Bridging the Gap, Sharing the Dosa

Whenever someone hears me call my mother-in-law “Amma” and my father-in-law “Appa” (which, yes, are literally what my husband calls his parents too), I can see the confusion flicker across their faces. It's usually followed by a slightly nosy whisper:

“Wait… do you live with your in-laws?”

By now, I’ve mastered the art of the mysterious smile-and-nod. But the real entertainment starts with the follow-up:
“And you’re… okay?” “Like… really okay?” “No problems?”

I usually respond with, “Who doesn’t have problems with family?” and laugh a little too enthusiastically. Their stunned expressions are nothing new—I’ve been collecting them since I got married.

In fact, back then, a few people didn’t even wait for trouble. With that all-knowing grin and the tone of someone who has “seen things,” they’d casually ask,
“Shuru aitha?” Translation: “Have you started fighting yet?”

Because apparently, marriage comes with a countdown timer to the first argument.

But the truth is, I had excellent role models. I grew up watching two incredible women—my mother and my paternal grandmother (Avva, as we fondly called her)—run the household like a well-oiled emotional machine. I’ve seen Avva patiently plait my mother’s hair and help her learn and write in Telugu while she prepped for her music exams. I’ve seen my mom go to Avva for advice, for recipes, for stories, and sometimes just for a chat.

Did they ALWAYS get along? Of course not. They had their share of disagreements—because hello, two women, one kitchen! But the way they disagreed – with grace, kindness, and a little strategic silence when needed. That image made the idea of a multi-generational family feel... natural. Familiar.

But my bond with my in-laws isn’t a copy-paste of what I saw at growing up. I don’t go to them for every dilemma. I don’t share every single unfiltered thought that pops into my head (they’re probably grateful for that, honestly). And no, that doesn’t make me a bad daughter-in-law—it just makes me a millennial bahu.

Each generation grows up in a different world. My grandparents didn’t even have phones. My parents had a landline in the middle of the house that everyone eavesdropped on. Later they had trusty Nokia bricks. We did have smart phones only after we joined the workforce. Now, kids practically pop out with a phone in one hand and Wi-Fi in the other. If something as basic as a phone is that different across generations, imagine how wildly our values, expectations, and life skills vary.

In a multi-generational home, the younger folks crave freedom—the freedom to make mistakes, to learn their own lessons, and to do it without commentary from the living room peanut gallery. The older generation seeks respect—respect for their experiences, their words, and for the 1001 things they’ve done to hold the family together.

Both are valid. Both are right. The challenge is striking that sweet spot between freedom and respect—kind of like trying to make the perfect dosa. Crispy edges, soft center, not too oily.

Having said all the above its not like I always handle things gracefully. I lose it sometimes. The overwhelm builds, the fuse shortens, and my poor husband takes the heat. I rant, I sulk, and then I write. Writing helps me breathe, untangle the knots, and even laugh at the madness.

And no, I don’t always wait for the perfect pause or the right tone. Sometimes, I say it loud and raw, straight from the eye of the storm. Not polished, not poetic—but honest. Brutally honest!

And that honesty, from all sides, is what really makes multi-generational living work. Because at the end of the day, it’s not just about one generation adjusting for another. It’s about everyone showing up with a little more patience, a little more tolerance, and a whole lot of empathy. The young need freedom, the elders deserve respect—and in the space between, there's room for connection.

As we say in Kannada, "ellaru mane dose thoothe"—every home’s dosa has holes. It’s not a defect; it’s a signature. A reminder that perfection isn’t the goal—togetherness is. And if we can stop obsessing over the holes, we might just enjoy the dosa. Together.