Afghani Biryani

“8752?” I hear someone scream at the top of their lungs.

I have come to this place hundreds of times. Dozens of delivery partners jostle for space as they await their order to take to a hungry human in time. The biryanis they serve here are in a league of their own. At least that’s what the ratings say. And given how often the app tells me to come here, they must be.

I, of course, have never eaten here. Chandu has though. Chandu’s great. How great? 4.76 stars out of 5 great. He is the highest-rated partner on our WhatsApp group. We meet sometimes outside Shivaji Park at night. He told us all once, on a moonless Tuesday night when orders were scarce.

“Bhai yaha ki Afghani Chikan Biryani gazab rehti hai, maano makhmal kha rahe ho!”

“Chal be feku. Tune khai hai kya biryani?”

“Mat maan. Maa kasam. Apne number se order kari, aur fir khud hi pick karke idhar hi park me baith ke khaya tha. Poore life ki best biryani”

“Saale tujhe kisi ne dekh lia hota na, to video nikal ke daal deta instagram pe. Fir hum sab ke lag jaate”

“Arre T-shirt change kar ke khaya tha bhai. Tension kyu le raha..”

I want to dine someday at this restaurant. I want to enter from the front gate. The one where the rich people enter. I see them from my scooter when I have to wait at the restaurant while the chefs prepare the food. I see them receiving salaams from the Durban at the gate. The one with the long twirled moustache and the scarlet, gem-encrusted turban. I think his name is Dilsher. He seems like a brave man. Like someone who can protect not just the people of this restaurant, but an entire village from dacoits and bandits. Dilsher could have easily become a bodybuilder pehelwan. Or a thanedar, sub-inspector even. Where his salaams would have been reciprocated. But he is a durban at this Biryani restaurant. His salaam sahibs fall on deaf ears, and sometimes he gets a slight nod. I’m sure Dilsher would have his reasons. Like us.

When I get to eat here, I will say Salaam to Dilsher, maybe even have a small conversation. Small talk, you know? Which village is he from? How big is his family? Which crevice of this bustling city does he call his home? Does this job pay enough? I’m sure Dilsher would be an interesting person to talk to.

But truth be told, Dilsher isn’t the reason I want to dine here. I want to see how does it feel like to eat at a restaurant. I’m sure it will be a lovely experience, right? I’ll walk in, wearing an ironed blue shirt tucked inside my grey cotton pants. The ones my father gifted me when I came to Mumbai. 4 years have passed since then but it is still crisp and as good as new. A leather belt will keep my stomach in check as it fills with the meals I will devour. I’ll wear black polished shoes, polished till they glisten and shine. Glisten and shine like my shampooed hair that will be combed back and held in place with gel. The day I eat here, I will look like a lakh rupees when I enter.

Once I enter I will ask the waiter to guide me to a good table. A table where the AC throws chilly air. Will it be too cold? If the blast of cool air that hits me when the window opens to hand over the package is any indication, it will be chilly. But it’ll be an experience, right? Maybe I will take a jacket with me. We’ll see.

I’ve heard you can ask for water at these places? And the waiter will gladly keep on refilling your glass? Cold, normal, even hot? Who drinks hot water in Mumbai? Whatever your majesty pleases I guess. I’ll have a chilled one of course. Then I’ll ask for the menu. Make no mistake. I know what I want. I want the Afghani Chicken Biryani that Chandu had. But while I am at it, I might as well experience what it feels like to have a choice, right? I’ll spend some time glancing through the options. That way no one will know I can’t read English too well. What’s an acceptable time to make a choice? A minute? Five minutes? I think a minute should be fine. I’ll raise a hand and the waiter will magically appear beside me. I will dictate my choice -

One Afghani Chicken Biryani.

One Lemon Soda.

Some onions?

I think they will serve the biryani with onions. Scrap that line.

“Will that be all sir?”

“Yes, that will be all. Thank you.”

I want to thank the waiter for his service. I’ve heard that’s how people behave at restaurants. What next? There will be waiting I guess. I don’t know man. I’ve never waited for food to be honest. Raju Fast Food Corner has fast in his name. And he knows that we all don’t have too much time to spare for food. He knows how to serve piping hot food at speed. But I guess with great food comes great patience. So I’ll wait.

But I guess waiting won’t be all that boring. I will get to see what the rich people do once they enter. There will be people eating with polished spoons and forks. People who take great care not to let a morsel fall on their fine, fine clothes. People who won’t eat a morsel if it falls on the table by accident. People who wait to swallow the morsel in their mouth before speaking. People who cover their mouths if they want to speak while eating. People who use separate spoons for serving different dishes. People who use different spoons for main course and sweets. People who make their children sit on those high child seats instead of their laps. People who have vivid worldly conversations while they wait for their food. Conversations that aren’t about the here and now. Not even tomorrow. Conversations about ideas, plans, events, places. Far-off places that have exotic names. There will be people for whom the food is a means of having these conversations, a means of getting to know someone new, a means of creating a memory on a special day, a means of entertainment and recreation. I am sure. Waiting for food at this restaurant won’t be all that boring.

And while I am at it, ogling these miraculous people with their awe-inspiring lives, my trance will be broken by the waiter who will appear with a plate of steaming, sumptuous Biryani in his hand. Unlike Raju who hurls the plate of chilli chicken fried rice at us, the waiter here will be more gentle. He’ll lay the plate on the table like a baby is rested in a crib. He will keep the bowl of glistening, no-tears onions at 3 o clock, the green pudina chutney at 6 o clock and the bowl of yellow sarson ka salan at 12. Somehow there is a snow-white plate already in front of me. He would have kept it there while I was lost in my people watching perhaps. He places the mirror-finished spoon on this plate, without as much as a clink. He asks me,

“Sir, should I serve?”

“Sorry, what?” I didn’t hear a word after hearing “sir”.

“Should I serve the Biryani sir?”“I guess. Yes sure.”

He springs into action at once. Whipping out two big serving spoons out of thin air, he digs in with purpose. With one hand on the bowl’s wide waist and the other holding the two spoons with unnerving dexterity, he sets into motion. The spoons cradle the rice with grace, yet clamp on with a vice-like grip ensuring not a single grain falls astray. A bed of longer than life, fragrant, white, yellow and orange basmati is prepared. Atop this bed is then rested a quilt of dark brown caramelised onions tossed in the most extravagant spices this great nation has to offer. And finally, a buffed up yet tender chicken leg is allowed to sleep on this immaculate spectacle. I would pay to watch this again, but with a gentle nod of the head, and an expertly titrated smile, the waiter walks away.

Then I will be there, left to my own, with my food. The food of my dreams. The food I have carried behind me on my scooter all these years, through heatwaves and rains. The biryani that Mumbai loves. The food that I have waited for on countless occasions outside this restaurant. That food now beckons me.

My hands rise up in anticipation. Reflexes kick in and I start rolling up my sleeves. It hits me then that I should be eating with a spoon. I pick up the shiny piece of metal. It’s heavier than I expected, and cold to the touch — almost unwelcoming. I flip it over in my hand and find my reflection on its belly. Upside down, I look strange and distorted — as if I don’t belong there. Does this spoon behave the same for all who eat here?

Never mind. Time to finally eat. Afghani. Chicken. Biryani. What Chandu called Makhmal. A chef’s special. A culinary masterpi..

...

“Abe kaun hai 8752? Saala kab se chilla raha hu”

The shriek rips through the dense fabric of my thoughts and pierces my bubble of attention. I stand up rapt, like an army cadet shaken out of slumber by a war cry.

“8752!”

I look at my phone and my inkling comes true. I indeed, am 8752. The notification shows 6 minutes behind schedule. Damn, there goes my bonus, and daily incentive too.

I raise my hand and plead for forgiveness.

“Kya be, kab se yehi khada hai, fokat me rating giraega hotel ki.”

I apologise, and take the parcel from an angry hand. I think of telling him that I also lost my bonus, but why bother? He won’t give a shit.

“Jacket me daal, gheela ho jaega”

I apologise again, obey and shield the parcel from the pouring rains inside my jacket, bought a size too large, intentionally. As habituated by now, I steal a glance at the order label stuck on top of the fancy recycled paper bag that ’s better than plastic at protecting the environment but needs plastic to protect a bowl of rice from the environment. Beneath the numbers 8752 in bold font is a summary of the order:

1 X Afghani Chicken Biryani: ₹599.00

1 X Extra Chicken Pieces: ₹169.00

Cutlery & Packing Charges: ₹49.00

Platform Fee: ₹5.00

Delivery Charges: ₹30.00

Rain Charge: ₹25.00

Discount (MISSEDYOU): (-) ₹99.00

GST: ₹41.10

Grand Total: ₹819.00

A chuckle escapes me. The extra charges are likely to be more than what I will make out of this delivery. The aroma seems familiar and reminds me of the dream I woke up from moments ago. I am tempted to pursue this aroma but a piece of tape holds back my curiosity.

“Do not accept if the seal is broken” says the tape.

This tape is a marker of my integrity, and its integrity is a marker of my self-control. An intact tape shows to the customer that yours truly did not pilfer the contents of your precious order along the way. And to preserve my name I must preserve this tape at all costs. Hurriedly, I click a selfie with the parcel and mark the order as picked up on the app.

Greenfields CHS, Wadala East. 6.3 km away. Here we go.

Traffic is sparse at 11:47 PM, a big relief to be honest. Allows me to immerse myself in my thoughts without crashing into a car or rickshaw. Sleepiness used to be an issue at this hour when I began. Now I think I have conquered sleep. It comes when I want it to. Or rather when I get time for it. This isn’t really a solitary job unlike what many people think. There are probably more of us delivery partners on the road than normal people at this hour. Sure, we don’t get to talk a lot while on the run. But we bump into each other, recognising familiar faces through the facsimile uniforms and helmets. I often wonder why people order food so late in the night. Did they not eat anything for dinner? Or is this their dinner? Who knows. We were told in the onboarding workshop that these orders are what are called as “cravings”. These are for midnight hunger pangs. Did people go to bed hungry when the delivery apps weren’t around? Who took care of these pangs then?

I reach Greenfields CHS in a zippy 7 minutes 36 seconds. I think this might be a personal record. I know this place. I’ve been here more times than I can count. I know my way in through gate number 3 — the one meant for domestic help and delivery partners. I know where to park my scooter along with the rest of my kind. Sometimes when I don’t get space to park I try to lift some dainty Yulus out of the way, but today I am in luck. I know how to slip in unnoticed through the service elevator, without my dripping raincoat and bulky helmets getting in the way of sirs and madams out and about to attend to more pressing matters than food delivery.

I reach flat number 1203. By now the app must be showing “Partner arrived at location, get ready to collect your order”. But my customer isn’t ready yet.

As trained, I don’t ring the bell at this odd hour. I call the customer. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. Five rings. After enough rings, I hear a Marathi woman tell me that the customer isn’t answering. I get these customers once in a while. The ones who place orders in a state of insomniac hunger and then fall asleep by the time their order arrives. Can’t do much with these. I call again. This time sir picks up after the fifth ring.

“Ha..hello kaun?”

“Sir food delivery”

“Haa, kaha ho? Kab se order kar rakha hai”

“Sir gate pe hu”

“Bell kyu nahi bajaya?”

“Sir company policy…”

The phone is cut at the other end. I hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the gate. One lock unlatches loudly — the granddaddy safety king. Followed by another — a much softer ‘just in case’ lock. Followed by the frankly useless chain. The door swings open. I find my valuable customer standing in the dark, barefoot, shorts with drawstrings loosened up, a hairy belly protruding from an old, stained and crumpled t-shirt, hair unkempt.

I confirm his name as it shows on the app.

“Hmm..”.

I thank him for confirming and for giving us his valuable order.

“Yeh gheela kyu hai?”

“Sir baahar baarish ho rahi hai na”

“Arre khana gheela ho gaya pura”

“Nahi sir, andar nahi pahucha hoga pani, aap check kar lo”

“Arre kal bhi yehi hua tha. Thanda khana pahunchta hai, mai refund maangunga”

The door closes with a thud. The locks go back in position. The dainty chain, the just in case, and the grand daddy — the full jingbang.

I check my phone to locate my next order, my next hungry soul. Sure enough, there it is. This time from a dosa place a kilometre away. Dosas aren’t really my thing — at least I won’t be late this time.