O. S. King

‘In future blogs I will post other videos on dosa making technique … so, that’s dosa for you.  I really hope you have a better understanding and appreciation for this traditional south Indian staple.  I encourage you to go out to try one and relish in the crispy, fluffy, tangy deliciousness that is dosa.’  
‘I really enjoyed your blog and video Nita, it must have been interesting to make.’ Nita nodded, thanking her manager for the feedback, reflecting on how much she had left out from her piece …

As Nita stood in the dawning light of Chennai, the colours around her deepened under the rising sun. The peeling paint on the old storefronts told stories of decades gone by, and each crack in the walls held whispers of the past—a past her grandparents had once lived. She felt the sharp pang of loss for a heritage she could never fully reclaim, a history lived but not experienced, conveyed in stories that had faded with time like the photographs she cherished.

The old quarter of Chennai hummed with the early morning rituals of shopkeepers and street vendors preparing for the day. The jarring cacophony of honking rickshaws provided a noisy backdrop for the chattering locals, catching up on their news and discussing their hopes for the day. The scent of freshly ground spices mingled with the sea breeze, creating an intoxicating welcome for anyone who wandered past. Bells from the nearby temple melded with the melody of street vendors calling out their fresh wares—mangoes as sweet as summer, and flowers vibrant enough to paint the air with their scent. All these elements were a vivid scene of continuity and change, a tableau vivant that her grandparents had once been part of.

In the midst of this sensory embrace, Nita’s heart twisted with a complex emotion. It was as though she was seeing the ghost of the community her grandparents had left behind; the vibrant threads of tradition and modernity woven tightly together, yet she stood on the outside, looking in. Each interaction, each smile was a reminder of the world they had known, a world that now lived only in fragmented stories passed down to her across oceans and generations.

Nita, a documentary maker from San Francisco watched the colourful, hand painted, auto-rickshaw’s passing by with a mix of awe and apprehension. This was the neighbourhood her grandparents had left behind fifty years ago. Wandering through the bustling streets, her attention was captured by a small, crowded cart emitting clouds of steam and the tantalising aroma of something distinctly familiar yet unplaceable. She watched as a small-framed woman behind the cart poured a ladleful of batter onto a hot, flat griddle, spreading it expertly into a thin, large circle.

‘Try a dosa? Best in Chennai!’ called the woman with a warm smile, her hands moving in a rhythmic dance of cooking and serving.

Nita approached the cart, returning her smile. As the woman prepared the dosa, she couldn’t help but notice the fluidity of her movements—each swirl of the batter, each flip of the dosa, was performed with precision, fluidity and pride.

‘Is it difficult to make?’ Nita asked, leaning slightly forward to catch a glimpse of the sizzling crepe.

The woman chuckled, shaking her head, her large dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘It’s simple but needs practice. The craft is in the balance of the batter and the temperature of the pan. Watch.’

As Nita observed, the dosa seller began to share her knowledge. ‘Dosa is more than just food; it’s a craft passed down through generations. We soak idly rice and a mixture of dals—urad and chana dal—then grind them into a batter. But that’s just the beginning. The real magic happens during fermentation.’ The woman wrapped the end of her sari around her waist, keeping it out of the way. She continued to make more dosas.

Nita, watched the dosa edges crisping to a golden brown while the centre bubbled up slightly. The aroma of was tantalising.
‘Each family has their own recipe, a signature blend of grains and spices. And though it might just seem like breakfast to some, for many of us, it’s a link to our heritage.’ Handing Nita a plate with a perfectly crispy and fluffy dosa, she added, ‘This dosa carries the story of where I come from. It’s our tradition, our craft, and our pride.’

As Nita took his first bite, the flavours burst in her mouth—tangy, nutty, with a hint of sweetness from the fermentation. Mixed with the side serving of coconut and chilli chutney, it was delicious and unlike anything she had ever tasted back home. She felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for a life she had never lived. The flavours were a tangible link to her ancestry, each bite a bridge to her past. With the taste still lingering on her palate, she realised that while she could not reconstruct the full spectrum of what had been, she could partake in these rituals, learn them, and keep the flame of her heritage alive within her. These were rituals, imbued with memory and history, threads connecting her to a lineage she could only graze with her fingertips. Each spread of the batter was a metaphor for the spread of her family across continents, the sizzle of the griddle a stark reminder of the fiery trials they had endured to start anew.

‘Would you like to try making one?’ the dosa seller asked.

With a nod and a heart full of newfound respect for this culinary art, Nita rolled up her sleeves, ready to learn not just how to make a dosa, but to grasp a piece of her heritage that was waiting all along in the streets of Chennai.

Nita took photographs and videos of the streets of Chennai. They no longer seemed like lines on a tourist map but felt like the veins pulsing with her own history. And though she could never fully return to the world her grandparents had left, she could carry forward their legacy, one dosa at a time, a poignant homage to her roots.