It was a day of my triumph. Triumph over my long drawn anxieties, my hesitations, the twenty-year-old nagging fear, “tum sa na hoga”. Maine woh kar dikhaya jo main sochtee thee possible hee nahin hae. Although, we are moms and the undeniable fact remains that “Jab hum karne pe aata hain to koi mai ka laal kaala peela humein nahin rok sakta..!”
Of course, nothing would have been possible without the support of my family, especially, my mumma and my puppa who was the driving force behind it. Who always believed that I could do it. Who invested their time, energy, and most important of all their patience (whatever is left with them at this age). I am also grateful to my in-laws, my miyan, my son, and my house help (who often offered to help me but I refused – izzat ka sawal ban chuka tha) who stood there absolutely quiet even when I was frustratingly throwing all the utensils off! They waited patiently with straight faces, with their empty plates only to be served something else in the end instead of what was promised to them or what they happily waited to get.
The key, of course, was years of practice, patience, confidence, and overconfidence combined, sacrifices, and above all my mother’s trust that her daughter can do it. Yes, she can do it! My father’s and my miyan’s never-ending leg-pulling actually perfectly worked as a much-required fuel to the fire and never let that flame of desire die. There were times when poor miyan even offered to make the dosas but I snubbed him off..” Naach na jaane aangan tedha types. Although mera aangan kaun sa seedha tha. Although tawa seedha tha!” There were times I got soooo frustrated when I failed to get even one right that all I wanted to do was bang somebody’s head with the same tawa. In all probabilities, my own or miyan’s who usually wants to be my support when I want it the least. I mean why do these men have such misplaced ideas of help and empathy!
Needless to say, it was a real struggle and I am ever grateful to the sacrifices of those several packets of dosa batter which were brought with much love and confidence (rather overconfidence) and which came home with the hope that “unka astitva bachaa rahega” but aesa hua nahin. They mostly ended up being upmas or uttapams or idlis, which led to a major identity crisis for them. In fact, once got two packets of dosa batter hoping that I would send some dosas to my house help also but all I ended up doing was turn them into all sorts of idlis – plain, stuffed, pan-fried, deep-fried.
Finally Hua mujhse kal hua people’s. I finally could make dosas! They were not perfect but they were not bad either. And I told myself, “Darr ke jeet hae… I mean Dosas hain!”
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Author Bio And Name:
Somali Bammi
