The memory of scent.

Today, Inaaya told me she didn’t like the smell of biryani.

What’s that smell? She clicks her tongue.

I explained that it’s Baba’s favourite, it doesn’t smell yummy? I ask.

She ruffled her eyebrows and insisted, I don’t like that smell.

I was mortified.

My child, waiting for a late lunch of chicken nuggets, featuring the tiniest speck of black pepper (no sauce) and rosemary seasoned waffle fries, couldn’t appreciate the scent of meticulously crafted, freshly baked biryani?

She was (literally) wrinkling her nose at tradition. At the food of the (Hyderabadi) gods.

What do you mean you don’t like it? I am perplexed.

I am in so much denial and cultural agony, my mind retreats in seconds to a place I’m always happy to revisit.

The kitchen is big and bright.

Something is cooking.

Orangey gold linoleum is under my feet and a big, heavy wooden patio door has been pulled all the way back to let the fresh air in and the smell of whatever’s cooking, out.

Zafran cream simmers on a low and constant heat. Its warm aroma can be felt lifting into the air where it will stay. Onions are caramelizing to a slow, sweet garnish. Buds of cardamon and clove dance with cinnamon in a giant pot of boiling water. Meat and potatoes are spiced and marinated.

All await the one and only, Queen Basmati.

Ready to be cocooned in perfectly fluffed grains that are obsessed over, each time no less than the last.

Mama! Mama!

The tiny voice brings me back.

Yes.

Can I have popcorn please?