She was new. The place was new. The people were new.
Most importantly, the kitchen was new. So were the pots and pans.
The hostess had left her suddenly, unexpectedly, with a swift swish of the head saying, “Oh, do take care of the dosa.”
Dosa? What dosa? Oh, the one getting itself fried, lying face up, round and cosy as you please, on the tawa? A soft brown shade was swiftly spreading to all sides, and she was asked to ‘handle’ it.
What in the world was she supposed to use to raise the reluctant dosa from the tawa? She looked around frantically.
She had been making dosa since she was ten. In fact, she loved making dosas, deftly twirling the batter first, pouring it into the tawa and spreading it into a nice round shape, paper-thick. That was an art that she mastered by the time she entered double-digit age. Her grandmother had let her do it numerous times and always praised her for its perfect thickness and shape.
But now… this… was different!
By the time she could coax the dosa into raising itself and turned it upside down, a side was burned browner than necessary. Not too badly, but yes, it was burnt.
It’s okay, it’s okay, she said to herself. It isn’t burnt, it is eatable.
The hostess came in then. One look at the brown dosa and she burst out laughing. “Look!” she said, raising the dosa for all to see. “Look at the dosa she made.”
Too numb even to feel embarrassed, the victim gave a feeble smile to the admiring audience.
“Oh, very well, no problem,” the hostess said reassuringly, “We’ll give it to the dog.”