When we were growing up, the daala in the household was like the loveable oldie. You liked the feeling of having them around but they were never the center of anything. You focused elsewhere.
The small ones were called daala and the bigger ones pachia. The mudhi was had in a daala, boiled rice was strained in a pachia.
They were cheap. Though, they were never disposed. Some were as old as my father’s marriage. Others kept time of his younger siblings’ marital calendar. They came holding dowry gifts and stayed long after.
These days, they are a curio. They are no longer cheap, at least, not in cities. They are the center piece. Like a rockstar who has aged. More fitting in TV talkshows than the corner room in the house.
We use them carefully. Must be shocking to their race, who have always been used carelessly. Though never with disdain.
Mudhi is too undeserving. It’s cherry that deserves pulling out the daala. Gone are the days when the fiber soaked the oils and fats and aged with you. We like to keep it spotless now.
The daala does not live in the kitchen. It stays in the cupboard with the fancy china and cutlery. Or, in the shelf above the Aldos and Da Milanos in the study.
The daalas and the pachias have moved up. Took a few generations but they have. Though, their makers are exactly where they were.
