Biryani
Diplomacy
by Nivedita BANGOLORE CHANDRAPPA
The corner of my eye caught a glimpse
of Fatima Bibi’s flowing gray duppata,
her son followed her, keeping a methodical
distance. I chuckled leisurely; obviously
Fatima Bibi was on one of her secret missions,
I'm sure.
When I met Fatima late in 1996, she was
introduced to me by a Russian woman in
my apartment building in New York, Fatima
Bibi was in her late 50’s and had
a head full of gray hair, as if weathered
by a salt storm, she looked weary and
aged, had a round fair, attractive face,
beautiful sad eyes, she wore a head dress
and spoke decent English. It so happened
that Fatima was looking for a job and
I needed a baby sitter. I was nearing
9th month and needed some help to get
by myself, she was amicable and pleasant
and did most of the job to her efficiency.
Fatima Bibi had this magic on her fingertips, when she turned in
to a chef, she turned over delicious,
colorful melee of Mughalai (Mughal dynasty
ruled India sometimes ago) menu, and I
found my fetish in her Biryani and Baingan
ka salan, (a kind of Indian dish made
out of eggplant) her Biryani always turned
out crisp. Richly layered in exotic spices
and vaguely laced by kesar, the rice dish
soon was a favorite in our friend’s
circle; every one thought Fatima’s
Biryani had celestial qualities; soon
her name became synonymous with Biryani
and Baigan ka salan.
Fatima's family consisted of her husband who was a stout, self-centered
little old man with an aeronautical diploma
in engineering from London, her son and
an independent daughter who was like a
nettle in the eyes of her aging parents.
Fatima got married to Karim Khan In Pakistan
and they had lived in Pakistan there onwards.
They had a good life and a palatial house
where Fatima Bibi supposed to have raised
her pigeons and colorful parrots on the
terrace.
Some days Fatima came with her son who was in his 20’s, who
she said was suffering from a rare kind
of mental deficit, his IQ had languished
at some level and his mental aptitude
did not grow any further than a 10 yrs
old.
Despite of our differences in religion, eventually, Fatima Bibi
became a proxy to our close relatives
in India.
Fatima reminded me of Pakistan and Partition and all that had transpired
between the two countries, her family
had found political asylum in USA, Fatima
would weave her stories of Pakistan with
tainted memories...”that night we
were ambushed by the pathans. They were
tall and fair, very strong. Allah...they
beat up my husband and tied me to the
furniture”. The fear and terror
etched on her face terrorized my imagination,
I am sure whatever happened wasn’t
very pleasant to remember.
It seems that her husband was suspected to be a party worker from
the Awami league which had just won elections
in Pakistan and Pathans who are the Muslims
from the region were against any such
attempts of usurping power by the Indian
Muslims (mojahirs) hence came down heavily
on anyone they thought was a Mojahir.
So Fatima Bibi had many melancholies besides her poverty and old
age, she had aged partly by Mr. Karim
Khan who always touted his diploma from
Ford Company, Britain and his glorious
employment history with the Pakistani
Airline; poor chap had not come to terms
with his undocumented situation in USA
and wouldn’t budge after much cajoling
from Fatima to find a menial job to give
them some breathing space. As much as
her spouse and her ailing son irritated
her...she had ventured out to find jobs
herself and had landed one in my house.
That was Fatima Bibi chugging the burden of her son and husband
and raising a girl who was brash and unmarketable
in the marriage department. Fatima Bibi
always thought about marrying her daughter,
she would often complain…”
ladki bahut tej hai..jabbi dekho Maggie
noodles kahti rehthi hai..meri koi bath
sunthi hi nahi…patha nahi…
(This girl is a brat, she always eats “Maggie “ brand
noodles and doesn’t listen to anything
I say, I don’t know what to do)
Whenever we advertise for her wedding we find taxi drivers and
altu faltu (useless) uneducated men asking
for her hand. I am looking in Shaadi.com
(marriage portal), but if they are well
to do, they demand dowry…”
Fatima would draw a longish sigh at the
end of this conversation. I would often
find a social commentary on matrimonial
market in our tête-à-tête,
what were the prerequisites, what’s
in demand, etcetc...just like you switch
on stock market bulletin on CNN. Fatima’s
eyes followed her daughter everywhere
like a hawk, it seemed that she woke up
to few nightmarish dreams about her daughter
eloping with the next bald guy in town.
“Western influence, you see, I don’t allow her to act
like a white kid and have boy friends”-
Fatima would say.
Fatima not only wanted to get her daughter married she also wanted
a job for her son…
Her son never stuck to one job even if it was a messenger’s,
he had this peculiar habit of mimicking
the Indian film heroes and had a vast
vocabulary for his inane imagination.
He would often make the boss work while
he sang to his imaginary heroines- that
resulted in his honorable exit from the
jobs on many occasions. … Sadly
all his bosses were stoical desi (Indian)
grocery shop owners who hardly had time
for remix (fusion of Indian film songs
and western music).
So such was the situation Fatima Bibi was in, it was like she was
the only sane piece of ornament in their
whole khandaan (family) as her respectable
husband often confessed to us in one of
his rare moments of vulnerability almost
akin to the fallen King of Iraq.
As much as we took pity on her whole family we tried bribing our
friends with her Biryani, her daughter
found a temporary job from one of the
benefactors who loved Fatima Bibi’s
biryani. Fatima now realized her skill,
and our love for her Biryani.
After couple of months of working with me I let Fatima Bibi go,
she gladly accepted the fact that I couldn’t
afford her longer and moved on, but whenever
her husband or her son needed a job or
was out of job she would send an emissary
with a bowl full of her luscious biryani
as a kickback and as soon as we saw the
biryani we would go weak on our knees
and her wishes would be granted.
Fatima obviously couldn’t work anymore, her health was deteriorating
as well as her eyesight, and her husband
had taken up a job as a security guard.
Like all parents Fatima wanted her son
to marry and settle down, but husband
who was a “king” would never
help her in these diplomacies, he hardly
made friends and lived in an era when
he owned lands and fancy cars in Pakistan,
for him time had frozen. Fatima was Proud
of him, but she also found him impractical
to have held on to a vague inheritance
of accolades of some bygone era; she had
realized the power of networking and marketing.
Hence most of the time I saw Fatima carrying
Biryani to the entire Indian neighborhood
in search of a better future for her son
and them selves…
Trin …Trin… the phone rings…I am rudely awakened
from my afternoon siesta
Hell..hello..hello….
- Beti (daughter)… Fatima Bibi…’s voice beckons
like a dose of kapi. (Coffee)
- haa maaji boliye kaisi hai aap?”(Yeah tell me mother, how are you)
My mind is already weaving the biryani magic; I get suspended in
a compulsive desire disorder…
- Beta ...Meri beti ki shaadi hogayi, maaf karna. I couldn’t
invite you “(my daughter got married,
forgive me)
*“Koi bath nahi maaji, kaun hai ladka?”(That is okay,
who is the groom)
“ Shaadi .com mai milgaya, achha hai, he takes care of my
daughter …hamara Hydrabaad ka hi
hai”(we met him through shaadi.com,
very nice chap, he is from my native place
in India)
Readers I for got to tell you that Fatima Bibi was born and raised
in Hyderabad and has a great love for
that city. (Hyderabad is a south Indian
city)
“ Accha hua maji, kya bath hai”(very good, what have
you been doing?) Again I am slyly coaxing her
“ Kuch nahi beti.mere Bete ko kahi naukri dilado bas…”
(Nothing much, I am looking for a job
for my son)
“ kyon kya huva iska naukari ko?”(Why what happened
to his previous job?)
“ *O sala boss isko nikaaldiya na beti, I am sending “shaan”(name
of her son) to talk to you, he is bringing
Biryani” (*that nincompoop boss
of his, fired him)
“ When”, before I heard her voice….
The bell chimes …and I drop the phone and rush to the Door…grinning
like a wild monkey.
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