Somehow he didn’t seem that happy. As if he was doing me a favour. But that had always been his way. Every one of my wishes was obeyed grudgingly, even what was due to me.

“You always go after something totally unnecessary. Now who will finish all these?” he said.

“Don’t worry, I will manage that.”

My father who was past ninety lived in our ancestral house in the village. It was his desire to eat vadas without onions in them. He had mentioned it to all my brothers and sisters.

My elder sister ground urud dal in a mixie and made vadas without adding onions. But my father would have none of that. He wanted vadas from the “Brahmin hotel”. Long back, when my father had been teacher in the town school, he had eaten vadas from a “Brahmin hotel”. That taste still remains in his tongue, he would insist. It was a time when onion was a forbidden food to Brahmins and other “upper” castes.

My father had to walk six miles to reach the railway station. A coal-eating train was his only means to reach school in time. There was this one train to town in the morning and back in the evening. If he missed that, the only thing to do was to walk those six miles back.

It was more difficult the year following my grandmother’s death. There was a year of daily rituals. My grandfather, ever the patriarch, insisted on following all the rites. Get up before sunrise, bathe in the temple pond and offer cooked rice as bali (offering), dressed in wet mundu. After the bali, the bereaved would rush, eating rice with salt and a green chilli, My father would have covered two turns from the variyam(house where Variers’ live) by the time he had buttoned his jubba(kurta). Half running, he would cover those six miles.

Often, the train would be ready to leave. The station master could see my father from afar, as he came through the paddy fields and up the hill, the fair, lean, tall Varier sir, with a long umbrella in his hand. He would give the green signal only once my father entered the train, rushing across the platforms. The memories of that unspoken friendship still lingered fresh in my father’s mind.

My father’s difficulties did not end there. Since he had one-time fasting, he had to eat something at noon. He would walk to the nearby temple pond at lunchtime with the two bananas he carried. He would remove his mundu and jubba and leave it on the steps. Wearing only his loin cloth, he would dip his head in the pond once.

Then he dipped once more, this time with the bananas in hand. They might have become ‘unclean’ (ashuddam) on the way. He would eat the bananas standing in the water. Then he would dry his short hair with his hands, dress and reach school just as the bell rings. Then there was the evening’s train journey and the six –mile walk back.

It would be near midnight by the time he reached home, took bath, had something to eat and lay down. Then thankfully he would be off to sleep with memories of another pain-filled day.

I got all this from my father at various times. Memories that slipped out from nearly a century-worth of experience, some sweet, some sorrowful.

“We are nearing the hotel”. I woke up from my reveries with a start.

Once in two or three years, we would come home for a holiday. Sometimes, we would take a drive through the nearby city. One of those times, we stopped here to eat. Then I asked, “Do you make vadas without onions?”

The manager said, “We can’t make in small quantities as we mix it together in the big grinder. If you will take all the vadas in one mix, we can make without onions.”

“How many will that be?”

“Hundred- hundred and ten.”

“Oh, what can we do with so much? We will take it when we have a party or something.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he had started walking with the kids. It was with a regretful mind that I went back that day.

Today, when we went to the hotel, I said immediately, “Next Sunday, we want vadas without onions. Early.”

“Amma, we do the tiffin work only when lunch is over. Still, for you, we will give early. Around three or four o’clock.”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

I started calculating in my mind. If we got the vadas at four o’clock, and after a one hour’s drive, even after accounting for traffic jams, we can reach the variyam before 5.30. That was my father’s teatime. He will have them only with tea.

As we were driving back, he asked, “What will you do with so many vadas?”

“You don’t worry. I have made my plans.” It was my father’s birthday that Sunday. All the students of his Gita class would be coming. We had arranged to give them payasam, the prasad from the temple, in the morning. Still, everyone will come in the evening. I can give them all vadas, and the neighbours too. I calculated happily.

I couldn’t wait for Sunday to come. It was late when we finished lunch. I went to my father’s room.

“We will just go out and come, Acha.”

“Where are you off to this hot afternoon?” Age had not reduced the majestic authority in his voice.

“We will come back soon.” Saying so, I quickly walked out of the room and walked towards the car, not giving him any time for questions. I had already kept two casseroles ready inside the car yesterday; or I would have time only to answer my sisters. Let it be a surprise for everyone. I knew what they would say, “We have tried giving him vadas without onions. I made the batter myself in a mixie, But Achan doesn’t want that. He wants only vadas from the Brahmin hotel.” It was the sarcasm in her voice that I couldn’t bear most. They didn’t even consider that my father was hearing everything.

It was four by the time we reached the hotel. The vadas were almost ready. There remained just enough batter for one more batch.

“Put the rest in this casserole. That will do.” Saying so, I got the vadas and chutney and left the hotel.

My husband’s face was clouded when we entered the car, maybe because I paid them money for the lot. But we spend more than this for our occasional masala dosas and ice creams at ‘Nirula’.

My mind was in dreamland already. Thinking of the pleasure in my father’s hollowed-out eyes when I give him vadas with his evening tea.

“This doesn’t have onions?” would be my father’s first comment.

“No, Acha, I got them made especially for you at the Brahmin hotel.” I would reply. And then I could see my father enjoying his vadas to his stomach’s content.

The car reached the side road leading to the variyam. People were walking toward our house, singly or in groups.

“Why, what happened?” Oh, my dear God, why is no one speaking? What has happened in this short time?

We stopped the car in front of the variyam. I ran out, my hands still clutching the precious casserole.

There in the verandah lay my father. Sleeping peacefully. There were burning oil wicks in coconut shells at his head and at his feet. A burning lamp and incense sticks.

“It was around a half hour after you went. Achan had a hiccup. He called out to Valliettan(my elder brother). He tried to give him some medicines. Achan refused it and asked for Gangajal. Valliettan gave it thrice. The third time, the water dripped down through his cheeks.”

I did not even know who explained it all. My head was swimming. The casserole fell down with a thud. Vadas scattered here and there.

Lukewarm uzhunne vada.

My father’s favourite vadas.

Yes, vadas without onions.

 Featured by Sulekha