Mama's Round Dosas

by Swetha Amit

Yet another day, Mama's dosas don't turn out perfectly round—a shape that Papa always associated with his mother's cooking. It was Mama's birthday. And yet another day, Papa would become sulky. 

Yesterday, one of the dosas was in an amoeba shape. Papa pushed the plate away and stormed out while Mama clutched the spatula helplessly, strands from her braided black hair coming loose. 

"Why does Papa want his dosas always round? They taste the same anyway," I said, my ten-year-old mind struggling to comprehend why the shape of a dosa mattered so much. 

 "That's how his mother used to make it," Mama sighed, scrubbing the pan hard. "There was never a day when her dosas wouldn't be crispy and round." 

My dead Grandma's unsmiling garlanded photo hung on the wall of our dining room. She wore a dark brown sari and glasses, and her grey hair was tied into a bun. She died when I was one year old. I looked closely at the photograph, detecting traces of a scowl on her forehead. She resembled my math teacher, who always reprimanded us if we didn't draw our circles right. The photo seemed to cast a shadow over our kitchen. 

Papa was the only child, and Grandpa retired to the countryside after Grandma's death. He was a kind man who only visited us during Diwali and always praised Mama's cooking. Yet Mama’s feat seemed to elude her despite her best efforts. Sometimes, I'd see her almond-shaped brown eyes swollen and red in the mornings. Her delicate brown hands would be scathed with purple marks. I couldn't help but empathize with Mama's struggle, which made me dread the thought of cooking in my home as an adult. 

Mama heated the pan on the stove and put a tablespoon of oil on it. She poured a scoop of white rice flour paste on the pan, spreading it with a spatula and moving her hands in a circular motion. She waited until the sides turned golden brown, like the rising sun's rays that penetrated my room in the mornings. Then, she flipped it over with the spatula until the white flour turned crispy. Sometimes, it turned out round. But whenever her hands shook a little, the dosas would look like different objects—a squashed orange or an apple. 

A burning smell from the kitchen suddenly tickled my nostrils. I was seated near the dining table, hurriedly finishing my fourth-grade geometry homework. Mama slammed her palm over her forehead, cursing herself for not flipping the dosa on time. The dosa had turned a shade of dark brown, resembling the Australian continent. 

Mama opened the windows to let in some fresh air. I could hear the birds chirping merrily. It was getting brighter outside. Papa would join us for breakfast any minute. Mama said he had been in a bad mood lately because of trouble with his boss. I watched her scrub the pan. I wondered why Mama never went to work. She quit after I was born, as Papa wanted her to be with me. 

"But I go to school," I told her once. 

"Work hours are late," she replied sadly.

I guiltily imagined her day—making my favorite onion pakoras and doing the laundry. Papa entered, still wearing his crumpled pajamas. He wished Mama a happy birthday and handed her a card. 

"What's that smell," he wrinkled his long nose. 

"Oh, nothing," my mother looked away. 

Outside, a crow cawed loudly. I remember that fun hike with Papa last year when we tried to imitate the birds and had lunch by the river. Later, we watched the glorious sunset and took photographs. 

"Alright, I'm going to shower and get ready," Papa left the room. 

Mama accidentally spilled oil on her hand. She rushed to the bathroom to wash it. I glanced at the plates of dosas and noticed some were not the perfect round shape. I quickly grabbed a compass from my box, ran it over those pancakes, and cut off the edges. Now, they were round. Papa wouldn't get mad. Mama wouldn't have red eyes on her birthday. 

When Mama returned, she set the table with a plate of dosas, coconut chutney, and coffee. I finished my homework and packed my school bag. Papa came in, wearing a formal blue shirt and black trousers. He picked up a dosa. I took a deep breath. Mama stood gaping as Papa's black eyes suddenly became moist. He rarely cried. 

"Just like how Ma used to make it," he exclaimed. 

He dipped the dosa into the coconut chutney and chewed it for a long time. Mama looked at me, her thick eyebrows raised incredulously.

"Happy birthday, Mama," I said. 

Then, her expression softened. 

"Thank you," she said, approaching me and stroking my silky black hair. I wondered if she suspected anything. 

"Taste's exactly like Ma's," Papa was still emotional. "Thank you," he looked at Mama gratefully. 

Mama heaved a sigh of relief. Papa kissed her goodbye and left for the day. I observed Mama washing the dishes while I waited for the school bus. She was smiling, a sight that filled me with joy. I was relieved that my plan had worked, and Papa was happy.  Mama could relax for the rest of the day. 

That night, Mama hugged me tightly when she tucked me to sleep. "Thank you again," she whispered. I slipped my fingers into her palm. Her hands felt rough from all that cooking and domestic chores. I wish I could smooth out the rough edges like I did with those dosas. Later, I dreamt of riding on round dosas, visiting Ma wearing a chef hat at her workplace, and making several delicacies and desserts. The following day, I woke earlier than usual. The sun was yet to come out. Before Mama entered the kitchen, I slipped an extra compass inside the kitchen drawer, eager to see the expression on her face when she saw it.

Swetha is the author of two chapbooks, Cotton Candy from the Sky and Mango Pickle in Summer. An MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco, her works appear in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Oyez Review, etc.