Can you write about rice-lentil cakes?

Born of an online debate about authenticity, Indian writing in English, etc... It got too much at one point and instead of bursting into song, I burst into prose. Two vignettes:


Idlis 1

My mother would make idlis at home, soak the rice and the dal, grind it into batter, leave it to ferment overnight. When I went into the kitchen for a glass of water before going to bed there would be the gentle, slightly sour hint of the next day's delights - idlis fresh out of their cups in the copper steamer, just-ground chutney with coconut and coriander, or perhaps a different chutney, with garlic and dry red chillies in the coconut. And golden sambar, unmatched, into which to dunk the idlis. It was a heavenly breakfast.

Whose mother whips up the batter for these bucketloads of idlis, I wonder. Do these people eating them remember the kitchens of their childhood, remember for a brief moment the long-ago whiff of fermenting idli batter, and do they perhaps console themselves with mass-produced chutney?


Idlis 2

The cafe was dark, as always. Light came from the bulbs, hanging overhead in ancient holders that had given their original enamel up to a patina of grime which, in a way, lent a sort of uniformity to the otherwise anachronistic decor, if that is the word, of the place. Dada's aunt had - once upon a time - chosen the paint and finishings but her son had taken issue with her choice and changed things around, and then after he died she changed some stuff around again, and by the time Dada had come to run the place it didn't have very much to say for itself in terms of character. That came with time, though. Time, and the small band of regulars who argued, thumped the tables, drank the tea, criticised the bhajiyas, chose a new government, but never made so much noise that they had to be hushed.

Sunita didn't know any of this, of course, when she walked in looking for a refuge from the afternoon sun. Neither did she know that she was to become more intimate with that little wayside cafe than she would ever have thought possible.

She saw a plate of idlis with sambar and chutney being served at another table and so that is what she ordered. But it was an illusion, as she realised when the idlis arrived before her. Where they should have been fluffy, or at least yielding, they were crumbly and almost hard. Not just that they were cold, they had also not been made with any sort of care. She tried dunking a piece into the sambar but the idli batter had obviously been specially treated to resist absorbing anything. Had it been ground in haste, left too coarse? Not fermented enough? Had it been made ages ago, and did it lose its youth in the refrigerator? Perhaps everything that could be done wrong to an idli had been done, here.

Should I say something to the guy, she thought. Or should I just forget it - it's a little chai shop in the back of beyond in Goa, how could I expect nice idlis here anyway? I might as well just have the tea and go. I'm not even staying here, I'm just waiting for my bus. What was I thinking, asking for idlis? I should have gone for pakoras instead. No, too oily. Maybe bhaaji-pao. Dip the pao into the tea.





(First posted on anothersubcontinent.com.)