Death be delicious.

Mint leaves and coriander,
bathing in the buffalo ghee.
Slightly golden-brown onions,
dancing around with ginger and garlic.

I take a sniff of the greatest smell ever—
my mother’s cooking.
I take pride in our brass pot,
my grandfather's inheritance. 

Let this be my only meal,
a torch in my dim life.
Let it fill my stomach fully,
until it bursts open.

Let my death taste heaven.

                                                                                Every Sunday, I look forward to biryani. It might seem such a gluttonous thing for me to say—maybe I am, but I enjoyed cooking with my family more than eating the food. 

We start with a really good coconut, the one that is sweet, the one that's soft and full of life. I hit it against the stone. This job used to be my dad's, but I snatched it to proudly show that I'm strong as well. Sometimes when I crack it open, I'd see a flower, I'd parade it around my family to boast about what lucky hands I possess. We'd cut it into tiny little pieces, some of which my dad steals for himself and eats like a thief. We then grind it to get the milk. My mother says nothing makes rice more tasty than being cooked with this milk and all of the biryani spices— bay leaves, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, star anise and cumin seeds. I agree with her, although I'm not sure if the depth of taste is because of milk or because of our love. 

We'd take a thick, heavy brass pot, the one that bears the name of my grandfather's father. It's the heaviest and the oldest thing in our house. Maybe it's because it has been passed down through generations, all the love it got from years of cooking makes our biryani perfect every time. Then I'd sit down to cut the onions into very tiny cubes just as my mother prefers. It takes a very long time, it makes me cry sometimes, but in the end, I'd smile out of pride. No one in my family can cut onions like me. I'd stand there near the fire as they cook, my nose taking in the scent of ginger and garlic dancing around with mint and coriander leaves. I used to believe that this is the greatest smell to ever exist, because how well everything complements, almost like a choir but in smell. Then comes the chicken, which has the pieces that instigated a fight between me and my dad. I want no bones in my biryani, while he craves the richness it offers. The all-breast pieces, marinated overnight in yoghurt, spices and herbs, give my mother a tinge of anxiety; years and years of cooking never gave her the confidence in cooking chicken to the softness my dad prefers, although I never cared myself. 

My mother then layers the rice on top of the cooked curry. I'd take our oldest pan that we never discarded and place it beneath. I close the lid and place our old stone pestle as the weight, and our entire family counts the time until a delicious, cooked smell graces our noses. 

The most important thing that I believe makes our biryani perfect is the ghee, love as well, but mostly unadulterated buffalo ghee, which is made with butter churned from yoghurt. We add it multiple times in the process, some I snuck into my mouth and close my eyes as it coats my senses. We might lack many ingredients which are required to make biryani, but we never want to be short of ghee. 

Our biryani isn't perfect, but every Sunday we make it with love, and that love makes it taste perfect.