The Famous Dosa Shop

November 14, 2025

A short story by Vasanth

My whole neighbourhood in Chennai is talking about this new fancy dosa shop that opened on the next street. A beautiful Saturday morning like this is the perfect time for a good breakfast after grinding through another week. I’m too lazy to drive my two-wheeler myself, and honestly, I’ve gotten comfortable with my laziness, especially on Saturdays, which bring out my worst. Let me call Kathir. I waited for him to answer my call, but he didn’t. A small knot of annoyance formed, but I’m too persistent to give up. He picked up the second time. “Hey Kathir, what’s up?” I asked, forcing genuine interest into my voice. I didn’t want to sound needy by asking for help right away. I barely registered his reply, something about a problem at his sister’s house, because my mind was already calculating how to get what I wanted. I needed to frame this request so it wouldn’t sound like begging, so he couldn’t possibly say no. “Dude, you said you wanted to try some new restaurants, right? My neighbour told me the new Famous Dosa Kadai is really good. Let’s go there for breakfast.”

He drew out a long “Hmmm… now?” That hesitation in his voice sent a small jolt of worry through me. He sounded like he wasn’t ready, like he wanted to postpone. No, no, no. Not happening. “Yeah, let’s go now. I have some work around 11 o’clock. If we miss this, we can only go next week.” The lie came easily, smoothly. “Okay dude, let’s go then. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Now came the real ask. I knew Kathir was the kind of friend who never hesitated, who always showed up, and that knowledge made the guilt settle heavier in my stomach. But not heavy enough to stop me. “Cool. Can you pick me up too? You know my motorcycle has some starting problems.” Another lie, effortless as breathing. “Sure dude,” he said, without a trace of suspicion or resentment. That easy trust made something uncomfortable twist inside me, but I pushed it away.

As I rode on his pillion seat, the guilt nagged enough that I tried to show some interest. “So what happened at your sister’s house?” I asked. “You know about my nephew, right? He was riding his bicycle this morning and someone tried to steal it. The nearby people caught the thief. My brother-in-law and some neighbours got furious and hurt him pretty badly,” he said.

“Why would someone steal a kid’s bicycle? I think he got what he deserved,” I said, not really thinking about it.

“He deserved it? Are you serious?” Kathir’s voice sharpened with passion. “You can’t just hurt someone like that for their mistakes. The right thing to do is call the police and let them do their job. Who are we to take the law into our own hands?”

His intensity made me uncomfortable. He defended the thief like it mattered, like morality wasn’t just a concept but something real. Before we could argue further, the smell hit us. We reached the Famous dosa shop. The pleasant aroma of crisp dosas melted through our tension, and we forgot what we’d been talking about. Food has a way of erasing everything else.

“Why would someone name any shop ‘The Famous Shop’?” he wondered as we approached. “Hmmm, I think the owners believe it will make them famous,” I said. “Screw that logic,” he laughed, and I laughed with him. “Ha ha, I’m going to start The Famous Underwear Shop.” “THE FAMOUS UNDERWEAR!” he shouted, not realizing we’d just entered. I shushed him, pulling his hand, both of us grinning like idiots. “A table for two,” I told the receptionist, hiding our stupidity.

The restaurant was impossibly full even at this hour, but we got lucky. A table opened within minutes. I ordered masala dosa; he started with plain dosa. We didn’t stop there. I devoured two dosas and four vadas, and Kathir practically worked through their entire menu. We were warriors, conquerors of breakfast. As we struggled with the final pieces, his phone rang. “Yes, bro,” he answered, mouthing to me that it was his brother-in-law. He stepped outside to take the call.

I attacked the remaining dosa like an animal, scraping my plate clean with satisfaction. Life was good. Life was perfect. I signalled for the bill, feeling full and content, and reached for my wallet.

My pocket was empty.

The realization hit like ice water. I’d forgotten my wallet. The comfortable warmth drained from my body instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping panic. Okay, okay! Kathir will be back any second. No problem. I have exploited him many times, but this time it was not intentional. The waiter will be here any minute with the bill. Kathir wasn’t back. My eyes kept darting to the door. Where was he? I should call him. I grabbed my phone. It shows 2% battery. My heart started beating faster. I hit call. The 2 turned to 1. The call didn’t connect. Hit call again. Nothing. The screen went black.

Dead.

“Fuck.” I said it out loud without realizing. The man at the next table shot me a disgusted look. My face burned with embarrassment.

Kathir would be back any second. Any second now. I kept telling myself this as I turned to stare at the door. Once. Twice. Ten times in a single minute. The waiter approached with the card machine and bill, and suddenly he seemed taller. Maybe I didn’t get a better view of him before. My earlier confidence had evaporated completely. My throat felt tight. What would I say? How would I explain?

“Can I get the menu?” The words tumbled out before I could think.

What? What the hell was I doing? But maybe I could order something, buy time until Kathir returned. “Of course, sir.” The waiter handed me the menu too quickly. I wished he would move slowly, wished time itself would slow down.

He stood beside me, looming, while I pretended to browse. I’d memorized this menu before my first dosa arrived, but my eyes traced every line like it was scripture. Finally, desperately, I ordered one masala dosa for takeaway. “Sure, sir. I’ll get your takeaway.” He rushed toward the kitchen. I wanted to say “Take your time,” to slow everything down, but he was already gone.

I moved to Kathir’s chair, the one facing the exit to get a better view of the door and better view of the security guard standing just outside. My mind raced through impossible scenarios. If only I could remember Kathir’s number, but I couldn’t remember anyone’s number except my mom’s, and she was 600 kilometers away. Time was moving impossibly fast now, each second ticking away like a countdown. I’d added an extra dosa to my existing bill of 512 rupees. Not much money. Not much at all, if I had my wallet.

Should I confess to the waiter? Tell him I forgot my wallet, ask for time to retrieve it? They’d never let me leave. They’d think I was trying to run. Sweat prickled on my forehead despite the air conditioning. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it, a drum announcing my shame to the entire restaurant.

The waiter appeared with my carry bag. “Here is your takeaway, sir.” His smile was kind. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” I replied mindlessly. My voice sounded desperate, pathetic. He gave me a strange look but smiled again. “I’ll get your bill, sir.” He walked away, and I felt tears prickling behind my eyes. I was going to cry. Over 500 rupees. Over my own stupidity and selfishness.

One last glance at the door. The security guard was gone. My body tensed. Maybe I could just walk out. The thought was insane, humiliating, but it gripped me with desperate urgency. The waiter was at the counter. The door was clear. Now. It had to be now.

One. Two. Three.

I started to stand.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I almost screamed, my heart exploding in my chest. Kathir. It was Kathir. He’d come through a different door. Relief flooded through me so intensely my knees felt weak.

“What happened?” he asked, concerned.

I wanted to collapse against him. My eyes filled with tears. “Sorry, Kathir. I forgot my wallet.” The words came out broken, small. He looked at me strangely. “So what? I’ll pay, and we can split later. Why are you apologizing for this? Did something happen while I was gone?”

“I… I thought you wouldn’t come back, and I don’t have the money to pay the bill. I’m sorry, Kathir.” He couldn’t understand what I’d just gone through in the past twenty minutes of silent panic. The relief should have felt good, but it didn’t. It felt hollow. Because now, with him standing here, so casual and unconcerned, offering to pay without a thought, I didn’t feel saved.

I felt guilty.

The weight of guilt sat heavier than any unpaid bill ever could.