The apocalypse has a strange way of putting
things into perspective. Makes you realize exactly what every person, every
interaction, every meal, every impulsive purchase, every haircut, every piece
of clothing, every pair of shoe, meant, means, the space it occupies in some
dusty corner of your room or house or mind, sometimes over-used, sometimes
maybe untouched, possibly stained with fleeting reams of potential. I have been
looking long and hard at some areas of personal asset ownership and can’t help
but feel how excessive I have been. The shoe cabinet especially, its shelves in
varying stages of aging, some parts slowly resembling a tomb that Indiana Jones
ends his adventures in, induces shame and regret in equal measure. Did I really
need those Blazer ‘77s, or AirMax 90s? Fuck, they seemed so important then, but
now I’ve almost hidden them away, like symbols of failure, reminding me of
something I’d rather forget. I’m also rationalizing the nostalgia factor.
Padma, my Standard 350, who has been with me through a few cities and accidents
and much death defying recklessness in and around Bangalore, is a shadow of her
former self, somewhat like an aged grandmother who, until a few years ago raged
at the 60 something daughters-in-law over an under spiced rasam, is now looked
at forlornly by her sons, amidst whispers of “so old, time has come”. So old,
time has indeed come.
My meals too have been rationalized to advocate
my current thought process. I’ve looked at finding solace in the meals I grew
up hating, with vegetables I detested from the bottom of my heart, which now
provide me with a strange sense of comfort. Ridge gourd, sambar cucumber,
chayote (Bangalore kathrikai), chowlikai (cluster beans), cabbage, sabakki
soppu (country dill) have all made their way back onto my plate. I’m finding
familiar ease in a dhodka or raw mango chutney, in the warmth of an ampti or
mavinkai tavvi with rice, which have replaced my general cravings. The bitter
sweetness of the North Karnataka versions of these preparations is a perfect
analogy for the middle-class guilt bubble we exist in, particularly in our
current situation, a sadness for the less fortunate and a profound gratitude
for our sense of safety, misplaced or otherwise. At least you’re home and
that’ll do.
The excesses I long for are simple. A plate of
pani-puri had on the side of the road, maybe a half egg-rice and half kebab
after a long bender of a night, a Classic Mild smoked with a chai at a Bakery
in Jeeva Bhima Nagar, a simple fucking quarter of Blender’s Pride had with
friends in some local dive with moori served on a newspaper cutting of the
sports page of the Times of India. Ice and soda, bob, ice and soda. BP + ice +
soda over anything in my liquor stash right now, any day of the week. And of
course, a massive, massive plate of Biryani. None of that parcel biryani
brought home and belted in smaller portions over a Netflix binge, no way. A
massive pile of biryani had where it’s made amongst people with a common goal,
to partake completely in said pile without want or reason to communicate.
Nothing else to do but eat Biryani. No conversations, not eye contact, no
judgement, just biryani. Had at a place that has nothing else but biryani.
Heck, it doesn’t matter if the world is ending around you. A meal for the
apocalypse if there ever was one.
I am in complete awe of pure biryani places
that have made a name for themselves. And I am further convinced that every
city, town, village in India has one. It hence portends that any discussion
around which biryani is the best is flawed, for it’s like arguing which corner
of the ocean is the prettiest. We would never know until we have seen it all.
It is also further flawed to judge biryani by its structure or ingredients. I
am also reasonably annoyed at the high-handed snobbery that exists around
biryani discussions. A vegetable biryani is still a biryani, so get over it,
nobody cares what you think and that joke is old and stale. There is no fine
line between a biryani and a pulao. It’s all same-same and different at the
same time. Biryani is an all-encompassing word, like God, and renders all doubt
and questions on its form useless. It’s crazy that so many people have an
opinion on biryani. What constitutes a biryani? Is chicken biryani even a
thing? It should be mutton. Rice and meat should cook together. Only long grain
rice is best. Use heavy bottomed pan. Finish over coals and not the stove. No
raisins. No sides. Raita is essential. Sherwa / saalan / dal not necessary.
It’s enough to drive one to eat a plate right now. The best part about all this
is, just when you think that a firm view has been taken on the perfect biryani,
someone comes along and presents a big “fuck you” to the established order,
flipping everything on its head. The biryanis of Vijayawada are that someone.
For some reason, the most popular type of
biryani in Vijayawada is a “Joint Biryani”. A massive pile of delectably flavoured
biryani rice served with an arm-sized, deep-fried chicken leg. The first place
I went to was the ubiquitously named Star Biryani, which is reached by walking
through a few small alleyways in a part of town that resembles Shivaji Nagar’s
Gujri. It’s a no-nonsense pure biryani joint that has a constant flow of people
moving in and out of community tables. There are single eaters, parties of
larger numbers and couples too, but you sit where you’re told, almost always
separated from your social circle. Your order is taken by a guy carrying a
pouch that most closely resembles a bus conductor’s. Cash only, counted and
flicked in an inimitable style reserved for other famous bus conductors. Orders
are yelled across the hall and served in minutes along with your own personal
bowl of dal and gongura chutney. That is special, that you get your own bowl of
dal and gongura chutney. What’s more, they come around asking you if you want
extra rice, included in the price you pay. Unbelievable. All in all, the entire
meal was spectacular and has to be reserved for special occasions. Or maybe
daily. Actually daily is ok.
Opposite “Star Biryani” is Foundry Karimullah’s
biryani place. On the first floor above some hardware store, and named after
the founder’s previous vocation, here there is no constant flow of people. His
place is tiny and hence food is served in batches, like in a south indian
wedding. I waited about 15 mins before my batch of mostly gents were seated
only to find out that his famous “Joint Biryani” was over. The mutton biryani
though was incredible. No fancy meat or anything, it was the meat of an aged
sheep reeking of the barnyard smell that can only come from an older animal.
But it was delicious! Beautifully flavored, served again with one’s personal
stash of dal and raita.
As I sat contented post an extra helping of
biryani rice, my fingers curled and coated with the remnants of an
accomplished, face-melting slam, I looked up and let out a satisfied sigh. For
that one brief moment, I noticed the gentleman sitting opposite me, for he too
had made it to the top of a two-piler. Our eyes met and we gave each other a
well-deserved thumbs-up. We had survived.
We all will. With a biryani.
