Who's Next?
Writing
Samiksha Dubey
“The kitchen is the heart of the home” is the first thing I noticed when I first saw my friend’s kitchen. Written in capital, bold letters with white paint, over a bright orange sheet of paper, he had laboriously created this masterpiece in school, which was now preserved on the side of their fridge with a magnet to hold it in place. And their kitchen truly does embody this saying.
The term ‘food’ evokes many memories for me, all mostly really happy ones. And maybe this is because I miss the sense of community, my friends, uncle’s food, and the city of Bengaluru, but no food-related memory of mine is stronger than uncle’s dose1 after a long ride in multiple BMTC buses from college to his house. Our band of eight, or sometimes even eighteen, often parked ourselves at their mane for the weekend. Every time, without fail, uncle would ask us if we wanted food at home instead of ordering it in. And almost every time, we would give in.
Instantly, he would survey the ingredients at home– dosa batter, leftover gojju, some pickle they got from their relatives, groundnuts for chutney. It was then time to whip out the tawa, the ones that they have at proper dosa kadais, and make the dose. I have stood in the kitchen many-a-times, to watch this almost ritualistic making of food. Uncle would start by promptly cutting a raw onion in half, and dipping it in water. As soon as the tawa was at the right temperature, he would stick a fork in the onion, and evenly coat the surface of the skillet with the soaked onion. He would then adjust the consistency of the batter, and with a steady hand, spread the batter onto the tawa, resulting in dose with the crispiest edges, the softest middle, perfectly browned, and generously slathered in ghee.
Though mesmerized by this entire process, my purpose of sitting in the kitchen was to talk to uncle, and learn as much about cooking as possible, even though I might not necessarily implement it. Under the soft, yellow light of the kitchen, I would draw a stool, place it at a safe distance from the stove, and sit, ready to chat with uncle. We would often have conversations around the origins of a particular food item, or what it is called in different regions of India. Often, the plethora of friends in the living room would contribute, ranging from Tamil, Malayalam, Kannada, to Punjabi, Gujarati, and Hindi speaking regions. He
would also detail his visits abroad and how he made do with the food there, or discovered something that always stuck with him. Here, mentions of my friend, his son, would often appear– “He loved when I brought him this. Very difficult to find in India at the time...”
As we chatted away, hot dose would be served fresh to each member in the house one by one. I loved setting the plates for everyone– dose, with extra ghee for whoever wanted it, along with a generous serving of spicy takkali (tomato), or kadalakai (groundnut/peanut) chutney,or on days we got really lucky, both. “Who’s next?” Uncle would ask after every three or so dose, and we would all raise our hands for a place in the queue.
Finally, once everyone was well-fed, he would wrap up everything in the kitchen, and think of some dessert for us. For dessert, or times when we ate dinner other than dosa, we would all sit on the floor in a circle, around the meal. This setting, then, became an extension of the conversations in the kitchen. Such conversations would often be sparked when one of us inevitably said something along the lines of– “Uncle, tumba chennagide! How did you make this?” With this, we would be launched into the world of spices, different kinds of flours, tadkas, and more. “Very simple to make, hardly takes thirty minutes,” was how uncle would end these recipes often, as my culinarily-gifted friends bobbed their heads in fascination.
Concept Note
In a world that is feeling more and more polarizing, and constantly pushing ideas of concrete binaries to the forefront, I believe community can become a way to subvert that. My hope is that this subversion can begin with conversations, and will eventually reach collective action.
This piece, in particular, tries to explore the power that food has to bring people together, and form such communities, and spaces of conversation. What may seem like unlikely participants at first, might end up having many things in common, or might end up understanding each other very well.
Memory, too, plays a huge role in this piece in particular, but also when a community begins to form, or even after it is formed. And food, with its multiple textures, flavours, scents, ingredients, recipes, and origins, is something that is also closely tied to memory.
This intermingling of conversation, community, memory, and food, and rejoicing the wonders of having a home away from home is what led me to writing this piece.
Artist Bio
Samiksha recently graduated from Azim Premji University with a BA in English. Her interests lie at, but are not limited to, the intersection of literature and gender. As a resident of Delhi who spent three years living in Bangalore, community has become something she holds really close to her heart, which is also what she tried to explore through this piece. Some other interests of hers include travelling, listening to music, and more recently, watching plays.