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In the morning, while I was busy preparing breakfast for the children and packing their lunch boxes for school, the phone rang. My granddaughter ran and brought it near the kitchen.

“Put it on speaker… my hands are full…” I said.

“Anama… Chikkappa is calling from Denmark,” she said.

My younger brother’s son would often call from there to ask about cooking something or the other. I thought today too it must be for the same reason.

My granddaughter turned on the speaker.

I said, “Tell me… what is it?”

He said, “Doddamma, we get good curd here. You make mosarina idli, don’t you? Tell me how to make it.”

Before I could even answer, my granddaughter said,

“Ayyo… you don’t even know that? You’ve become such a big man. You keep boasting that you cook. And you don’t know such a simple mosarina idli!”

He laughed and said,

“Yes, ma… I don’t know. If you know it, you tell me yourself, Subbi…”

She said,

“When you make idli and sambar, some idlis get left over, right? The next day, put those idlis on a plate… pour curd over them. Add either chutney pudi or sugar with it, and that’s it. Mosarina idli is ready. You don’t even know this much?” And she laughed, “Hh… hh…”

He said,

“Oh… is that so? Then tell me what all else you know.”

“Oh… I know neer dosa, panpolo (what neer dosa is called in Konkani), sann kotto, rava dosa… and many more things…” came the proud reply from here.

“Then tell me and let’s see,” he said.

“Neer dosa means any white-coloured batter. Pour lots of water into it and make dosa on the dosa tava. You get nice thick milk in Denmark, don’t you? I think you can even pour that directly onto the tava and make it. Because neer dosa batter is also white like milk… Try making it. Then take a photo and send it on WhatsApp. You always make something and send it, don’t you… Just like that… Hee… hee… hee…”

“Sannpolo means you take red rice (at our home we use the red rice brought from the Ghats for making dosa), put it in the mixer, make the batter, pour it on the tava, make a dosa and place it on a leaf. A leaf is called ‘paan’ in Konkani. That’s why it is called panpolo. Don’t you know even that? You’re really a pedda… a complete pedda.”

He burst out laughing.

“Alright, ma… but I don’t get banana leaves here. What do I do? Panpolo cancelled. Now tell me rava dosa. Let’s see if I can make that.”

“If there are no leaves, that’s okay. You can put it on a plate too. In the olden days there were no plates, right? They used to place it on leaves. That’s why they say that.

Now rava dosa is very easy. You make rava uppittu, don’t you? When some of it is left over, pour lots of water into that uppittu and make dosas. That’s rava dosa.

Poor thing… if you don’t know even such simple dosas and idlis, what do you even eat? And Anama keeps saying… nowadays boys don’t get girls. Even if they do, they don’t know cooking. If you don’t learn all this, then just as Anama says, hotel food will be your fate. Just see…”

Just then we heard the school auto-rickshaw honking. At the same time, Grandpa’s voice came—

“Haven’t you left yet?”

Saying, “Paapa… I’m coming…” she handed me the mobile and ran away… our culinary expert.

While all this was happening, a bogie came rumbling down the tracks of my memory… dhadak… dhadak…

I must have still been in the fourth standard. One day, since our school had a holiday for some reason, I had gone with Appa to his school.

There, one of the teachers asked what curry we had at home for lunch.

I said, “Patrode and daali thovve.”

“Oh-ho… is that so? Do you know how to make patrode?” he asked.

I said, “Yes.”

“How? Tell me too.”

Proudly I said,

“Grains that have become kutte, pulses that don’t cook even after boiling, and coconuts that have gone bad and started smelling… grind all of them together with pepper. Spread that masala on ten leaves (pattu means ten in Tulu), roll it like a mattress, and steam it.”

Laughing, he said,

“Master… do you people make patrode with spoiled things at your house? And that too with exactly ten leaves?”

When Appa came home and told Amma, Ajji explained,

“Oh, dear… yesterday I said the coconut wasn’t very good. If we make curry it may start smelling, so use it for patrode. And the alasande beans we bought last month… only a handful was left. I wasn’t sure if they would cook properly. If kutte gets into them, they’re no good for anything. So I had said, soak those along with the rice too. Your daughter must have overheard all that and repeated it.”

After explaining everything to Appa, she scolded me nicely.

And just like that, another bogie slowly rolled away on the tracks of my memory.

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By Veena Shanbhogue

Translation and Preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue for Shanbhogue Publication