In a quiet corner of Hyderabad, where the air hums with stories and spice, lived Ammu — a bald, spirited woman with hands as graceful as poetry and a palate sharper than a chef’s knife. She wasn’t bald by misfortune. One day, fed up with the world’s fuss about hair, she shaved it all off, declaring,
“Let my taste do the talking, not my tresses!”
🍗 The Marination of Memory
That morning, the sun filtered into Ammu’s courtyard as she stood by a large clay pot. Into it went half a kilo of chicken — bone-in, of course.
She added:
A heaping scoop of thick yogurt,
A spoonful of her homemade ginger-garlic paste,
Red chili powder, turmeric, garam masala — all measured by intuition, not spoons.
Juice of a lemon squeezed by hand, seeds tossed aside.
A shower of chopped mint and coriander, and a whisper of green chilies.
She dipped a finger in to taste.
“Hmm. Needs attitude.”
She added a pinch of salt and a spoonful of oil. The chicken blushed under the spices.
Then it was left to rest — to dream in marinade.
🍚 The Dance of the Rice
Ammu walked to her kitchen, hips swaying like a metronome of experience. Into a large vessel, she poured water and brought it to a boil.
She added:
2 cups of long-grain basmati rice (soaked earlier),
A bouquet of whole spices — cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, and a bay leaf.
She watched the rice dance and swirl like children in a festival.
“Only 70% cooked,” she reminded herself. “Like love — not too soft, not too hard.”
She drained it just in time.
🔥 Layering the Legacy
Back at her dum pot, she began layering — as her grandmother once taught her.
1. First the marinated chicken, spread with reverence.
2. Then a layer of rice, fluffy and fragrant.
3. A sprinkle of golden fried onions, crisp and sweet.
4. More mint and coriander.
5. A touch of saffron milk, like painting sunlight into the dish.
She repeated the layers — like retelling a favorite story.
🫓 The Dum of Destiny
She sealed the lid with dough, whispered a prayer in her mother tongue, and placed the pot over fire.
10 minutes on medium, then she moved it to gentle coals for another 25 minutes. The kitchen filled with an aroma so rich it could wake the gods.
🍽️ The Reveal
When the dough seal was cracked open, a cloud of saffroned steam kissed Ammu’s round head. She smiled.
She served the biryani with raita and silence — because some dishes deserve awe.
A curious young neighbor asked her:
> “Ammu-akka, why do you always make it like a ceremony?”
She winked,
> “Because child, biryani isn’t cooked — it’s summoned.