Dosa gone wild

 

Dosa gone wild

         … Identity Crisis of the Modern Dosa

 

The humble masala dosa has suffered the exact same identity crisis as  filter coffee. What started as a simple, honest morning staple has morphed into a high-tech, multi-layered ingredient  and culinary experiment.

 

There was a time in Mysore when ordering a Masala dose was one of the simplest transactions in human history. You walked into a tiffin Room, sat down, and said:               …  “Swamy ondu masale ”

That was it. No counter-proposals. No cross-examinations.

A few minutes later, out it came,placed  on a fresh banana leaf sitting on a stainless steel plate: a golden-brown, crisp-at-the-edges, soft-in-the-middle crepe folded neatly over a warm, comforting mountain of yellow potato-onion masala, accompanied by a dollop of white coconut chutney and a splash of piping hot sambar. You tore a piece, scooped the potato, dipped it in Sambhar , and knew this is Nirvana. No app. No QR code. No customization matrix.

 

Then came the modern gourmet food chain and the street-food fusion labs.

So I thought, let me just have a simple, honest dosa. I walked into one of the  trendy glass-fronted "…….”swaram” cafés with an air of quiet confidence...

“Sir, what would you like? We have the menu right here.”

 

"Masala Dosa, please".

“Right. Which base? Traditional fermented rice-urad dal? Rava? Millets—ragi, jowar, or bajra? Oats? Or maybe our signature Quinoa-Moong dal blend?”

 

Yappa ! I only said dosa! I wanted the thing that pairs with chutney.

“Okay, moving to the style. Paper dosa? Set dosa? Family roast? Mini set Or the 4-foot-long Banner Dosa?”

I stuttered “ normal size if you please your Honour ”.

“Great. Now for the filling inside. Classic Mysore aloo masala? Or do you want to explore? We have Schezwan potato, Paneer Tikka, Chettinad Mushroom, Corn and Spinach, or our signature Italian Pasta Dosa?”

Paneer and pasta inside a dosa?! AYYO Shivanae beda beda ! (ಅಯ್ಯೋ ಶಿವನೇI ಬೇಡ ಬೇಡವೇ ಬೇಡ) came for breakfast, not an identity crisis.

But they are not finished.

“Now for the spreads and drizzles! Red garlic chutney? Red chili Chutney powder  (gunpowder)? Olive oil? Fresh White butter? Mayonnaise, peanut butter, Or extra-loaded Amul Ghee?”

     “No butter swimming pool, please your Honour,"  !

 

“And toppings” ? Grated processed cheese, liquid cheese, paneer cubes, chopped capsicum, schezwan sauce, or……kesari baath” ?KESARI BAATH  ? On a Dosa ?! Eeks NO !

 

At this point, I am wondering whether I am ordering breakfast or drafting a blueprint for a multi-level  flyover.

And then there is always someone standing ahead of you in line who has memorized the entire quantum physics syllabus of modern Indian street food:

“Brother, make it a Jini Dosa, half-crispy, extra schezwan, loaded with Amul cheese, paneer bhurji inside, butter garlic podi on the outside, and cut into 16 tiny pizza slices!”

 

I am standing behind thinking: “Abbha! Idhu dose orderenaa- illa   Automobile  factory assembly line Process-aa ?” (ದೋಸೆ ಆರ್ಡರ್ರೇನಾ ಇಲ್ಲ ಆಟೋಮೊಬೈಲ್  ಫ್ಯಾಕ್ಟ್ರ ಅಸೆಂಬ್ಲಿ ಲೈನ್ ಪ್ರೋಸೆಸ್ಸಾ)

 

Unlike, in the old days “ Swamy,  masale ” .is finished.

 

And then comes the bill. ₹280… ₹350… ₹450…& even ₹.1000/- for one embellished with gold rake….For a dosa?! For that kind of cash, back in OUR days, we could feed a family of eight, buy twelve coffees, and still have enough loose change to tip the Waiter handsomely..

And after paying a king's ransom, they hand you a massive black slate or a fancy wooden platter. You look down. The dosa is stretched thinner than a developer’s patience, pinned under a skyscraper of shredded cheese, a drizzle of neon-orange mayo, and a solitary sprig of microgreens that looks like a lost blade of lawn grass.

You try to pick a piece up with your hand, and your fingers plunge straight into a swamp of melted cheese or Schezwan sauce. By the time you get a bite to your mouth, your sleeve is dyed in red chutney and your dignity is hanging by a thread. At that point, it is no longer South Indian tiffin. It is a tectonic plate collision between Milan, Beijing, and K.R Circle.

 

Give me my old Mysore Dasprakash  tiffin room "mas saaale" any day: The clatter of stainless steel plates. The aroma of mustard seeds and curry leaves popping in hot oil. A steaming hot crispy masala dosa served straight off a seasoned cast-iron tawa.

No  35-step checklist. No “Would you like to upgrade your protein?”

 

Just: “Swami swalpa roastaagi haakisi”  (ಸ್ವಾಮಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ರೋಸ್ಟಾಗಿ  (ಕ್ರಿಸ್ಪ್ಯ್ಪ್) ಹಾಕ್ಸಿ “

And the answer would always be a  “Sari Saar “ ( “ಸರಿ ಸಾರ್ ”) That’s all.

Maybe this is what we old-timers know. We don’t have twenty-four fusion toppings or chocolate-cheese-corn experiments. But somehow... we still know what a Mysore masala dosa is supposed to taste like.

The Quiet Extinction ……..Silent Springs and Empty Canopies

 

The Quiet Extinction

     ……..Silent Springs and Empty Canopies

 

When a former classmate returned to India after 40 long years, his words pierced like a knife through the veil of our collective denial: “I never expected to see so much filth and places so terribly ravaged.” This wasn't just a casual critique. It was a mournful cry from someone who had just journeyed through the Malnad region and the sacred, deep forests of Bandipur, Nagarahole, and the Kabini backwaters.

Decades ago, these pristine lands were counted among the most beautiful places on Earth. There was a time when the countryside breathed in harmony—where dirt paths, quiet fields, humble hamlets, and ancient forests merged seamlessly into an unobtrusive, living fabric. The wilderness possessed an unpretentious, quiet soul.

But in less than three short decades, a colossal, heartbreaking destruction has swept across the land. The calm, tranquil landscapes of our memories have been rendered utterly grotesque. In our desperate, stampeding rush for "prosperity," we have traded our heritage for ugliness.

Even worse, we have allowed our spirits to be numbed by a toxic "Chalta Hai" (anything goes) attitude. We look away from unfinished roads, construction debris, dug-up sidewalks, collapsed drains, and the ruthless encroachment of agricultural lands and forests. The generosity that once defined us is suffocating; the wide sidewalks of Bangalore and Mysore, where citizens once walked, sat, or practiced Pranayama, have vanished. Gone are the days when residents lovingly tended planter boxes of flowers just for the spontaneous joy of passing strangers.

A recent journey through Coorg, once proudly called the Scotland of India, felt like an endless torture of the soul. All along the way, columns of black, toxic smoke billowed from burning roadside garbage and asphalt mixers. Tonnes of plastic littered the earth, and the suffocating stench of trash competed with the chaotic roar of traffic.

The desecration far away from the cities is even more devastating. By ripping apart the Western Ghats—one of the world’s most precious, life-sustaining biodiversity hotspots—we are tearing away our own shroud of life. As trees and lakes vanish, replaced by concrete monoliths of boring uniformity, our cities are turning into sweltering cauldrons. With the loss of forests, our monsoons, weather patterns, and ancient traditions are bearing the brutal brunt of this assault on Nature.

Yet, amidst the suffocating smoke and concrete, a fragile ember of hope still burns.

It is deeply gratifying to see a genuine, fierce concern for nature waking up within our children and youth. From the heart of urban slums to remote villages, parks, and mountains, young people are rising. They are launching passionate initiatives to heal the earth, proving that our bond with the wild is not completely dead.

If more of us can be inspired by their light, if we can come together to fiercely guard what little is left and desperately regenerate what has been lost, we can still mend our broken relationship with Mother Earth.

Now, more than ever before, we must act. We cannot afford to look away. Our very survival depends on it.

Stalked ……….by biodatas.com

 

Stalked

          ……….by biodatas.com

 

I officially closed our  premium matrimonial account eleven  years ago. I paid our dues, endured  those awkward  online “meet-and-greets", and eventually realized that finding a match via compatibility Processing was about as effective as predicting rain by looking at fermented idli batter. I clicked "Cancel Subscription," received my confirmation email, and breathed a sigh of relief. I was free………….or so I thought.

As it turned out, entering a Tambrahm matrimonial database is less like signing up for a service and more like joining a highly organized, relentless digital cult. You can check out anytime you like, but your jaatakam and sub-sect details will be used to target you until the  death of the universe.

Lately,(ie. as late as 11 years.later ) my inbox looks less like a personal email account and more like a desperate, automated matchmaking convention at Mylapore Fine Arts during Marghazhi season. Despite my account being completely, thoroughly,  absolutely lapsed, the platform has decided that the  marital status of the profile  is still an open-ended debate. Suddenly,every morning from last seven months , I am greeted by  notifications flashing messages of extreme life-or-death urgency: “Urgent ! 47 USA-Settled MS/IIT Software engineers with Pure Veg Habits are Waiting for your Bio-Data! ”

First of all, I highly doubt forty-seven  Silicon Valley techies are collectively sitting around  a cafeteria waiting for this particular  profile, who has grown up   eating   thayir sadam  for breakfast,lunch & Dinner. Second of all, where were these enthusiastic, professionals when we were actually paying a hefty monthly premium month after month ? Back then, the algorithm’s top recommendation for our profile  was a lass  whose primary personality trait was "can recite four  lines of a slokam" and a profile picture featuring a blurry photo of her  family's vintage Bajaj Chetak.

The marketing strategy has shifted from polite suggestion to emotional sabotage. I regularly receive subject lines like, “Is your wife  getting impatient for a daughter-in-law?” which is a fascinating psychological tactic.The site has somehow adopted the persona of an overbearing, filter-coffee-addicted Grand Aunt  who refuses to leave your living room until you show her a few selected horoscope charts.

The sheer variety of the "Exclusive, Limited-Time Offers" we receive is staggering. Apparently, because our account lapsed, we are now eligible for the "Early Bird Sani Peyarchi Discount," followed closely by the "We Miss Your Wallet Sale," and the incredibly specific "Get 40% Off Because We noticed you Logged In from an IP Address near a Kalyan Mandapam in Tirumanancheri”

They’ve also started sending me daily "Matches of the Day" with profiles completely greyed out, accompanied by text that reads: “Unlock Sumithra’s face and Gothram for just Rs.99.99 !” It’s a bold business model, transforming the sacred bond of marriage into a pay-to-play commercial mobile game

I’ve tried blocking the emails. I’ve tried marking them as spam. But this matrimonial site operates with the persistence of a horror movie villain—or a pesky relative at a family wedding. I could delete my email address, move to a remote cave in the Western Ghats, throw my phone into a holy river, and I am entirely convinced a carrier pigeon would still arrive with a scroll reading: “ Last Chance! Special Premium Discounts only for you!  ………  for Rahu Ketu Dosham profiles accepted! ”

South Indian matrimonial websites have achieved the impossible: they took the traditional, meddling neighborhood “ maami ”, digitized her, expanded her hobby  using online servers, and slapped a hefty monthly subscription fee on her nosey habits. It is a brilliant business where love is optional, but a biodata PDF with a blue background is mandatory.

So, here’s to the matrimonial platform. Thank you for believing in our matrimonial aspirations far more than our  own astrologer ever will. And more importantly, thank you for reminding us every single day that while finding a match  is hard, a relentless marketing algorithm is truly forever.

 

 

IR Stupid

That absolutely terrible feeling when you stay awake from 5 in the morning to book an IRCTC  ticket on current booking and strangely decide to sleep for 3 mins at 7.55, only to wake up at 8.05 and hurriedly book the ticket which shows you wait-listed at 11.  I are stupid !

Now what to do.Darn!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

🧠 The 3-Minute Nap That Cost Everything

04:55 AM – The Awakening                                        

                                                           

 Wake up.

No alarm needed.

Pure adrenaline.

All set to  battle the IRCTC portal.

“ I R  digital warrior.”

🧠 05:00 AM to 07:54 AM – The Waiting Game

 Stare at the screen.

Two full hours of nothing.

 Stare at the wall.

 drink water.

 Stretch/massage the fingers.

 feel invincible.

07:55 AM – The Fatal Thought

 have five minutes.                                                     

 eyelids weigh ten tons.

 “ will just blink."

A tactical three-minute “snooze."

 A master of time ?

🧠 08:04 AM – The Panic

Eyes snap open.                                                     

The clock says 8:04:23.

The universe laughs.

heart drops down into  stomach.

Screeeam!

🧠 08:05:11 AM – The Mad Dash

 type like a demon.

 fingers hit every wrong key.

The Captcha looks like ancient hieroglyphics

. sweat profusely.

  Click   'Book’

 

🧠 .08:06 AM – The Reality Check

      Screen loads.

Status: WL 11 (Wait List).

At 8:00 AM, there were 506 seats

.By 8:05: 26 AM, all  gone.

      Stayed awake for three hours only to miss the target by five minutes.

      Now What ??

🧠 Official Self-Diagnosis

Brain Status: Critical failure.

Decision Making: Lower than a boiled potato

Current Mood: Wanting to apologize to 33 crore Gods &  ancestors.

     Lesson Learned: Never trust a "quick blink" at 7:55 AM.

   Blink & you will miss

In the world of  current booking  WL 11 is death  Warrant

 

 

Selfies, Snacks, and Safaris

 

Selfies, Snacks, and Safaris

Welcome to the modern Indian wilderness, where the ancient call of the wild has been thoroughly drowned out by the clang  of a luxury resort’s welcome bell 🍄  and the aggressive revving of three dozen Maruti Gypsys. If you thought the point of visiting a tiger reserve was to experience peace and witness nature untamed, you are hopelessly stuck in the last century.. Today, a wildlife safari is less about wildlife and  more about ensuring Instagram followers know you can afford it.Here is a look at the current state of India’s wildlife "conservation" scene, where the only thing being preserved is the bank account of fancy forest Lodges & luxury resort owners.

  Once upon a time, a trip to a forest lodge meant a cozy room, a mosquito net, and a flashlight. Today, jungle resort prices in India have skyrocketed to astronomical heights, rivaling a weekend trip to London.  💰 To truly experience "nature," you must now pay for a private plunge pool overlooking a watering hole, an artisanal organic breakfast served in a curated thicket, and a "nature guide" who points at a common myna with profound spiritual ecstasy. It turns out that saving the planet requires spending ₹40 K  a night. If you can’t afford it, are you even really an environmentalist ?

If you somehow manage to survive the resort bill, the forest department has its own taunting welcome gift ; unscientific camera fees based purely on lens dimensions. In the eyes of wildlife bureaucracy, a lens isn't just a tool for photography; it's a weapon of mass revenue generation. If your lens looks like a large thermos flask, you will be taxed as if you are shooting a Hollywood feature film. It doesn't matter if you are a penniless hobbyist trying to capture a standard shot of a langur; if your lens is long, your wallet must be …….deep. . Apparently, a larger piece of glass inflicts deep psychological trauma on a tiger.Meanwhile, a tourist with a flagship smartphone shooting 4K video on a  blasting  digital zoom gets off entirely scot-free.

Let’s be honest: Jungle Safaris have officially mutated into a social status symbol for the affluent. It’s the new Rolex.💅. Tracking a tiger is no longer about patience, biology, or luck; it is a competitive sport played on social media.

The goal is to post a photo captioned "Disconnecting with the world " while actively connected to high-speed resort Wi-Fi, sipping a glass of imported wine. The wilderness is the new Race course—a place to network, flaunt premium outdoor gear that has never ever seen dust or real mud, and assert dominance over the “middle” class who are stuck watching National Geographic at home.

The pinnacle of the modern Indian safari experience is the congregation of dozens of safari jeeps at the exact same spot ,the exact same moment a predator is sighted.  

                                             [Safari Jeep]

              [Safari Jeep] ->                                               <- [SafariJeep]                                    

                                               

          [Safari Jeep] ->                           <- [Safari Jeep]

[Safari Jeep] [Safari Jeep]          [Safari Jeep] [Safari Jeep]

                     [Safari Jeep] -> 📸 <- [Safari Jeep]

Nothing says "untamed wilderness" quite like being trapped in an exhaust fume-choked gridlock that resembles central Bangalore at 6:00 PM. The moment a tiger flicks its tail three kilometers away, a frantic radio call goes out, and thirty five  Gypsys descend upon the scene like vultures. Drivers jockey for position, gears grind, and bumpers clash, all so that hundred fifty  tourists can simultaneously take the exact same blurry photo    

.  Animals in Indian reserves have adapted to a new apex sound: 📢noisy tourists with absolutely zero concern for wildlife. The sacred silence of the forest is routinely shattered by people loudly complaining about the heat, shouting at their children, or yelling across jeeps to ask if anyone brought snacks. When a tiger actually appears, the reaction isn't silent awe—it’s a collective uproar of "Look here Dude ! " and "Oi, tiger, face this way !" It’s a miracle the animals haven't started charging admission fees for putting up with the circus.

  Finally, we must celebrate the mushrooming jungle resorts all around the dwindling forests. In a beautiful display of irony, dozens of concrete & steel  "eco-resorts" clear hectares of buffer-zone land, put up electric fences that block ancient elephant corridors, and install loud diesel generators—all to give tourists an "authentic", undisturbed forest experience. As the actual game reserves shrink to the size of local city parks, the ring of luxury “Nature retreats” around them grows tighter. Soon, the animals won't even need to leave the park to see wild(est) life; they can just look through the electrified chain-link fences and watch humans wallowing in  pools, entirely oblivious to the irony.