Every Sunday morning, little Meera would run to the kitchen, her tiny footsteps echoing across the house.
“Papa, today also dosa, right?” she would ask, her eyes shining like she already knew the answer.
Her father, Rajan, smiled. He wasn’t the best cook, but he had mastered one thing - masala dosa with chutney and sambar. Not because he loved it, but because Meera did.
Years ago, when her mother passed away, Rajan had been left clueless in the kitchen. Meera was just three. One morning she had tugged his shirt and said, “Papa, Amma used to make dosa… can you?” That day, with clumsy hands, he burnt the first few, but Meera still clapped and ate them happily. From then on, every Sunday became “Papa’s dosa day.”
Years rolled by. Meera grew taller, busier with studies, then college. Still, every Sunday, she sat at the same dining table while her father flipped dosas on the old iron tawa, serving them with three chutneys and steaming sambar. He never let her lift a finger.
One day, she announced shyly, “Papa… I got a job abroad. I’ll be leaving next month.” His hand paused on the ladle, the sambar spilling slightly. He nodded with a smile, but his eyes carried a silence heavier than words.
On her last Sunday at home, Rajan woke up earlier than usual. He prepared not just dosas but also packed little jars of chutney powder, sambar masala, and a handwritten note:
“Wherever you go, my child, remember - life may not always taste perfect. But like dosa with chutney and sambar, every flavor together makes it complete. And whenever you miss me, just make a dosa… I’ll be right there with you.”
At the airport, Meera hugged him tight, tears rolling down. She whispered,
“Papa… no one in the world can make dosas like you.”
Rajan smiled, hiding his tears.
“Not true, Meera. One day, when you make it for your little one… you’ll see.”
And as she walked away, suitcase in hand, the father’s heart remained at that old dining table - waiting for the sound of her footsteps on another Sunday morning.
“Papa, today also dosa, right?” she would ask, her eyes shining like she already knew the answer.
Her father, Rajan, smiled. He wasn’t the best cook, but he had mastered one thing - masala dosa with chutney and sambar. Not because he loved it, but because Meera did.
Years ago, when her mother passed away, Rajan had been left clueless in the kitchen. Meera was just three. One morning she had tugged his shirt and said, “Papa, Amma used to make dosa… can you?” That day, with clumsy hands, he burnt the first few, but Meera still clapped and ate them happily. From then on, every Sunday became “Papa’s dosa day.”
Years rolled by. Meera grew taller, busier with studies, then college. Still, every Sunday, she sat at the same dining table while her father flipped dosas on the old iron tawa, serving them with three chutneys and steaming sambar. He never let her lift a finger.
One day, she announced shyly, “Papa… I got a job abroad. I’ll be leaving next month.” His hand paused on the ladle, the sambar spilling slightly. He nodded with a smile, but his eyes carried a silence heavier than words.
On her last Sunday at home, Rajan woke up earlier than usual. He prepared not just dosas but also packed little jars of chutney powder, sambar masala, and a handwritten note:
“Wherever you go, my child, remember - life may not always taste perfect. But like dosa with chutney and sambar, every flavor together makes it complete. And whenever you miss me, just make a dosa… I’ll be right there with you.”
At the airport, Meera hugged him tight, tears rolling down. She whispered,
“Papa… no one in the world can make dosas like you.”
Rajan smiled, hiding his tears.
“Not true, Meera. One day, when you make it for your little one… you’ll see.”
And as she walked away, suitcase in hand, the father’s heart remained at that old dining table - waiting for the sound of her footsteps on another Sunday morning.
