Biryani

The occasion is not Eid or Navroz. Chandraat, the new moon falling on a Friday, it is not. There are no shaadis. No one has been born and no one has died. It is a Saturday and everyone is at home. All at leisure. Dad not on call—another doctor’s weekend. Dada watching cricket: India-Pakistan. Dadi swinging on the living room jhula reciting centuries old incantations. Nani on her third stencil of the day in her coloring book of paisleys and calligraphy. Nana standing by the sliding doors, staring at a neighborhood rabbit eating fleshy red-green fruit ovals fallen from the mango tree. She had buried a leftover pit under the earth on a whim before moving back to Kolkata for a decade, eventually returning stateside to its full growth. And Bhai is bench-pressing in his makeshift garage gym. The cousins and chachis playing gulam chor, a card game Dadi taught us how to cheat at (shhh!) when we were kids. A gaggle of uncles forming a loose perimeter around the kitchen. Teacups of half-drunken chai in every room. Ma has been preparing the feast since yesterday. She makes biryani the traditional way. Dum style. A storied recipe handed down from the royal chef of the first Nizam of Hyderabad. Instead of worn steel, a clay vessel with a thick coating of naan dough blankets the deep pot. When the pot is ready, she calls me over to help her move it to the countertop. Everyone gathers. Except Dada. A batsman has just hit a sixer. We peel off the naan. Steam. Jinn-like fragrances. Dada becomes alert. Cloves, star anise, cinnamon, peppercorns, bay leaf, coriander, cumin, green and black cardamom, and saffron. Peaks of potatoes atop the bed of rice. Goat medallions, jewels at glance, shred and melt to taste. Saffron bleeds into pink like nani coloring, out of line, a palace polygon from the Alhambra. Mouths swooning, family near, biryani is served.