A dosha and sambar microstory.

Growing up in a suburb twenty kilometres from Kuala Lumpur in the 1980s, I hardly felt connected to my Indian roots.

My second-generation Malaysian Indian parents tried their best to keep my sister and me connected to our Kerala roots. We spoke basic Malayalam, wore traditional clothes on special occasions, and ate Kerala-style dishes almost every day.

Yet, I always felt mixed up inside. I was never entirely Indian, didn’t feel like a Malayalee penkutty or  Malayalee girl at all, and, as I grew older, I often asked myself whether simply being Malaysian was truly enough.

Every Wednesday, when I was eleven and my sister was eight, we would go to a well-known cultural centre in the city that offered Indian music and dance classes.

My sister, Ameeta, gravitated towards Bharatanatyam and Sangeetham classes, while I opted for… nothing at all!

My parents tried their best to persuade me to join her but eventually succumbed to my persistent refusal — with one condition.

I had to accompany the cutie pie brat whenever she attended classes at the Temple of Fine Arts. My job was to wait for her until her classes ended, then stay with her until one of our parents arrived to pick us up.

In entrusting me with my chechi or older sister duties, they had hoped that spending time at the vibrant cultural centre would inject some Indian qualities into me and, in time, spark an interest in joining a class or two.

Hope was but a passing ship in deep waters.

I never once felt the urge to step aboard the ship of Indian culture or become part of its crew.

Instead, I was more than content catching glimpses of Indian culture from the outside. That was all I ever needed and wanted.

While I waited for my sister to finish her classes, I was usually the silent, almost invisible observer. I would look through the glass window of her classroom for the first five minutes. Once I was sure the lesson was underway, I would begin my own little exploration of the day.

I would slowly wander from class to class, watching students practise their Aramandi, sing complicated thevaram songs, or give their fingers a good workout on the mridangam or tabla.

The students, dressed in their red-and-white salwar kameez uniforms, would run here and there, some accompanied by their parents, others by their friends.

They seemed genuinely happy to immerse themselves in Indian culture, guided by the centre’s founder, Swami Shantanand Saraswathi — whose birthday, incidentally, was the same as mine.

Being the shy, introverted girl that I was, I never walked up to him to touch his feet for blessings like the other children did whenever they spotted him. I was not explicitly taught to touch the feet of older or spiritually advanced individuals on a daily basis, but only on certain occasions.

So I would first walk to their small shop, where I would catch glimpses of grown-ups browsing Indian clothes, jewellery, and trinkets. Then I would head straight to the little brick hut outside the building, where the canteen was located.

After checking the day’s menu and making sure my favourite item was available, I would muster all the courage I had and order a ghee dosha, the crisp South Indian rice and lentil crepe.

I paid with the pocket money I got from Acha and Amma, just for these occasions. I still remember the excitement when I sat on chopped tree trunks that served as stools.

My dosha was on its way!

What joy it was to see my dosha placed before me. It always arrived on a stainless steel compartment plate.

The crispy brown dosha sat in the large rectangular section while three smaller square compartments contained minty green coconut chutney, spicy red chutney, and the pièce de résistance, beautiful warm brown sambar.

One taste of the comforting lentil-based curry — with its tangy, savoury flavours, a tinge of spice, and a smattering of soft, mushy potatoes made my day.

I dipped the crispy dosha into the sambar, savouring the delicious  combination, particularly when the gravy trickled down my throat.

On days when I felt a little braver, I would ask the aunty or uncle at the counter for extra sambar. Then I would happily abandon the two chutneys. Who cares about chutney when there is satisfying sambar? Certainly not me!

The Malaysian-born Indian students danced, sang, and played music to connect with the culture of their ancestors. I, too, took the opportunity to get to know my culture better — one mouthful of dosha and sambar at a time.