The Biryani without Borders

IN OUR NEW DELHI HOME, just past the neem tree that leans into the street like an old relative, the fragrance of Kathal Biryani still rises like a memory on low flame. This house—where my parents married, where I was born, where I still live when in Delhi—is not just brick and mortar. It’s a vertical haveli now, thanks to my mother, each of us siblings with a floor of our own, the old garden reborn as a rooftop one, where frangipani and basil grow into the sky. And though Delhi roars beyond the walls, the silence inside holds steady. The German windows—airtight, heat-tight, noise-cancelling—let in only sun and stillness. Inside, the air is cool, the rooms quiet, the stories loud.

And while the neem tree guards the gate, it’s the jackfruit tree at the back that anchors us. When the house was being rebuilt, my mother gave up square footage to keep it alive. Every year, without fail, dozens of jackfruits ripen on its gnarled limbs. “Sunita’s kathal,” they’re called now—sent off to cousins and friends all across the city.

Ours is a Radhasoami home, our faith rooted in Soami Bagh in Agra. No rituals. No idols. Only the Shabd—songs in Hindustani and Urdu, sung on my grandfather’s birth and death anniversaries, and now also on my Bua’s and father’s. They’re prayer without performance, devotion without demand. They were easy to believe in. They still are.

And then there is food. Our truest faith. Our table, a masterpiece in vegetarian indulgence. We’re Kayasths, historically meat lovers, but in our Radhasoami home, vegetables take centre stage and rewrite the rules. Arbi ke chaap becomes fish. Kathal Biryani becomes mutton. And somehow, nothing feels missing. Everything feels magical.

At the heart of this magic was Panditji. Not a cook—a custodian. He came from Ayodhya, the birthplace of Lord Ram. His family had cooked for generations in my grandmother’s household in Kurwar, near Lucknow. When she married and came to Delhi, Panditji and his brother came with her. He stayed. For decades. Raised us. Became a father-in-law to my mother, a grandparent to us. My great-grandmother trained him, then my grandmother, then life did the rest. He died during the lockdown, taking with him the stories of a century—but not the recipe. That, he left behind like inheritance.

Kathal Biryani was his signature. The jackfruit was handled like meat—boiled, browned, seared, marinated, layered. I’ve added to it over the years— my green chutney of coriander, mint, curry leaves, garlic, ginger, chillies goes in near the end. And the pot of choice? Le Creuset. That glorious French cast iron that I first used in NYC—slow cooking, fastheating, ovensafe, tableready. Andthecolours—vivid saffron, ruby red, indigo blue—could well be lifted from an Indian thali or temple wall. That’s what I love: how France and India sit together, effortlessly, in my kitchen. How old traditions find new tools. How travel and technology can deepen flavour instead of diluting it.

I make this biryani on Diwali, yes. But also when I need to dazzle. My friend Amir Rabbani, the art director at Observer Research Foundation, a proud Bihari, a dedicated carnivore, once stopped mid-bite, shook his head and said, “Yaar, meat yaad hi nahi aaya.” And though he had to bite his tongue, he said it was the best biryani he’d ever eaten.

And that, to me, is India. Not static. But stirring. A slow-cooked, open-hearted, many-spiced idea. Where Ayodhya and Agra meet on a plate in Delhi. Where a tree is saved, not cut. Where jackfruit can become memory, metaphor, and main course. Where a Le Creuset pot and an heirloom recipe cook side by side. Where we take the best the world gives us, and grow richer in return. Not by forgetting who we are. But by knowing who we can be—together.

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