This begins exactly where so many of our deepest food memories begin—
not in a restaurant, but in someone's kitchen.

When I was about eight or nine years old, my mother learnt to make biryani

from a dear family friend—a Mangalorean Muslim aunty

who had spent much of her life in Iran.

Her biryani carried more than spices.

It carried centuries of journeys.

Persian whispers.

Mughal elegance.

The warmth of a South Indian kitchen.

I didn't know any of that as a little girl.

All I knew was that this was the first biryani I remember tasting.

And it was made at home.

My mother had learnt it from someone she knew, brought the recipe into our kitchen,

and somewhere in those early years, biryani became one of the foods I loved.

I don't remember the exact first plate.

I don't remember what was said around the table.

What I remember is the food itself—the fragrant rice, the spices,

and the unmistakable aroma of biryani becoming familiar to me.

Perhaps that is how some foods enter our lives.

Not with a grand occasion.

Not with a story we know we will remember.

They simply arrive at the family table, and years later

we discover that they have quietly become part of us.

Biryani began for me at home.

I had no idea then how far it would follow me.

❤️

“I didn't know then how many people I would one day remember

through the aroma of biryani.”