What Not To Do When You're In Love

07 | Biryani

07 | Biryani

A question to all Desis - what does a good biryani taste like?

In Kolkata, it tastes somewhat plain, yet heavenly, and it's quite simple to make. In Hyderabad, it's nothing like that. You'd probably want to dance when you have biryani from South India, even if you don't like to dance. And Pakistani biryani is a whole new story; it just takes you to a divine chamber of bliss with the very first bite.

Moral of the story : any biryani is good biryani, simply because there's no end to how many ways it's prepared and relished.

So the mystery was - if aunty Rahima loved the tea my mother taught me how to make, (and the mutton curry, too), shouldn't she have at least not insulted my recipe in front of everybody when she realised my biryani wasn't like what she was used to having?

She hadn't said that it wasn't good or anything. But she'd implied it in a way that broke my heart. Her exact words were, "Ruqya, make sure you ask the dulhan how the mutton was made, masha Allah, it tastes nice, but don't ask her about this biryani." And the face she made, it was explicit condemn for my mother's cherished recipe.

Like usual I was right across Hasan, and I automatically looked at him for moral support, but he never returned my gaze. Further devastated, I just let Hafsa squeeze my hand which she'd grabbed when she noticed how grave I'd become suddenly, and I sat and ate and appreciated my own biryani.

Everyone had eaten in silence, because of course, everyone had witnessed how laboriously all of us women had cooked for the feast, and how I was almost in tears, my food stuck in my throat mid-swallow because of the way my biriyani was criticised.

The thing wasn't even the judging, really. It was productive criticism, I understood, and I was not unhappy about that.

I just wasn't able to bear how she disregarded the fact that my family had loved and savoured the dish this way for decades; that it wasn't not good just because it didn't taste good to her. The biryani was exactly how my mother made it, something I felt proud of because it was my very first attempt from scratch. And hence it wasn't an insult to how I cooked, rather a direct offence to how my mother had taught me to do it.

But, obviously enough, there'd been no expression of emotions on my part, because who I came as to this family wasn't supposed to be speaking anything unsugared.

So the food was had, the guests were getting ready to go, Hasan was ignoring me because of how deeply I hurt him, and I was still lamenting all the leftover biryani on everyone's plates.

But not long after that I started crying about Ruqya Bhabi instead, because I wanted her around for longer, and had no idea when we'd meet again.

"Adinah, I really, really want you to visit us once, please do come," she said, and I promised I would, momentarily forgetting how the heck that could happen unless Hasan took me.

I met Shamim one last time, Isra and Ismail and Fareha and Ayesha and Sadaf and their parents, and Aunty Rahima.

Hasan took them to the airport, and with the guests gone, now the house was just Hasan's family, and me.

When I went back to my room, I was crying, and I wasn't sure if it was because of my underappreciated biryani, Ruqya Bhabi, or Hasan.

Then I prayed, and then I started crying again.

I was still in the midst of my dramatic emotional episode when Hasan entered.

I salaamed him, which he didn't return, and now I knew he really was mad about the way I turned him down before dinner.