In biryani we trust
The anti-lockdown, Eid-ul-Fitr is all about opening our homes and hearts
Acommon misconception about sceptics is that our godless lives lack the colour and character that festivals embody. On the contrary, hungry for fun at all times, we embrace celebrations with evangelical zeal. From the jasmine-scented goodness of Onam to the rum-soaked decadence of Christmas, I have remarkable faith in the power of festivals. But there’s always a special place in my heart (okay, stomach) for Eid-ul-Fitr and its pleasing sense of community. It’s round the corner right now, making my biryani trigger beep more wildly than a cop show on TV.
Edible history
I have to my credit a few stray days of fasting in childhood, the dawn to dusk abstinence from all manner of food, drink and merriment that makes Ramzan (yes, here we say Ramzan, not the Arab-favoured Ramadan) such a test of will. The big prize for us kids was, of course, the sunset feast, headlined by mixed pakoras, my kryptonite to this day. Older and wiser, I now reach for deep-fried delights without needing to justify the indulgence with penance. But that feeling of sitting around a dastarkhwan—usually a plastic tablecloth with lurid flowers covering a faded mosaic floor—with cousins and other animals, on the verge of passing out but smug in our piety, was madly exciting. Like a big-screen countdown before a football kick-off, we ravenously chanted the iftar-time prayer as if it were a magic spell. Finally, we popped a piece of khajoor in our watering mouths, the prescribed way to break one’s fast. If we were lucky, the seed at the heart of the date had been replaced with a nut.
These days, restaurants and cafes offer fancy iftar treats from across the Islamic world, and then some. A far cry from the chicken saalans and mutton chaanps rustled up by my Bandra grandaunts and aunts, and served in chipped china—edible family history, if you will.
A subversive menu
Eid-ul-Fitr arrives like rumours of desert rain. The sliver moon is sighted by someone important somewhere, and the news ripples through the expectant air, quicker than a virus. Moon-sighting is a quaint ritual to retain in the era of Mars missions, but the will it/won’t it litany adds a poetic dimension to the meethi Eid. ‘Tis the festival for sweet treats, most notably bowls of sheer khurma exchanged between homes. By the evening, you’re left with several versions of the vermicelli-in-milk dessert, turning you into a tiresome critic who describes dishes as “too experimental” or “trying too hard”.
My favourite sheer contains dates sautéed in butter (and no obvious traces of elaichi, that wretched tastebud oppressor)—a dramatic flourish perfected by my paternal grandmother, not otherwise known for her culinary skills. (A vegetarian herself, every feast she hosted featured the same version of kadhai chicken, mutter pulao and boondi
raita. The menu assumed a subversive quality on Bakri Eid, or Eid-ulMutton.) Biryani and shami kebab. Falooda and firni. Saunf and paan. Of such hit pairings is Eid constituted. All with family and friends bravely dressed in white kurtas that by the end of the day bear battle scars in the form of colourful splotches.
The anti-lockdown
LIKE A BIG-SCREEN COUNTDOWN BEFORE A FOOTBALL KICK-OFF, WE RAVENOUSLY CHANTED THE IFTAR-TIME PRAYER AS IF IT WERE A MAGIC SPELL
These days, I approach Eid with more enthusiasm than ever before.
It’s a natural response, I suppose, to the intolerance and polarisation of our times, not to mention pandemic-propelled ennui. A timehonoured day to get together with those you love over food and drink, music and laughter—a fat-laden talisman against the lean forces of despair. (Which is a fine way to absolve myself of the ridiculous levels of greed to which I have lately stooped.)
More than anything else, I associate Eid-ul-Fitr with open homes and hearts. It’s a day for people to wade in and out of each other’s living rooms and kitchens, no matter how difficult the past, or uncertain the future, of a relationship. For long-pending hugs, unstoppable giggles and top-class ribbing. For Eidi—or pocket money—gifted to the young. For Nusrat Ali Khan’s rising and falling vocals over jangling bangles, billowing cigarette smoke and half-drunk cups of adrak chai. The anti-lockdown, Eid is a reminder to lower your guard and experience a lightness as fluffy as a freshly-baked naan, and a warmth like the one that resides at the centre of a kofta. Eid Mubarak to you all! What’s not to believe?