He told her that it couldn’t be done, and she was sure that it could.
For the two of them he had six dosas to make for dinner. He preferred to make them on a slow flame, patiently roasting each one to crisp perfection. Usually she would eat her three dosas hot off the tawa as he made them, but today she was determined to finish what she had started instead.
Minutes earlier he had got up from his evening meditation to observe with the mildest of irritation that she had dozed off on the couch after her own sadhana. The toor dal was already boiled and was patiently waiting to be made into what she called “saambher” in her annoyingly cute Gujju way. He was sure it would take her longer to make saambaar than it would for him to prepare all the dosas and sit for dinner, and it was already nine. So he told her not to. They would just have dosas without saambaar tonight.
But she was determined. As he was warming up the tawa into the perfect temperature for the first dosa to come off cleanly, she was in a whirlwind of activity with cilantro, tamarind, water, tomatoes, and the bottle of pungent powder that his father had lovingly labeled as “saambaar podi” to distinguish it from rasappodi in the neighboring bottle.
The kitchen of their apartment was just large enough for them both to cozily work together. And work together they did.
As the dosas came off the tawa one by one, the flavor of saambaar in the air grew from a faint hint to a strong certainty.
By half past nine the sixth dosa was rolling off the line, and the saambaar was ready. He accepted defeat, and as he had agreed, proceeded after dinner to post the episode on his blog for all to read.
That, dear reader, is what you’ve been reading.