Chapter 1 – The Aroma of Biryani

Chapter 1 – The Aroma of Biryani

The city of Kolkata always had its own music. Tram bells clanged in the distance, mingling with the faint honks of yellow taxis and the occasional call of a street vendor. From his balcony, Andrew could see the faint glow of the Howrah Bridge as dusk slowly painted the sky with streaks of orange and purple. This was home — crowded, noisy, a little chaotic, yet filled with warmth.

Andrew was twenty-seven, a Bengali boy with an old soul. He had lived near Howrah all his life, in a modest two-room flat his father had left behind. His neighbors called him bhodro chhele — the well-mannered boy — though he wasn’t exactly the traditional kind. Where most boys his age spent their evenings in cafés or cricket grounds, Andrew found peace in his kitchen.

Today, the kitchen smelled like heaven.

A large pot simmered on the gas stove, filling the flat with the rich aroma of spices. Andrew leaned over, stirring carefully as the golden-brown onions softened into sweetness. His sleeves were rolled up, his forehead damp with the steam. Cooking wasn’t a chore for him; it was a ritual.

“Shotti bolchi,” he muttered to himself, sniffing the cardamom pod before tossing it in, “today’s biryani has to be perfect.”

He wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular. No guests, no family — just himself. But that didn’t matter. To Andrew, food was memory. Every spoon of ghee, every sprinkle of saffron reminded him of Durga Puja feasts with his parents, of train journeys where his mother packed aloo chop and his father bought rosogolla from vendors yelling across compartments. Those days were gone, but through cooking, Andrew kept them alive.

The rice had been washed thrice, soaked, and now drained. The chicken had marinated overnight in yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, red chili, and a squeeze of lemon. He layered it all with precision: a base of rice, then chicken, fried onions, boiled eggs, and potatoes — because in Kolkata, no biryani was complete without potatoes. Finally, he sprinkled saffron-infused milk, letting the golden streaks bleed into the white grains.

He paused, inhaling deeply. The fragrance was intoxicating. Outside, the city buzzed on, but in his kitchen, time slowed.

Andrew hummed softly — an old Kishore Kumar tune — while sealing the pot with dough, trapping the flavors inside for dum. His neighbors might complain about the strong aroma later, but he didn’t care. For now, he had all he needed: the promise of a perfect meal, and the simple joy of creating it.

When the pot was left to rest, Andrew leaned against the counter and wiped his hands. His eyes drifted to the small television in the corner of the living room, where a music channel played. A celebrity interview was running — a familiar face smiling at the cameras, answering fan questions. Andrew glanced at it absentmindedly, not knowing how, very soon, that face would become the center of his world.

But for now, it was only about biryani, and the boy who found happiness in making it.

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