salvation by salivation

I still don't know who makes holy water holy. I am pretty confused as to the prerequisites for Heaven and Hell, and I always feel restless in temples or churches. I think my apathy to the institutions, to the pandits and priests, to the rules and the fear, is inspired almost wholly by my parents. My mother and father instilled in me a sense of wonder and excitement, a sense of modesty beside the majestic contours of the Earth; they taught me how to revel in good music, in good art, in good people. And in good food. Apparently, God doesn't just live within all of us, but within gourmet meals and exploding stomachs.

I awoke to a still morning, shattered only by the crackling of morning tea, and then the heavy chatter of humans in the family room. While I was eating my toast, my mother told me we should take my grandmother to the mandir [temple]. I sighed heavily and asked her which one. "Ruch, remember? The one that serves idli dosa?" My frustrations quickly became anticipation. "Wait, there is a temple that serves idli and dosa?" And then my grandmother chimed in. "Yes, we went there last time I came. They serve idli and dosa." Just to reiterate, in case someone had missed the message, my mother repeated herself. "It is a temple that serves idli and dosa."

I went to the gym (I am still trying to work off my paneer from my recent India trip, as well as the implications of free cupcakes at the office). When I came back home two hours later, my father patted me on the head and told me I had an hour to get ready. I asked him if we were going to the temple that served idli and dosa. He shook his head. "No. We decided to go to that restaurant, Moghul Express. Everyone got excited about the idli and dosa so we thought we would skip the mandir and just get the goods."

I agreed with the decision. I got ready in about 30 minutes and we reached the restaurant about 90 minutes later. We laughed and listened to music and wished for world peace en route. As we licked the last of our plates clean, I realized that we managed to attain a sense of contentment for which people search their entire lives. I touched my mother's hand, and she touched mine. And then my dad mistakenly spit ice cream in my face, while my sister videotaped the scene.

Bon Appetit.