Dosa and the Metamorphosis
“‘O God,’ he thought, ‘what a demanding job I’ve chosen!’”
—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
“The dosas, chutneys, and the rest of the menu, as well as the atmosphere of Indian languages I overheard, and even the sari on the wall did as much to satisfy my need for nostalgia as bridge what was becoming a harmful cultural divide in my place of work.”Illustration by Matthew T. Marco.
Pittsburgh — Lost in the narrow streets of Pittsburgh but with a new-found energy to explore my new city, I discovered Tamarind, its yellow walls adorned with a few modest handicrafts, serving my favorite Indian dish: Dosa—the South Indian staple eaten at the earliest breakfasts and latest evening meals alike. Eating the dosa, piled high with hot steaming coconut chutney immediately took me away from the loneliness and anger of my job and brought me back to the weekends I spent with grandparents, overhearing family gossip and listening intently to the wisdom they directed me to heed. Dosas, made with flour, are thin and crisp like French crepes and are used as a utensil to pick up meat, similar to Mediterranean pita bread—dosas at Tamarind were served with the coconut chutney and hot sambhar (piping-hot stew with an assortment of vegetables and spices). The dosas, chutneys, and the rest of the menu, as well as the atmosphere of Indian languages I overheard, and even the sari on the wall did as much to satisfy my need for nostalgia as bridge what was becoming a harmful cultural divide in my place of work.
For many of my co-workers, I was the first Indian they met, and they greeted me with a gamut of jokes about camels, elephants, and my accent. I wondered if they would have conjured such cultural insensitivity if I had not been just 25 years of age and flown in from California to be their manager. In their corner of America, the dense forestation and rural lifestyle scared me as I had always been an urban city brat. On phone calls with the friends I left in California, I often joked that if I wandered in the woods, I might be mistaken as a deer and shot. In reality, I faced a firing squad armed with ignorance and loaded with ill-formed stereotypes.
However, while they offered their mockery and disdain, I decided to offer them a taste of my heritage. I invited co-workers who seemed more flexible in their perspective and closer to my age to participate in a cultural exchange and explore the city’s few Indian restaurants, on the way, discovering Tamarind, and a friend in Carlos, who came to regard me as ‘another brotha from my mama.’ Meals for us became events, continuing for hours. Our order usually consisted of the following (in order), and I recommend it to those who enjoy spicy food:
- Dosa
- Chicken 555
Another South Indian staple found in every food joint in my hometown of Chennai. The chicken is marinated and filled with peanuts, coriander, basil, ginger and garlic, all cooked together. - Chili Chicken
- Chicken 65
Another Southern Indian staple. The chicken is coated in flour and spices, cooked in a hot claypot over a fire, and served dry. - Andhra Spicy Dosa
Hot, spicy chicken inside the dosa. Dosa can be had with your choice of fillings, but I recommend sticking with savory ingredients. - Lamb Chettinadu
Chettinadu is a Southern-Indian style of cooking characteristic of the Tamil-speaking people (Tamilians). - Chicken Chettinadu
- Two mango milkshakes
- Basket of Naan (flatbread made in a clay oven)
Moving did not frighten me, and I actually looked forward to it because I never really had my own space before. Emily Meehan, a columnist for the Wall Street Journal wrote an article called “Twentysomethings May Have To Move Away to Get Ahead” about the trend of recent college graduates ready to travel anywhere they can find jobs without the security of family or friends—a trend that Carlos and myself had followed to positions in a well-known financial institution that was bent on reducing costs.
We both reflected, we would never have been as good friends if we lived in California. We had different cultures and tastes, but we bonded because of the cultural imbalance we both felt in Pittsburgh as the only two non-whites in our office (and I soon noticed, I was the only immigrant in my apartment complex). But over a dish of chili chicken at Tamarind, I voiced internal debates on life, politics, work and where our paths would take us, Carlos would hit on the waitress and try to teach me the finer points of sports. This was our friendship: I took in the sights and sounds, and he would ensure there was always a pretty girl to meet up with. We ended up being a good tag team.
Although Carlos listened to my rants and raves and the advice I imparted, I think I also learned something from our friendship. I finally and truly understood the saying that ‘no man is an island,’ that being alone in a strange city can drive even the shyest and most stoic of people crazy, and ironically, one needs friends, companionship, or just to get out of the apartment to discover their self. I explained this epiphany to Carlos at Tamarind, and he could not agree more. Carlos was not just a friend, he was my family in Pittsburgh and he regarded me the same. (Note: we both moved back to California).
I invited co-workers to participate in a cultural exchange and explore the city’s few Indian restaurants, on the way, discovering Tamarind, and a friend in Carlos. This was our friendship: I took in the sights and sounds, and he would ensure there was always a pretty girl to meet up with. I finally and truly understood the saying that ‘no man is an island,’ that being alone in a strange city can drive even the shyest and most stoic of people crazy, and ironically, one needs friends, companionship, or just to get out of the apartment to discover their self.
Every company goes through management shuffles, and I capitalized on the internal turmoil in the hierarchy. After slightly more than a year in Pittsburgh, I moved back to California to set up and manage a new outsourcing relationship for my employer. My time in Pittsburgh had left its mark, and I began to wonder if the sacrifices I made for my job had changed me more deeply. In my pondering, I prodded friends and coworkers with carefully selected questions, trying to compare where I was with where they were in their lives. Most of my friends were clueless, still trying (or unwilling) to move on from their college days, but a few of them identified what I was going through and presented to me their slew of concerns. Some helped me with carefully selected questions of their own, but most left me speechless with their materialistic concerns—new cars and new clothes to show off at clubs and parties. But their concerns led me to question why I was working with the diligence of a whipped farm animal, and then I began to question why I myself had accumulated so many possessions that I couldn’t take the time to use and enjoy. I wondered if being a yuppie, in the “high life,” a materialistic bastard and proud, was what I really wanted. Academically, was I satisfied with my degree? Am I capable of going back to school?
I’m still young. Is this what I’m going to consider success for the rest of my life?
Every individual goes through a metamorphosis. Ironically, my time in Pittsburgh brought me closer to friends in California—giving me cooking tips at 4 a.m., keeping me sane (thank you for taking my calls). My time in management taught me that I had not taken a step up on a career ladder but that my job was a stepping stone to cross over, and that I am capable of doing more with my life. ■