That Candy Crush 

 © 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, it's that time of the year when this part of the world starts to experience spring fever. Quite literally due to all the pollen from budding flora. Yay! But, we have mostly escaped the clutches of Old Man Winter. Thumbed our noses at the shadowy subterranean hog with wildly inaccurate weather predictions. Feeling quite smug, having dodged the arrows of a half-naked toddler during the Valentine Day massacre of hapless husbands. Only to run headlong into the marketing juggernaut of the Big Sugar. Marshmallow Peeps, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and myriad other sticky concoctions in pretty pink, pastel purples, pale blue, lemon yellow, cutesy stuff on faux green plastic grass. The ones that are now forbidden fruit. "Look, don't touch!" were my instructions as I approached the On Sale aisle at the Big Box stores nearby. Jiminy Cricket! It's Easter, of course, properly observed and respectfully celebrated, with The Hunt!

When our little ones were a wee laddie and a wee lassie, "we" decided to take them to a local community Easter Egg Hunt. At that time, I did not have the foggiest idea as to how a rabbit became associated with such insane activities. I still don't. Nor did I have much knowledge about this specific rite of passage in the journey of fatherhood. But I got swept along with other dads, all of us sleepily, sheepishly following the leadership of our better halves. After all, nothing says wholesome family bonding like watching toddlers descend on the candy battlefield like a pack of sugar-crazed hyenas. The concept is simple enough: colorful plastic eggs filled with candy scattered across a field, and a horde of tiny, over-excited humans unleashed to collect these. What could possibly go wrong?

We were about to find out.

The event began with what some organizer (clearly not a parent!) thought would add a festive touch - a massive horn blast from a gleaming firetruck provided by the local Fire Station #5 manned by two burly firemen in full regalia. The blast at such close quarters was like heralding the proverbial Armageddon, the final battle between the forces of Good and Evil. Half the little kids screamed like banshees and bolted back at remarkable speeds to their parents in pure terror, bawling uncontrollably. Our little ones, who hated any unexpected loud noises to begin with, were frozen in place, looking at us accusingly, eyes brimming with barely held-back tears about such betrayal. They had probably started considering adopting new parents.

Once the mass trauma inflicted was eventually soothed, tear-soaked cheeks were patted dry, and many underpants changed, the Easter Egg Hunt began. Only it wasn’t a mere “hunt.” It was more like a reenactment of Lord of the Flies with sticky baskets clutched in grubby little fists, rapidly filling with shiny decorative rocks, wilting daffodils and other treasures... and occasional Easter eggs.

Some kids earnestly stuck to the task of being hunter-gatherers, diligently searching for Easter eggs, darting around like feral squirrels. A few others went full evil goblin mode, raiding fellow kids' baskets or yanking the loot straight from the hands of the smaller children. And their parents, the role models and champions of these kids, cheered them on, beer cans in hand. 9 AM was apparently not too early to start imbibing on those days. Laughing, filming, and throwing in motivational lines like “Get in there! Grab it from him/her!" Scoffing, "It's just candy!” in response to protesting parents.

Then came the near-fistfights. Yes, actual grown-ups jawing, demonstrating their punching prowess in the air… over the ownership rights of flimsy plastic eggs filled with off-brand jellybeans. One parent had to be strongly urged to distance themselves from another because his 4-year-old’s basket was strategically looted by a gleeful 6-year-old with the reflexes of a stealthy ninja and zero remorse. The Easter Bunny retreated quickly as local lawmen stepped in to quell the Great Candy Riot of Y2K.

After that debacle, the dads made a unanimous family decision: NO MORE. Next year, a few neighbors decided to do a backyard-only egg hunt, strongly influenced by their better-halves. Smaller crowd of children, wiggling like a can of worms in anticipation, the few neighborly parents keeping peace. Only low-level efforts "hiding eggs"  required of the reluctant dads, directed by the watchful moms. Due to the silly notions of "getting along" and "sharing is caring" being observed, it was a tame affair. No excitement, no firetruck induced trauma, no alcoholic beverages, no screaming and no chances of anyone getting a black eye over a chocolate mini. The variety of candy was also much improved, as tested for quality purposes by yours truly, resulting in many of the parents revisiting their New Year resolution targets and gaining several pounds of regrets over the next few weeks. 

In the decade that followed since, this little backyard hunt became something of a quiet tradition in The Village. Our "Village." The same patchy grass recovering from winter. The same reluctant dads pretending not to take their egg-hiding duties too seriously. The same moms still supervised like benevolent generals, ensuring fairness prevailed and no child left with an empty basket or emotional scars.

Time, as it does, kept marching without asking permission. The wee laddies and wee lassies and all their co-conspirators in sugar-fueled joy stretched upward, voices deepened, interests shifted. Baskets were traded for cell phones. Pastel colors gave way to casual indifference in multiple shades. Teen attitudes replaced toddler eagerness. Easter mornings became less about the hunt and more about sleeping in… or not showing up at all. “I’m gonna hang out with ...” they’d grumble, in that tone that meant you, the ignorant parents, wouldn’t get it anyway. Some families moved away, chasing jobs, schools, or simply a different chapter. The backyards grew quieter. Fewer and fewer eggs were hidden each year. Eventually, none.

And this year, the sky doesn't seem like it got the memo from that floppy-eared rabbit. A stubborn cold rain has settled in, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes the start of spring feel like a rumor rather than a promise in the Midwest. The grass, brownish with emerging shoots of green, once trampled by eager little feet, lays undisturbed. No high-pitched squeals of glee, no tiny hands triumphantly holding up brightly colored eggs like hard-won trophies. Just the soft patter of rain… and memory.

I look out the window a little longer than necessary, coffee in hand, watching the backyards that once hosted epic battles of sticky-fingered diplomacy. There are no firetruck horns blaring. No wild or mild chaos. No huge candy-fueled skirmishes requiring neighborhood arbitration. Just a quiet, almost respectful stillness, as if the space itself understood its role in something that had already happened.

And yet… it doesn’t feel entirely empty. Scattered somewhere in the corners of that damp yard, beneath the grass, tucked into the tree line, hidden in places only little hands would think to look are echoes. Squeals of laughter. Outrage over jellybeans snatched by others without respecting the honor code yelled "Dibs! I saw it first!" Of triumphs, betrayals, and the pure, ridiculous joy of finding a plastic egg filled with something far too sweet. Those moments have simply stayed while the children have grown up and flown, leaving behind the empty nesters with fading memories. But, Gray Catbirds are back. Occasionally disrupted by the hissing of our two indoor cats Maxwell & Maui who are furious about their territory being invaded by these feathery menace. Looking out and watchful during the daily trek of our neighborhood mooch, a tuxedo cat named Hammi who has adopted us as surrogates, regularly showing up at the kitchen door for social visits and second helpings. I see them busily building their new nests for the imminent arrival of their little baby birds. Spring has sprung.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Completely Off My Rocker!

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, the rocking chair. 

Here is The Rocker, as it has been called at our home. Technically, it’s actually a glider. It sits high atop our furniture hierarchy due to its age rather than accuracy of the nomenclature, outranking almost all others, even the cuckoo clock. 

The Rocker arrived at our home from a place called The Oak Gallery three decades ago. Back then, there was no internet, no cell phones and furniture shopping required putting on pants and driving. Life was simpler. This furniture shop, and others like it was a physical brick and mortar reality where you would savor the ambience, linger on, testing each piece by sitting on it, feeling the warmth, soaking its aura. You could see, touch, sniff and indulge. There was no concept of faraway e-commerce entities with colorful pictures of glamorous models draped around furniture in impossible poses. Also missing, any claims and starred reviews by wood_loving_girl or chairman_rocky_III dissing or gushing about the product that would leave one confused about its actual quality, functionality, delivery timing, costs and return policies. A trip in person to visit The Oak Gallery some 35 minutes away was needed. A place that smelled of old-timey wood polish on real wood, not near-wood pieces recreated from pressed sawdust or faux fabric sprayed with real chemicals. Oak really meant thick oak, something you could feel in your hands. Real. Solid. Unapologetic. Robust. Made for life.

This Rocker had a patterned, dark green seat cushion, plush and steady, with a matching back. Its texture suggested permanence before we quite understood what that would mean. We fell in love with it immediately. We went and picked it a month or so before our oldest was born, on a day that felt ordinary until it wasn’t. Loaded it in the back of our 3-door hatchback, after folding down the rear seat. Due to its size, the hatch wouldn't quite close but we managed to bring it home, tied down with string and a slow, careful drive back praying that the laws of physics would remain cooperative. By that evening, a snowstorm rolled in hard and fast, an early one that winter season, turning the world hushed and white. Inside, The Rocker was placed close to the fireplace in our living room, with much arrangement and re-arrangement of the other mismatched pieces in our living room. Near a real fireplace with smoke and flames, crackling wood that occasionally sparked and hissed when the trapped volatile matter in its cavities expanded and tried to escape. I sat there that evening and rocked, back and forth, holding anticipation more than anything else. Stranger, our cat, lay alternately curled and sprawled nearby in front of the fire. He had carefully inspected and sniffed his approval of the new furniture and the new layout. It followed the cat's personal mantra, his mission in life, that of locate warmth, occupy warmth, follow warmth. A new warm spot had emerged on a little rug in front of the fireplace. When the fireplace wasn't lit, he would move to wherever the now elusive sunshine seemed to be streaming in from the windows.

The Rocker was more expensive than one at the other "value" furniture store we had looked. Bryan, the owner, saw our hesitation as we were still trying to make up our minds. He offered a zero-interest 12-month plan through a tiny, local, no-name lender to pay it off, we accepted it. The lender sent us the paperwork a few weeks later. We started the monthly payments. In those days, it was by mail with physical checks and payment coupons ripped carefully from a payment booklet that looked like a checkbook. According to our calculations, we were done 12 months later. To our shock, the lender sent us a vaguely threatening demand letter stating that even though they were late with their paperwork, interest on this loan had started accruing the day we took The Rocker out of the store. And that we owed them interest at some exorbitant rate and penalty for late payment, which added up to more than half the original price. 

These were the days of landlines and, of course, The Oak Gallery would be out of the "free" region and part of the "long-distance" calling area, cheaper in the evenings after 7pm. Thus the need for another personal visit to The Oak Gallery during its business hours with some "long overdue" visit to the nearby big shopping mall, I was informed. When we visited the next weekend, we found Bryan in the background, looking a bit sheepish. Enter another character in this drama. He lumbered over with confidence in his manner with a voice that came from both his girth and his role there. He puffed out his chest and introduced himself, “ 'Ay! Call me Fat Tony,” as if the name alone came with its own theme music. 

The guy had a comically large head. Each nod was understated but emphatic, that mystical side-to-side-but-also-yes-no-maybe motion that somehow conveyed agreement, authority, and mild disappointment all at once. It was like East Coast and the Midwest had formed a brief cultural alliance with desi head bobble right there. I politely declined to call him what he had suggested, and told him I would rather call him Big Tony. He got a real belly-laugh out of this. What I pieced together later was that Bryan had gotten into a pickle in some backroom card games, resulting in a sizeable gambling debt that he couldn't pay off in time. Mr. Fat Big Tony had been dispatched by an East Coast group to ensure collection help manage cash flow at The Oak Gallery.

I explained my situation to Big Tony. He nodded in agreement and picked up the phone, dialed and said " 'Ay!" The Joisey accent was turned up to eleven, every vowel stretched, every sentence daring you to argue with him. His hands were in constant motion, slicing the air, pointing at invisible ghosts, conducting an orchestra only he could hear. By the time he finished talking, you weren’t entirely sure what he had said to jaboney the person at the other end, but you felt it in your gut. Loosely, very loosely translated, let's say it was a lecture on treating people right, mia famiglia Good Customers, capisce? Bushy eyebrows animated, his disappointment evident, about shoddy practices, less than happy Customer Experience of dese noice goys such good folks. Take it from an expert on debt collections and deadbeats. Believe him, paisano. One could almost envision that person at the other end of the landline standing, sitting down, shrinking, nodding back vigorously, instinctively. Mr. Fat Big Tony hadn’t just entered his life or Bryan's shop, he was streamlining the entire operation, shady debt servicing included. 

Big Tony hung up the phone and waved us over to the cashier's desk. He informed us that the goombah local lender had wholeheartedly agreed to waive off any and all additional charges, penalties, etc. He acknowledged our thanks with a fuhggedaboutit nonchalant shrug and moved on to help another customer. We lingered around for a bit, listening to his smooth patter in the background. Mr. Big Tony definitely seemed to know his way around furniture. We never heard another peep from the lender. Nor did we ever see Fat Big Tony again on future visits for other furniture shopping.

That rocking chair learned quickly what it was for. It helped rock our baby boy to sleep after his arrival, held in parental arms. A couple of years later, our baby girl arrived, colicky, very fussy. All of us were quite cranky in the evenings now with the incessant high-pitched screams, during what became known as "the witching hours." The Rocker held sometimes one, sometimes both little ones at once during those days, balanced carefully in the crooks of both arms, which were learning on the job. Fortunately, that phase lasted only about a year. The Rocker has borne witness to lullabies sung off-key, whispered secrets, frustrated sighs, loud arguments and soft purrs. It was the happy place for that particular quiet relief that only exists in the middle of the night after a long day. A place for refreshing nap, for dozing off without spousal judgement. A place to park oneself, drowsily loosening one's belt after indulging at the Thanksgiving feast. Dreamily nursing a suitable soporific drink. It has held joys gently, and griefs when they came, the hundredth reading of The Very Hungry Caterpillar or A Giraffe and a Half, just as enthusiastic as the first one. It suffered quietly all the determined decorating from occasional crayons wielded by the younger budding artist who expressed herself generously all over including the walls, the rugs and generally treated every surface in her three-foot high world as a canvas. All the many, many small, unremarkable moments that turned out to be special memories, the ones that matter most. 

And like Mary's little lamb, wherever the family went, The Rocker went too, of course. Across states. Across cities. Into living rooms that looked nothing alike. Different floors, different rugs. Sofas of different colors, comfort-levels and contours came and went. Styles changed, tastes evolved, décor followed whatever chapter folded and unfolded in our family's book at the time. It sat near fireplaces that were real and the ones strictly ornamental, only moving slightly, laterally to accommodate the seasonal appearances of the family Christmas Tree. 

It stayed mum as a small glass of milk and cookies were left nearby for a ho-ho-ho'ing old man and carrots for some reindeer with a peculiar nose. Expressionless during Christmas mornings about the visit of the mystery man, spying on chidren, a compulsive list-maker. Strangely, unlike others, this visitor apparently didn't ring doorbells, preferring to enter via the chimney so the fireplace could not be lit. The stress-relief was quite palpable on all little faces in the morning, the ones who had apparently squeaked in as late additions on the Good List with a huge last-minute, desperate spurt of "Being Good," whatever that was. Such visits were further confirmed by cookie crumbs and tiny amount of milk in the cup, that these offerings had indeed refreshed the intended parties during their incredible hectic overnight dash, including those homes where he left lumps of coal. The Rocker always occupied the same central role, patiently anchoring the impatient, frenzied ripping off the giftwrap, like it had been waiting all season long. Unchanging. Steady.

The Oak Gallery has since disappeared in the Great Big Strip Mall in the Sky, becoming one of those places you mention and then have to explain to youngsters shopping through some App. Sign of our times, although in this case, more likely, due to Bryan's penchant for that one big last bet that did not pay off big. Whenever we drive on the State Highway 31 going north, one of us says something about that furniture place in the strip mall. The Rocker has stayed. The green fabric has softened a bit with age. The oak has lost a bit of the sheen, polished by many hands, by years, by living. It looks a little weary now, not completely worn out yet, just... experienced. Reminiscing. Still going strong. Still warm. Still unmistakably itself.

The baby birds have now flown the nest, visiting only sporadically. These days, The Rocker has been claimed by our cats. An asset appropriation that our previous cat Stranger would have wholeheartedly approved with his penchant for warm spots. Maxwell, the older cat waits patiently but pointedly, hovering nearby whenever I sit on it. His eyes locked on me, sometimes pushing with gentle nudges, posture stiff with expectation. The moment I get up, he licks his paws and leaps up, triumphant, settles in. In his rightful spot for his much needed evening snooze. Often, the younger feline Maui joins him, perching on top like a lookout. Then come the not-so-quiet territorial disputes, full of side-eyes and flicking tails, with their front paws swiping at each other, occasional hisses and growls. 

Ownership has been decided with certainty. It does not belong to me any more. I sit elsewhere and watch, accepting it all. The Rocker still glides, the mechanism not as smooth, a bit slower, but less creaky than mine. Still near our fireplace, now an "efficient, no-maintenance" gas appliance with flames which flicker on ceramic logs, fake woody texture, no crackles unless you turn a speaker on, no unexpected sparks flying, startling the snoozing cats. The Living Room around it looks different, but the feeling remains the same, waiting. It's a quiet recognition that The Rocker hasn’t lost its purpose. It has simply remained steadfast. It has outlasted The Oak Gallery by decades and the shady lender that financed it. The babies don't need rocking but the exhausted parents seem to need it more. A silent witness as our life's story unfolded in different stages. It reminds me that constancy has its own kind of beauty. That some things, if you’re lucky, stay with you, quietly doing their job through every chapter in the book, a few more pages to unfold, before The End. Is it just me, or am I completely off my rocker now, no longer on The Rocker? 

 The Correct Dosage

on the World Dosa Day, March 3rd 2026

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(Inspired by a friend who posted picture of lace-edged crepes made with ghee, coconut and tomato chutneys and sambar in a ceramic bowl arranged just so.)

My first memory of a dosa is not one of a perfectly plated one for unsocial media post. It is the sound of humongous stone lodha (roller) on the gigantic kitchen silauti (grindstone) at dawn. Before I learned the word “fermentation,” I learned about patience, as in waiting for dosa. 

The quest usually started with my grandma suggesting madrasi khana, soon. The entire household would spring into action. Rice and urad daal would be soaked overnight in large vessels, swelling quietly in the dark. At first light, they would be lifted out in batches and taken to the silauti, where our household help, perpetually grumbling yet impossibly faithful to the ritual, pushed the heavy lodha in impatient arcs. The rhythm was ancient. Grain surrendered to paste. Water was added in cautious trickles. The batter grew smooth but not too smooth, a certain coarseness was respected, texture carried the weight of refined rituals. By the evening, the kitchen smelled faintly alive. The batter had risen, breathing softly, reaching that precise sourness my mother could judge with a glance and a fingertip. She never measured; she listened. The large cast-iron tawa (round griddle) was placed on the chulha and heated to the point where a droplet of water would dance on it. A cloth dipped in oil passed swiftly over its surface, not too much, not too little. Just enough.

Then the pour. A ladleful of batter dropped in the center and, swift circular motion of her wrist, spiraling outward, thinning with each round, until it became almost translucent. I used to hold my breath during that movement. The dosa would hiss, edges lifting slightly, freckles of gold appearing before deepening into that perfect brown crispness that shattered delicately under touch. Inside would be the alchemy of potatoes boiled earlier, peeled while still warm, mashed and folded into soft pasty consistency with spices that bloomed in hot oil. Mustard seeds crackling, a dash of turmeric, peanuts or cashews, a pinch of salt, a little hint of tamarind. Green chilies added with quiet warning. Curry leaves snapped fresh from the yard perfumed the air. The filling was soft, generous, forgiving.

We waited eagerly with our steel thalis. For the food, quietly competing for the length of the cylindrical perfection, leaning dangerously close to the stove, measuring with our eyes as to whose dosa extended that extra millimeter beyond the fold. The longest one meant something unspoken, a fleeting coronation as the favorite child, at least for that day. We believed the geometry of batter determined love. Mother would pretend not to notice our calculations, though sometimes, just sometimes, the circle she spread for one of us would be suspiciously expansive.

Idlis often steamed nearby, plump, cloudlike, emerging from their molds in the big, recently acquired Prestige Princess pressure cooker hissing with quiet dignity. Sambar simmered, its tamarind depth wrapping around lentils, drumsticks and other vegetables in a liquid embrace. Coconut chutney, ground fresh, cool and pale, tempered with mustard seeds and curry leaves, completed the trinity. The table was never ornate, but it was abundant.

Dosa, like the proverbial "success" has many fathers, and millions of "authentic" claimants of its roots throughout every region of India's South. For our family though, madrasi khana arrived by way of affection, through a rented portion of our ancestral home in Patna and the quiet dignity of a couple from Kerala. Mr. Menon had been posted naarth to Patna during those in-between years when the British were leaving but their paperwork lingered. A civil servant of careful habits and measured words, he and his wife came to live in our house with their young son, Mun. They were tenants only technically. In every other way, they became kin, the kind that forms not through blood but through proximity, shared festivals, borrowed sugar, and evenings of unhurried conversation with cups of chai in the shade under a whirring fan on a scorching Patna summer afternoon.

Mr. Menon or Menon saheb was a little older than my father and uncle, and somehow that alone made him an elder. In a house that already had opinions in abundance, his counsel carried a particular gravity. My father and uncle would sit straighter when Menon saheb talked, respectful, listening without interruption. Advice about careers, marriages, land, tempers, all passed through him as though he were an unofficial ombudsman of our sprawling clan.

If Menon saheb was the statesman, Mrs. Menon, known universally as Mun ki Ma was the Cultural Ambassador of the South. Younger by perhaps less than a decade, my mother and my aunt, barely out of their early teens then and newly married into the household, looked up to her with a mix of awe and mild terror. Their first introduction to what the family loosely called madrasi khana came not from restaurants or cookbooks, but from the patient, exacting lessons in the kitchen. Mun ki ma would begin at the beginning. Always at the beginning. Rice and urad dal soaked separately. Proportions mattered. The grinding must be neither too fine nor too coarse. The batter must ferment “until it smells right,” she would say bringing her fingertips to her nose, which was of no practical help to two earnest North Indian girls trying gamely to decode sourness aroma index.

She had only so much patience to spare. “waaisa naahin ji!" (Naat like that!) she would correct gently, then less gently. The ladle must move in a confident spiral to spread the dosa thin. The idli batter must be aerated but not bullied. The sambar required a tempering that bloomed without burning. Curry leaves were not garnish; they were exclamation marks. My mother would recount those sessions many years later while making dosa in our kitchen when I was a very young lad, the humiliation of the innumerable dosa attempts that fell apart or were not paper-thin, the triumph of the very first one that emerged crisp and evenly golden. My aunt learned to coax idlis into cloudlike softness from huge idli molds in large pots of boiling water. Mun ki Ma, with a sigh that carried equal parts exasperation and pride, slowly admitted my mom into the fellowship of those who made madrasi khana, theekkey say (Keralite accented Bhojpuri for "praaperly").

Eventually, retirement arrived like a closing file. Menon saheb folded his life in Patna with the same neatness he applied to official correspondence. The Menon family returned to Keralam, as he always called it, with the soft regret in his voice that suggested home - janmanhoomi or karmabhoomi, was not just a place, and not that one ever left. He has long since joined what I like to think of as the Great Big Civil Services in the Sky, still filing reasoned opinions, still restoring order to other-worldly disputes. Mun ki Ma left behind her special cast-iron tawa and other formidable-looking pital (brass) pots and pans she used for madrasi khana to my mom, much to dismay of my aunt. Mun ki ma is surely in a Celestial Kitchen, correcting some flustered young northern brides on the angle of her ladle, instructing them on how to achieve the crispiest dosas and the fluffiest idlis, insisting that fermentation is not science but religion, love and faith combined.

A few years later, I arrived at the hallowed halls in Kharagpur, Dedicated to the Service of the Nation. My home for the next five years, Nehru Hall Mess was exactly that, a mess. It was a state of despair a where any concept of acceptable food including dosa suffered much abuse and torture. Sambar was served twice a day, each recipe unique, never duplicated, guaranteed to eradicate any and all taste-buds. The only saving grace was an occasional uthapam at Nayyar's, which was only affordable at the beginning of each semester when a few loose coins still jingled in our pockets. Usually after careful consideration of our finances and facing stiff competition from Waldies, Far East or Anarkali, the required dosa dosages remained unmet.

Eventually, I ended up in Buffalo, NY in the early 1980s. It was a place where much was happening, specially in wintertime, usually cold, sideways. But I am talking about a very particular famine: the complete and devastating absence of decent desi food, a proper dosa. In the birthplace of Chicken Wings and Beef on kimmelweck, the crisp, golden ambassador of South Indian cuisine simply did not exist in any form worthy of the name. We searched. We drove around. We tried some restaurants across the lake whose menus promised authenticity but delivered something closer to soggy mess that had lost their will to live. A decade passed. Ten long years without that fragile architecture of fermented batter and the resulting lace-edged, crackling miracle that shatters at first touch,

Life relocated us again, this time as a couple, to a small, semi-rural Midwestern town. Culturally charming, yes. Peaceful, certainly. But from a culinary perspective? A wasteland. A prairie of tasteless casseroles, boiled potatoes and pot-roasts. A desert where the words madrasi khana would have sounded like a medical affliction. Hope had long since packed its bags. And then we met the Rajas. It happened the way most important friendships happen, some combination of proximity, animated conversation, and the gravitational pull of food during potlucks among young couples. Introductions were made. Smiles exchanged. And somewhere between “Hello” and “Welp! Come over sometime,” a realization dawned.

We discovered that our friend Rukmani was not merely someone who cooked South Indian food. She was a maestro, not a weekend dilettante. The kind of cook whose kitchen contains mysterious jars with handwritten labels, fermentation schedules that rival NASA launch timelines, and techniques learned not from cookbooks but from grandmothers whose disapproval could curdle milk at twenty paces. Mrs. Yours Truly, in her own right a formidable culinary force had met her soul sister. A Northern Indian Delights Diva who already had dabbled in some of the Southern Indian culinary magic, she was the guardian of the sacred arts of golgappa assembly with acknowledged street-food creds. Her samosa reconstruction was legendary. They embraced each other in spirit like long-lost sisters who believed chutneys should have personality and who treated spice levels as a matter of principle.

What followed was less a dinner invitation and more a summit meeting. The two culinary maestros combined forces along the kitchen counter. The husbands retreated instinctively to a safe observational distance, like spectators in a cricket stadium witnessing a rare win on a foreign tour, an extraordinary phenomenon in those days. We poured ourselves potent potables and watched history unfold. Polite conversation led to curiosity which led to full-scale trading between the two ladies who acknowledged each others expertise implicitly. Closely guarded family recipes were mentioned in hushed tones. Techniques were demonstrated. Special tools were produced from cupboards like ceremonial artifacts. Words such as “proper fermentation,” “tempering,” and “don’t ever skip this step” floated through the air with the gravity of ancient wisdom. A mystery spice blend called "gunpowder" entered the family lexicon. 

Meanwhile, something exquisite was happening on the stove. Batter met hot iron and sizzled. The first dosa emerged like a sunrise, paper-thin, golden brown, impossibly crisp, with edges so delicate they seemed almost theoretical. It landed on the plate with a sound that can only be described as edible applause. Then came another. And another. Soon the dining table was receiving offerings as if manna were being dispatched directly from the culinary heavens. Crispiest dosas. Filled with the tastiest masala. Spiciest sambar that could wake a sleeping civilization. Fluffiest idlis that appeared to defy basic physics.

The husbands abandoned any pretense of moderation. At some point I realized I had loosened my belt. Not out of defeat but as a tribute. A ceremonial acknowledgment of greatness. Several pounds were gained in a single sitting, with no regrets, I was wondering if dosa ever had been considered for a rikishi (sumo-wrestler) diet. Later, as true culinary diplomacy demands, Mrs. Yours Truly reciprocated in her cucina. Out came the ingredients for her Northern spectacle: from-scratch golgappa and samosa chaat. Hollow puris, spiced potato curry, chicken makhani, and chutneys so vibrant they could probably solve geopolitical disputes.

The husbands watched with the same reverence they had experienced earlier with awe, now facing a darker outcome. Our carefully maintained weight management strategies collapsed like poorly prepared papad. Dietary regimes were surrendered unconditionally. Gym memberships were forgotten, with vague vows of future participation. But we gained something far more important than discipline. A benchmark. From that evening forward, Rukmani’s dosa became the gold standard. The reference point against which every future dosa, homemade or restaurant-made, would be judged.

Thus was born the Rukmani Scale, more conceptual than numeric. A perfectly acceptable dosa elsewhere might score a respectable NQR (Not Quite Rukmani's) to NLR (Nothing Like Rukamni's). A very good restaurant dosa at best might reach BNLR (But Not like Rukmani's.) But the original? The crisp, delicate, life-restoring creation that ended a decade-long famine for Buffalo refugees living in a Midwestern culinary prairie? That remains the only known dosa to achieve the perfect 10 on the Rukmani Scale. All others, so far, are still trying. 

Today, dosa travels the globe. It is reinvented, rebranded, filled with cheese, chocolate, quinoa, rajma, szechuan stir fry, paneer or ceviche (horror!). Downed with concoctions not even pretending to be sambar. These abominations are celebrated obscenely via deafeningly loud reels that I call confusion cuisine by obnoxious TikTok influencers. But in my mind, the only one worthy of any soul remains that patient overnight creation, rice and daal consenting to time, stone yielding to effort, batter trusting warmth, with its ancient Keralam roots. On World Dosa Day, I do not crave innovation. I crave the low hum of that kitchen, the grumble of stone, the sizzle of batter meeting iron, the fierce childhood mathematics of measuring love in millimeters. It was proof that someone had woken before dawn, and chosen to make something beautiful for us, over and over again. And that no matter the dosa length, we were all equally favorite for mom. But only one was more equally favorite than the others. 

This Tapestry

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(Inspired by a quote circulating in unsocial media, shared recently by a friend. 🙏 

Nothing is coincidence. Every soul you meet is written in your destiny to teach you, to heal you, or to love you. Nothing and no one arrives by accident. Even the heartbreaks come with hidden lessons wrapped in pain. Some souls are just passing through, meant only to spark the next version of you. Others stay, gently unfolding parts of you that you didn't know existed. In the grand tapestry of life, every thread every soul is part of your becoming.)

With colorful yarns, both fine & coarse,

Knit long ago, theirs and yours.

The knots, frays, kinks, for all to see,

Unique, each one, our great Tapestry.

No meeting accidental in this fateful dance,

Tears, heartaches, breakups, romance.

Every soul ever who crossed our path, 

Cosmic design with esoteric math.

Nothing occurs, no happenstance,

No thoughts collide, no random chance,

Every single interaction, gentle or wild,

Etched in stars before we ever smiled.

Some souls arrive as mirrors, foggy, unclear,

Reflect our own selves that we might fear.

Remind us who we’ve been, who we are,

Soothing, burning fresh wounds, old scars.

Sunrises, sunsets, fleeting, brief,

Lengthy shadows, ease our grief.

Brush against us long enough to show

Our inner selves re-lit, again aglow.

No heart is broken without a cause,

No tears shed outside these laws.

Each sleepless night we endure,

Wisdom unwrapped, obvious or obscure.

In life’s great loom, colors & colorless,

Every thread is placed with warm caress.

Never tattered, unraveled, or undone,

Path pre-destined, intertwined, before it had begun.

Ballentine Shallentine!

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Mrs. Yours Truly (YT) didn't take kindly to any...

Balle Balle Ballentine’s Day

(posted 14 Feb 2026)

Oh joy! Is it that time of the year... again?

Sneezing non-stop with love shuv, like airborne pollen.

Roses are still quite red, my wallet sings da blues,

Chocolate & "whine", the vague whiff of romance, deja vu.

Dare I ask, the all-wise, Mrs. Yours Truly,

"Hey, what's with this Stupid Cupid, he's never dressed fully?"

She gives me The Look, with her pretty, fiery eyes.

"What are you up to now?" Her suspicions on the rise.

Maybe it’s just those flowers that I didn’t buy last year,

Or the fact I forgot again, she can just sense my fear.

She says "Oh honey! You know I really don’t want anything."

Yeah, sure, sure. I hear that canned response, on cue, every spring.

“Really! No gifts, no fuss, no big romance.”

But oh, then follow the pitying sighs! I feel her "You fool!" glance.

That Dinky (Rinki Sharma's hubby), a traitor to our noble cause.

His Ballentine Day shenanigans are legendary, giving all men pause!

I’m here, pondering how to dodge the "No Gifts" marital trap,

He has candles & balloons, and all that lovey dovey crap.

Is he onto something, this despicable, deplorable chap?

While I was just considering the next refreshing nap?

Ah well, I guess 'tis better to just play along,

Pretend I’m a lovebird, start singing a lovesong!

But deep down, isn't today, a Hallmark marketing cliché?

A Balle Balle Ballentine to all, hope you all have a lovely day.

The B-Day  

(Or, oops, I forgot again, my sweetie, but I have a very good excuse!) 
Posted 14 Feb 2025)

Forget this Ballentine shallentine, chocolates, or cheer,  

This day’s not for love, it’s sacrifice, sweetheart, dear!  

Gau Diwas! Not roses, no sweet serenades,  

Just a firm moral cudgel that never degrades.  

Why share affection when one can share spite?  

Why hold a hand when one can start a fight?  

fakebhakti’s armor. So righteous, so strong,  

With it, dear comrades, one can never go wrong.  

Love shove is phoren, a western charade,  

Let’s trade in romance for a shouting parade!  

There is no need for kindness, for joy, or other reason,  

Just one more excuse for the outrage season.  

So wield your sacrifice like the unraveling moral thread. 

And let’s all acknowledge that irony is dead.

For nothing says kulcha, tradition, or grace,  

Like screaming at couples in a public place.

Stupid Cupid

(posted 14 Feb 2024)

"Ballentine shallentine

Are Western canards!

No chocolat, no flowers,

No dates, no cards!"

For the sake of our kulcha

Dear Fellows, take a bow.

Be brave! Tell your lady,

You can only hug... a cow.

Enjoy then, thy solitude,

On the guestroom bed.

Ponder life's little choices.

Sipping rosé. It is red.

This St Valentine's day, 

If you do hug that Moo. 

You may share the feeling,

With Violets. They're... blue.

𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Autumn Blooms & Foolish Old Boys

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Dear Auntie Autumn Blooms, with folded hands,
Us Foolish Old Boys, some from faraway lands.
(See? Still learning. Please don’t flee!)
We swear we’re better.* Not scary! See?

Fifty years ago? Whoops, oh mercy me!
We were walking red flags, footloose, fancy free.
Rude, crude, socially feral at best,
Swagger vastly exceeded our IQ, EQ of a pest.

Summer Blossoms had us bedazzled, we unraveled, undone.
Brains went offline, any manners on the run.
We flexed. We joked. We hyped. We overplayed.
We probably said things that should’ve stayed unsaid.

For the last few decades, more precisely, last five.

Mothers, daughters, sisters and wives.

Patiently reworking lumps of clay since they arrived,

Enriching our otherwise very misshapen lives.

Time has been very educational, oh how, ladies dear
We're still learning, though, a little worse for the wear.
When burping we do* say “Sorry” and “Oops,”
We sometimes... argue pointlessly in WhatsCrapp groups.

So please please please (we’ll say it thrice),
Come and play, dear Autumn Blooms, we'll be nice.
Guide us, chide us when we say dumb stuff,
Which, full disclosure, still happens enough...

We bring humility, even snacks, and lawn-chairs,
Good lighting, patience, humor and fewer stares.
No flirting (okay, maybe an occasional glance),
But strictly respectful, low-risk, lots of bromance.

Forgive the Foolish Boys that we used to be, 
The loudmouth fools, with their audacity.
Join the Foolish Old Boys who’ve finally learned*

That wisdom’s earned when bridges were burned.

With somewhat aching backs but very hopeful grins,
We ask once more (deep breath, chins in):
Autumn Blooms, please please come out and play, 
The Foolish Old Boys are house-trained*… today.

(* ...mostly)

Summer Blossoms & Foolish Boys

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(written for my batchmates at SXCRAN - with fading memories) 

Part 1: The Summer Blossoms

The summer rains had left the skies,
We swaggered in, we had arrived!
Heard those soft giggles nearby,
Hearts aflutter, startled eyes!

Those once in pigtails, in shapeless school dresses,
Had bloomed overnight, with curves and tresses.
A whiff of roses, in rainbow hues,
Perfumed, alluring, the nearer they drew.
Those studiously avoided glances, demure half-smiles,
Brightened our days for quite a while.

From chalk-dust and ink, to charm with grace,
The Blossoms lit up every dark space.
We remember well and we will,
That late summer when earth stood still.

Wild imaginations raged in the heat,
Scribbled, doodled  notes on blank sheets.
The saints and scholars, all lost their poise, 
The Summer Blossoms bedazzled us foolish boys.
Ah, SXC Ranchi, the whispers are still alive.
The crushes, those feels, the heartbreaks of ’75.

Part 2: Where Are The Foolish Boys

(The title was inspired by the reaction of a female friend/classmate to Summer Blossoms  🤣)

Where Are Those  Foolish Boys?

Where are those Foolish Boys today?

Tongue-tied, tripping on what they meant to say?

Who strutted in the hallways full of silly noise,

Stuttered at those smiles, ah yes, those boys!.

They practiced suave lines in the mirror’s glow,

But squeaked out greetings pitched far too low.

Legends in their daydreams, but trembling in real life,

A glance from a Summer Blossom cut sharper than knife.

Where are they now? Probably hunting for their specs,

Misplacing their keys, muttering, “Old age wrecks!”

Still claiming "I coulda impressed someone then,

If destiny hadn’t stuffed chalk dust in my pen."

Those titans of crushes, those poets of doom,

Who fainted inside at a whiff of perfume.

Who doodled big hearts, not focused on studies,

Rehearsing “Hi” endlessly like other chaddi buddies.

Beneath all the dramedy, something stays,

The warm ache of sunlight of faraway days.

Those Foolish Boys have grown into Foolish Old Boys,

Bewitched, besotted but with shiny trinkets & toys.

So where are they now? All right here, it appears,

Laughing at our old selves, blinking through tears.

Still grateful those Summer Blossoms had dazzled their eyes,

And left Foolish Boys forever bumbling, unwise.

Part 3: Where Are Those Summer Blossoms?

As expected, a few Foolish Old Boys (names withheld to protect them) have asked the question uppermost in their minds after reading Where Are Those Foolish Boys 🤣

Where Are Those Summer Blossoms?

Summer Blossoms once strolled, sharp as cutlass,

Faces glowing, sashaying & swaying, still pure sass.

Their perfume alone could start a small riot,

Cool, calm, collected… well, except when they're on a diet.

Those Summer Blossoms? Now Auntie Autumn Blooms, seasoned and bold,

Accomplished career queens, business cards made of gold.

Moms who survived toddler dramas & teenage storms,

Grandmas even, still breaking hearts, in hourglass forms.

Batting lashes over bifocals, hair sparkling of silver,

Commanding attention, making all mankind quiver.

They sip drinks like empresses, unbothered, full grown,

Running companies, households, classrooms, ruling our hearts they still own.

The Autumn Blooms laugh freely, lighting every room ablaze,

Still our sirens, our muses, from our clueless, bumbling days.

They glow, they tease, they torment with practiced poise,

Forever Autumn Blooms Summer Blossoms, 

Queens of Hearts of us Foolish Old Boys.

How Old Am I?

আমার বয়স কত? 

A beautiful poem by Ms. Rama Sengupta. Shared by a dear friend, thank you. My poor attempt to capture its essence follows the original. Posted here, with Ms. Sengupta's kind permission (and maybe, with gracious forgiveness 😇 for the translation.)

সঠিক জানা নেই তা

বয়স আমার রোজ পাল্টায়। 

আজ যখন নাতনির সাথে গল্প করছিলাম-

তার প্রথম প্রেমের গল্প-

আমার বয়সও সেই উনিশে। 

ছোট্ট চড়ুইটার সাথে কথা হোলো- কিচিরমিচির করে। 

তার আমার বয়সের ফারাক

পেলাম না তো খুঁজে। 

ভাসান দিতে যাবার বেলায়

তাসার তালে নাচে যখন সবাই

আমিও নাচি তাদের মতো

নিজের ঘরে, আপন মনে-

নড়বড়ে শরীরটা আমার তখন

অষ্টাদশীর। 

বন্ধুর অসুস্থ বিছানার পাশে

তার হাত ধরে যখন কাঁদি

তখন আমি হয়ত তার বয়সী। 

ঝরনার জল, চাঁদের কিরণ

আমায় বলে -

বয়স বলে কিছু নেই। 

যতদিন বাঁচবে আনন্দে বাঁচো-

যখন আসবে সে

অন্ধকারের ওপার হতে

আলোর প্রদীপ নিয়ে

তোমার হাতটি দিও তার মুঠিতে, 

ভাবতে চেষ্টা করো

এতদিন যে আনন্দে বাঁচলাম

তার হিসাব কি বয়সে করবো!! 

          © রমা সেনগুপ্ত

---

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

I dare not ask the calendar.
Age, she is a wanderer,
Anklets chiming softly with each step, 
Measured, hesitant, at once a tumult and quiet surrender.

This afternoon, my little granddaughter
unshackled her heart, shy, quivering, her first love.
And Time, disarmed me, I bowed low.
I was her, fearful, toes curled, wet upon its shore,

Bright, uncertain, breathless. Nineteen once more.

The young song sparrow and I exchanged tales,
Our chirps braided, quick, bright scales.
We searched far and wide, in our songbooks' pages,
Found no real differences in our ages.

When immersion’s hour finally arrives,
When tasha gongs peal the hearts into motion,
I too begin to sway 
Alone, inside my home, within myself,
Enthralled in my private devotion.
My frail body in a tight embrace 

With my eager eighteen year young face.

At a friend’s bedside,
where each fragile breath is weighted
and hope wears thin as thread,
I hold their hand and let my tears say the unsaid.
No more, no less,
I am their age instead.

The waterfall’s unceasing beat,
The moon’s long spill of silver flame,
Lean close and whisper the same refrain:
There is no Age. Again and again.
Live, they say,
As long as joy will open its door to you.
And when the hour comes,
When from the farther shore of darkness
A figure moves in view,
Bearing a lamp of flickering light,
Place your hand within theirs.
Ask then, ask, with due reverence.
These years lived in wonder, cherished, treasured bright,
By what, if any, yardstick 
could they ever be measured right?