When Idli Wada Sambhar mattered?

Born into a South Indian family , Idli , Wada Sambar , was more or less the staple food that occupied the dinning table. Be it breakfast , lunch or dinner , idli wada Sambar , had a way of adjusting itself in any menu. Growing up , having the fresh taste of fermented dough, had its own way of taking the taste away from everything else.

After 17 years of the idli wada sambhar torture, I bolted at eth first chance, I got. It was good that I was going to college. And though college had its own share of Idli Wada Sambhar, the choices of avoiding the one time meal , was pretty accommodating. At home , having food was more like a stand off between the plate and yourself , with mom standing in as a referee. The plate would be stacked with so many idlis, that the very sight of it would make your stomach ache. There was no voice to question my mothers sense of quantity. After all she did make it with a lot of love , or so she remind me , whenever I raised an eyebrow. There was not a single battle , I had lost with Idli Wada Sambhar, but it was not because , I had the will to gorge myself. Every time , I came close to quitting , my mother would just remind me of the poor souls who didn’t have any food. She had these pictures of undernourished kids on the table. I really did not know how my gorging , helped these kids , but it didn’t help save me from the guilt ride.

College was different. I could forgo meals , without the guilt of tired kids suffering from malnutrition. I considered my act to be one of sacrifice My , not having a meal , gave my idli wada sambhar friends an extra salvo to fire into their yeast digesting stomachs!

Four years of college later , I moved up to the north of India. People here weren’t so crazy of idli wada sambhar, and it give me quite a relief . After all I didn’t have to skip any meals. I love north Indian food. I betrayed my loyalty towards Idli Wada Sambhar , for naans and dal chawal. I often found it hard to order a dish of my liking. This was primarily , because of my stubbornness to speak English. It as not that I was not fluent in Hindi, I just believed English brought a higher degree of sophistication. My friends tried their best to convince me otherwise , but I was plain too stubborn. A few months later and large pot belly later, I realized that I couldn’t savour Naan’s and dal Chawal anymore. There was no apparent reason , I just got bored of it. Now I was faced with a huge problem, and that problem was the size of my tummy. My oesophagus clamped at the very sight of North Indian food. And though it did permit me to have Idli Wada Sambhar, the taste seemed very different. The fermented taste though remained. That was a year ago.

When I was leaving India , my friends gifted me a DVD of Chandni Chowk to China. Though a pathetic movie, the DVD was more or less a reminder of the 180 rupees I had made everyone spend , to fulfil my desire of seeing Deepika Padukone on the big screen. I moved out of India. Things were quite different here. The prospect of eating international food really excited me. Pasta’s, original recipe burgers, salads, lasagne, steaks; the very thought of these made my mouth water. I had always wanted to learn how to eat with a fork and spoon, even a chopstick would do , as long I didn’t have to touch much food with my hands. I really loathed the way people ate with their hands back at home.

A few months later , and with an elongated waist line , I found myself confused at the food counter. I had tried out everything, and was simply bored of it. From my expertise in the silverware to the art of eating with chopsticks; from the Greek slovaki , to the Nigerian meat, the variety had been vast.

I would spend a lot many moments , staring at the menu , wondering what would fill my stomach. Food would go in , plates would be gorged down, but my stomach always remained empty. And oddly enough food brought a sense of depression that merged with the loneliness I had . The journey of discovery had lost its panache. Lunch turned to be the most depressing portion of the day. Without no one to share a moment , food had only been vessel of hope. And now lost , with no journey left, I had no clue of what I was supposed to do.

And there , I was sitting all alone, with my pocket full of money , wondering where to spend it, when my eyes followed a voice which was speaking to me.
‘Bhai Saab , aapko kuch chahiye’ (Do you want anything)

It was only then , that I noticed that, right ahead of me , squeezed into a corner was an Indian restaurant . Addressing me was a short Indian man, who everyone (including Indians) , chose to ignore. I myself had passed by this corner many times before, but in my search for exotic food , I had always turned a blind eye. Sitting a few meters away , I could experience the flavour , just through the few words he lisped in Hindi. In a world where everyone spoke English , the lisp of Hindi brought a lot of sophistication.

I scanned the menu , eager to order something I had missed. My eyes stopped short of the end of the menu, and I was sure of what I wanted. Idli Wada Sambhar – $ 9 only. $ 9 , surely was expensive for the single piece of Idli and wada they provided. I wondered how such small quantities would fill my bottomless stomach.

As my fingers touched the skin of the wada, I felt a tingling sensation run through my limbs. The rough course burnt skin , accentuated the feel of oil , in a place where frying food, was considered a taboo. As the first morsel touched the tip of my tongue , i was flooded with the over fermented taste , and special of uncooked dough. But it was heaven , just as it was when mom prepared the dough in the morning. The fermented taste , seemed like the feel of the numerous Idli’s, mom used to place on my plate. The watery sambhar , taste like the last strands of Sambhar on the plate , that my brother and me , used to lick off when we were kids. And as I gorged on the last bite, I found a tear on my cheek. I was successful , and I had discovered a lot , but it had taken me nearly 25 years , to realize how much Idli Wada Sambhar had actually meant to me.

I rose up , wiped my lips . I rushed home eager to watch the only Indian movie I had cared to take; Chandani Chowk to China , for the umpteenth time.