I was chatting with a friend a few weeks ago, and he said I could write about dreams and dreamscapes. I don’t dream much, I said. But there are things you want, wish that would happen, surely, he said. That is not dreaming, I said. That is thinking about things, wishing.
When you ardently wish for a situation, you’ll contrive to make it happen. That is when dreams turn into aspirations and goals. That is the difference.
Heat emanating from the perfectly puffed out circle of batura, awaiting a nail to puncture the tissue thin top layer that makes a globe out of a circle and let out clouds of steam; glistening with oil and darkly, richly, fragrantly inviting chole. I think of that.
A white mound of rice, almost too hot to handle; the ephemeral aroma of fresh and pungent mustard, still plump mango pieces, and oil seeping slowly into the rice; the dollop of sinfully red new avakaya awaiting the first mouthful of the year. I think of that too.
Thin and crisp all over, gold and brown shading into saffron and russet where the heat was too intense; dotted with green titillation of chillies and curry leaves; a vast expanse of aroma and taste explosion waiting to happen; the crackle crinkle pop of breaking off the first piece, the ineffable invitation of a rava dosa. I think of it.