Biryani

Some nights, even after a heavy dinner

I feel hungry,

And I trawl through my memories

To serve myself imaginary Biryani.

 

Calcutta’s biryani, with the aloo

Not any five-star Awadhi name

Just street biryani - simple, unpretentious

Sold in a giant pot

 

The vendor trading family recipes

For a few roadside rupees

Not knowing he sells much more

Beyond spices in a simmering pot

 

I revisit and re-relish that memory

The rice, light and thin

Laced with desi ghee

Mildly saffron and yellow

 

The aloo, just firm that

It begs to be broken, mashed

While the mutton, just soft

That it disintegrates on first touch

 

Ah, that aroma, that taste

The grease just perfectly sticking

To your satiated fingers

That it doesn't disappear with a soap-less wash

 

How I wish I had that plate right now

Heaped in amber rice,

A curtain of steam

Promising warmth and freshness

 

But I also realise

It will never taste the same

Not without the tropical heat

The grime and noise of a distant city

 

It was never about being hungry

It was being empty

It was not the memory of the taste

But the taste of the memory

 

Somewhere a vendor waits still

With his big pot of biryani

He wonders if he will sell enough

He doubts if his food has that appeal

 

He doesn’t realise

How far that aroma spreads

Beyond space and years

A distant morsel of fragrant memories….