Pitter Patter Dosas

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Kamala squinted out of the kitchen window as she wrestled with the dosa tava, trying to lift a stubborn, almost-brown dosa that seemed to be holding on to the hot metal like it was its homeland.
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In the midst of the grating clinks and clanks, she shrieked at the top of her voice, glancing at the door.

“Lataaa! Are you checking?”

“Ahh Maa! Nothing yet,” squealed little Lata, pausing her game for once.

Kamala continued her efforts, and just when she thought she had it, the dosa ruptured into fragments as she flipped it, scattering across the tava like broken continents across a burning sea.

“Aiyoo,” she sighed, trying to press the pieces together, as if silently reminding them they were still in this together.

She carefully gathered them onto a plate, coaxing them back into an almost-circle.
“Let me smear some ghee and give it to little Chotu. If he fusses, I’ll hand it to his dad instead, remind him about the skyrocketing milk prices,” she muttered, staring at it like it was the blueprint of her next architecture project.

Then she heard it.

Pit pat. Pit pat. Pitter patter.

Her ears flinched. Her nostrils flared. Her posture stiffened.
Her eyes shot to the hallway.

A voice cracked through the house like a war cry.

“Lataaaa! Run!!”

“I’m going, Maa!” shrieked Lata, flinging her tablet onto the sofa and sprinting across the room, up the stairs, toward the terrace.

Kamala tucked her saree pallu into her waist and followed.
She stormed up the stairs behind Lata as the first drops kissed her cheek.

At the terrace, Lata was already in motion, pulling down clothes from the line, rolling them quickly, carefully, hiding the damp edges before Kamala could see them scrape the floor.
Kamala joined her.
In seconds, the laundry was rescued.

The mother-daughter duo rushed back downstairs just as the drizzle turned heavier, faster, no longer a warning, but arrival.
The sound filled the house.
Pitter patter becoming rain.

On the terrace, raindrops hit the hot cement like batter hitting a sizzling tava, sharp, immediate, then softening into steam.
The roof hissed, then cooled, as the heat of the afternoon slowly surrendered.
Above, dark clouds hovered like strict supervisors inspecting unfinished work.

Downstairs, Lata returned to her game, head resting on a warm bundle of freshly saved clothes, legs swinging lazily off the sofa arm.
Kamala went back to her stove.
Another dosa.
Different shape this time. Same quiet determination.

Her face carried a small, unannounced glow—the satisfaction of having saved something ordinary, together.

If you know, you know. 😉

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