walked to work. All the way to the work, he exchanged warm wishes, paused for a small chat or a lent a small helping hand to the milkmen in loading their cycles. Murugaiyyan lived in a small world and in his world everyone liked him and respected him. He dint have the wealth of money, but he was a rich man if hearts were counted.

His entire life revolved around only one factor; whatever he did and he dint was for one person – Kumaran, his ten years old son. His mother had died two years after his birth. She was so tender in her body as with her heart. Since then, Murugaiyyan was his father, mother and more.

“Appan Kandhan will always be with you. May you live many a hundred years and conquer this world.” Murugaiyyan said blowing off the viboothi on Kumaran’s forehead while covering his eyes. They were in the Kandhan temple atop the small hillock. They had come there to seek the blessings of the lord as it was Kumaran’s birthday.

They sat on the rock near the temple overlooking the village. The breeze was strong and the sun was gradually retiring for the day.

“What do you want for your birthday?” asked Murugaiyyan.

“I want Masala Dosai appa.” Kumaran replied innocently. “Everyone says it tastes too good. My friend Pandiyan had it yesterday. He had been boasting about it the whole day. I want to taste it too, appa. It is you who make it; but you never have brought one home.”

Murugaiyyan sighed and replied with a smile, “That is how the world functions, son.” Trying to pat down his son’s hair.

“But, can I have it now appa? And know what, my friend Swaminathan is coming to our home the day after. You know Swami right? Swami from Malgudi, his father works in one of those government offices. He is coming to our home. We should serve him something good. Can you bring the Masala Dosai? That will be prestigious for us too. Please appa.”

“Yes. I will bring them.” Murugaiyyan replied trying to settle his son’s hair and his fluttering heart, in vain.

The masala dosai was a luxury that he made everyday, but could never afford. He made it for others; but never could he for himself. That was his destiny. It was what fed him, yet so unreachable.

Murugaiyyan rattled every tin box in his house and looked in the obscure of the corners where he hoped to find any forgotten treasure. But, like everything else in his life, this too went in vain! He had made his son a promise and he dint want his little son to taste defeat and disappointment, not yet. He dint save much of his earnings. He dint have enough left even if he ever wanted to. Most of what he earned went into Kumaran’s education. He sent his son to the Albert Mission School even though it was a lofty proposition. Afterall, good education is the only asset he could leave Kumaran. Murugan’s eyes were filled with too much of tears to let them sleep that night.  

That morning, he dint adore his face with so much of a care and nor did he return many of his usual greetings. He walked lost in his own thoughts. His promise was made for tomorrow. He dint have much time. Why did God always give everything to him in scanty! How could he manage to arrange some money? It was not a herculean amount, but the short time magnified it. He pondered asking the owner whether he could borrow some money in advance or whether he could buy it in credit. But, he knew what his master would say but, it was risky gamble he dint want to leave untried.

“Go and man the kitchen Muruga. You are already late. Kids ask for everything. We should know what we are, where we are and what we can eat. Teach your son to desire within his reach. ”

It was the reply that he had expected. Now, Murugan had only one man who could save him. Vadakkupatti Ramasamy – the money lender.

“Is that all? Why do you worry for such small things?” Ramasamy said coolly spitting the betel sitting in the shade of the verandah of his new house. “Come tomorrow in the morning and get the money, Muruga. Afterall, kids too need to taste royalty sometimes. Don’t disappoint your son.”

‘’Thanks a lot, ayya. I wont forget your help for a lifetime.” Said Murugaiyyan with folded hands and grateful tears in the brink of his eyes.

“Thats alright, Muruga; anyway you are going to pay back your gratitude with interest, promptly.”

Ramasamy stuffed another folded betel leaf into his slyly smiling mouth.

That night was less tormentous. Even though Murugan knew that he had to pay unfairly high interest for his loan, he thought that he could keep up the promise to his son gave him a little solace. He dint sleep most of that night either. He adored his son’s innocent sleep with a little smile playing on his little face. At least he was dreaming to something pleasant.

‘Let him dream, let him dream much beyond his reach. Let him dream of the moon and the stars. I will pray for the wings. If the God wants my body and soul in return for those wings; let him take it. Let my son fly; high in the free sky, high above this miserable world.’

“Vadakupatti Ramasamy has fallen ill!”

Murugan was met with shock when he reached Ramasamy’s house to receive his loan. He stood rooted in disbelief.

“But... but... i spoke to him yesterday....”

“Yes... yes.... he was fine the whole day. Suddenly he held his chest and collapsed. Our village marundhukaarar could not help, nor the poosari! The doctor from Malgudi just arrived.”

“But.. ayya, he said he will lend me some money. I need it urgently.”

“What is this, Muruga? This man is struggling for his life and you are talking about the money!”

Murugan sat heavily on the temple steps with head in hands unable to believe how much wretched his life was and how he met only misfortunes everywhere. Why did everything seem so lost for him! There was the promise that he had made his son. His son would stand waiting eagerly in the evening. What was he to tell him? Should he say that he was not destined to such luxuries? Should he tell him to dream within his reaches? Should he fail him? Could he stand seeing that dejected little face? Could he bear hearing those silent sobs in the night? Could he let that little heart get heavy?

All the doors were closed now. He could ask his son to wait for another day; but it always was another day. It would not be like this day. He would not cherish it. He would not savour it. It had to be today; he dint have another day. How could he get the money? What did he have to mortgage? Murugaiyyan wiped his eyes. He had something to mortgage. He had something that he had earned little-by-little all his life. He had nothing else.

He felt the kitchen stuffing his lungs, the walls closing in on him. He felt a million eyes accusingly watching him. He heard his conscience screaming out. He felt the sweat drip down to his lips. This sweat was bitter. It was not the sweet sweat of hard-work but the sweat of fear and it was the sweat of stealth.  He was trembling all over. His whole body and conscience shaking wildly. This was last resort; his only resort. There was nothing else that he could do. The whole day he was on the edge. The coffees went sour, the idly came out improperly boiled, the onions got charred, the sambar got too salty, the rice went too watery. Murugaiyyan was not himself. He was making mistakes in everything. He felt feverish and sick.  The vile of guilt often surfaced to his throat that went totally dry.

With great delay, the evening came. He was leaving early from work on the pretext of feeling sick. He handed over his ladle to his assistants. Before he did, he had inspite of all his edginess made two tasteful masala dosais. With great care did he make them. He burned the right amount heat, the best quantity of batter and lavish amounts of ghee and with lots of love and care; he made his best masala dosais yet. He foxily packed them in his big betel-case. He hid it under the arms and shakily and hastily made his way out.

He pushed past the cluttered kitchen, snaking his way through the labyrinth of the dining hall. He felt every eye following him, staring at him, judging him, accusing him. He felt the monsters leap out of the shadows. He heard them all laughing at him, mocking him. He felt some of the men reaching out to catch him. His delusions made him walk through the hell of guilt. Everything seemed strange. His work-place, where he dwelt everyday, seemed strange and intimidating. He felt like a lame fox limping away with a helpless calf.

Lost in his inward hell of emotional torment, he dint notice the huge man walking towards the kitchen. Murugaiyyan bumped on him, lost control and his betel-box fell from his arms. It clattered to the ground and it fell open ajar. The masala dosais and his life fell to the ground and soiled. He dint look up. He could sense everyone looking at the scene in shock and there was this awkward silence. Time paused excruciatingly. Murugaiyyan stood there trembling, tearful and shrunk. His head bowed, that can never again be held high. The masala dosai proved to be more than expensive to Murugan.

The house was found locked the next morning. There was no trace of father and son. That was the last time that the people of Chalakkudi ever saw Murugaiyyan, the last time they had ever had a good masal dosai and the last time Murugaiyyan ever stepped into the kitchen.

“Your mashala dosha, sir.”

I looked up and thanked the bow-tie clad waiter who could not even say it properly lest serve a truly good one.

“You wont ever leave your masala dosa, don’t you Pops?”  asked my daughter jokingly. They all laughed; my daughter, her husband, my grand-children and my wife and they went on with their scrambling over the menu.

I looked at the so-called masala dosai in front of me. I dint have that masala dosai that i asked for my birthday; but, today I could afford more than a few hundreds for this one. I dreamt high, i flew high and now i perched high in my cozy warm nest. I have money, status, a good family and a wonderful life. But, noww I dont have the man who gave me the wings to fly. I dont have the man who lived not his life, but for me.

‘Appa, you are the best father a son can ask for. You live as long as my memory lives.’

I wiped that little tear and began munching on my Masala Dosai.

Notes and scribbles:

• Chalakkudi is not to be confused with the one in Kerala. It is only after this name occurd to me that i knew a real town of this name existed.
• Unmistakably you can find references to Malgudi Days and Swami. I borrowed them so that i need not go about painting the picture of the environment and settings of the story.
• The inspiration for this is the movie 'Kanchivaram'. I have not seen the whole movie yet. but, just say the climax on tv one day.

• This is probably the first time my story is based in our own culture and environment.