The Khali Dose Moment - A Journey Back in Time!

 

Picture this…

It was 1985.
Bangalore wasn’t yet drowning in chaotic traffic and blaring horns. The air smelled of earth, the mornings were quieter, and the sun didn’t rush to rise - it painted the sky slowly.  I was a little girl just stepping into the world of schoolbooks and satchels, wide-eyed and quietly watching the grown-up world whirl around me.

Mom and Dad were working parents - striving, strong, and selfless. We had just moved into a modest home on the then-outskirts of Bangalore, far from the city’s pulsing heart where my mother worked. She served at Sheshadripuram College, which started at 7:30 am sharp. Getting there from Banashankari was no easy feat—buses were sparse, long waits at dusty stops were the norm, and the city was still learning how to hustle.

But what I remember isn’t the struggle.

I remember the ritual.

Each morning, bathed in the golden hush of dawn, my mother would gently wake me up and get me ready - her fingers weaving love into every button of my uniform. My father would chip in with morning chores, and together, on our beloved old Priya scooter, we’d set off. I’d stand in front, hugging the handlebar, the wind kissing my cheeks. Mom would sit behind, holding her handbag and maybe a bit tensed. 

We would glide through near-empty roads lined with whispering trees, the sky above wrapped in gentle hues of orange and pink. The city yawned in silence, almost blessing our journey with stillness.

We’d drop mom at Ramakrishna Ashram, where she’d board bus #14. And then, with time still on our side before school began, my father and I had our moment.

He would steer the scooter toward a quaint little spot - Dwarka Hotel, at Bull Temple Road. A haven of hot steel tumblers, aromas of filter coffee, and the unmistakable charm of Khali Dose. We’d park the scooter, walk in hand-in-hand, and he’d order one single dose just for me—soft, warm, humble. He would often just sip a coffee, his eyes watching me eat like it was a celebration.
No noise. No phones. Just love, on a steel plate.    

That one year - before my school timings changed—those quiet, mundane mornings stitched themselves deep into the fabric of my memory.

And then… time happened.
Years passed. The city grew noisier, and so did life. I grew up. My parents grew older. The scooter is now a car. The routes changed, our routines altered. But some things - like taste, like love, like memories - never really leave you. They just wait.

Fast forward to June 2025.

I am now a grown daughter with a career, responsibilities, and a heart full of gratitude. My mother fills her days with non-stop chores, devotional singing and spiritual retreats; my father, with cheerful service and friendships that have lasted decades.

This week, my mom had a spiritual group singing ritual at NR Colony. I offered to drop her every day, just like she used to get me ready each morning back then. Yesterday, as we stepped out, I turned to my dad and said -

"Why don’t we drop Mom and then go to Dwarka… for a Khali Dose? Just like those days?"

He looked at me, his eyes twinkling, a smile rising from somewhere deep: “Let’s go,” he said.

So, we did.    

Same Dwarka.
Same Khali Dose.
Same father and daughter.

Only this time, I was driving.
This time, I paid the bill.
And this time, I had a smartphone to click a photo of our hot, brimming plates.

And somewhere between the softness of the dose and the spice of the chutney, I felt it - 
Time had folded onto itself.
The past and the present held hands.
We were no longer chasing memories; we were living them again.

Life has a beautiful rhythm - a quiet, cosmic beat that brings us back to what we cherish, if only we’re listening.

In a world obsessed with upgrades, sometimes it’s the old things that nourish us the most.

I’ve passed that hotel a thousand times.
I’ve eaten dose's(dosa's) at countless places.
But Dwarka is different.
It holds a chapter of my childhood.
And yesterday, I turned that page once more.

We often think joy comes in grand gestures, luxurious escapes, or lavish gifts.
But the soul knows better.
Joy is a khali dose shared with your father in a modest old hotel.
Joy is returning to a memory and realizing - you’ve come full circle.

As you read this, pause.
What’s that one memory from your childhood that still warms your heart?
What if you could relive it - not as a repetition, but as a reflection?

Sit on the other side of the table.
Be the one who pays.
Drive the one who once drove you.
Order that one thing you loved as a child.
Because nostalgia isn’t about going back - 
It’s about carrying love forward.

If you ask me,
This - this ability to relive small joys - is life’s greatest luxury.
It doesn’t cost much. But it gives you everything.

So go ahead… taste your khali dose moment.
You’ll be surprised how full it leaves your heart.