In a house in Bangalore, a mother of two makes lunch. Years later, a Hong Kong food journalist who has discovered a set of online videos in which a surprisingly adept home cook has demoed the art of making perfect biryani, decides that this might make for a good book. And years in the past, a new bride, the spoilt only daughter of a wealthy family, is suddenly catapulted into a small home in Vellore, crowded with disapproving older ladies who are shocked to discover that the new bride can’t cook.
These three stories—all interwoven, since they are the stories of three generations of women—are bound together by two main themes: marriage, and food. Marriage, which for Ruqayya is a pleasant and happy enough relationship with her husband, disturbed only by her unease with his female relatives. Marriage, blissful and romantic, even after ten years of it, for Ruqayya’s daughter Tahera—until Tahera is suddenly widowed, left pregnant and with two young children to bring up. Marriage, tortuous and strained yet passionate for Tahera’s daughter, Zubi.
Then there’s the food. The food which Tahera and Zubi cook, lovingly and with care, proud of their skills. The food which Ruqayya enjoys eating but does not know how to cook—she cannot even brew a decent cup of tea. Food, so lovingly described that it wafted to me the fragrance of simmering yakhni. Food that made me imagine what khichda or andey ka halva must taste like or what the painstakingly-crafted badam ki jaali must look like (the latter, I must admit, I actually did a Google search for; I couldn’t help myself).
I have read my fair share of food-oriented novels (I am a self-confessed foodaholic), and I have often come away dissatisfied. Either (as in the case of Erica Bauermeister’s The School of Essential Ingredients) the focus is on the story, rather than the food—and (this I find unforgivable in a ‘food novel') there are errors in the cooking described. Or, as in the case of Nicole Mones’s The Last Chinese Chef, the food descriptions are mouthwateringly good, but the story is average.
More Than Just Biryani, I am glad to say, ticked both boxes for me. The story is well-written, fast-moving, and extremely readable. And the food? Well, let’s just say it’s time Andaleeb Wajid wrote a cookbook as a companion to More Than Just Biryani.