Luckhnawi Dastarkhwan

"Nahi," maine kaha. "Dum woh waqt hai jo hum khaane ko dete hain. Dum woh patience hai. Dum woh trust hai ki achchi cheezen waqt leti hain. Tu kehti hai pressure cooker. Lekin beta, pressure cooker mein dum nahi hota. Sirf pressure hota hai. Aur pressure mein koi yaadein nahi banti. Sirf khana banta hai — jo kha ke bhool jao."

Woh chup ho gayi. Shayad pehli baar usne mujhe seriously liya.

Maine usse atta gundhna sikhaya — dum ke liye, deghchi ke dhakkan ke aas paas lagne ke liye. Woh atta jo seal banata hai. Woh seal jo steam ko andar rakhta hai. Woh steam jo chawal ko fluffy banati hai. Woh fluffiness jo kisi ko yaad dilati hai ki uski dadi ammi aisi hi biryani banati thi.

"Dheere," maine kaha, jab usne jaldi mein atta lagaya. "Feel kar. Kitna pressure hai. Kitna tight hai. Yeh tightness zaroori hai. Lekin itni bhi tight nahi ki toot jaye. Balance hai. Jaise zindagi mein balance chahiye."

Sham ko, jab pehli deghchi dum pe rakhi, hum dono kitchen mein baithe. Pehli baar bina kisi agenda ke. Bina kisi "content calendar" ke. Bas baithe.

"Papa," usne kaha, "aap rote hain kabhi?"

Maine kaha, "Kyun?"

"Kyunki... aap itne alone hain. Yeh haveli... yeh sab..."

Maine kaha, "Main akela nahi hoon. Mere paas abba ki yaadein hain. Mere paas unke haath ki mehsoos karne ka tareeqa hai. Mere paas yeh kitchen hai. Aur ab... ab tu bhi hai."

Woh rone lagi. Chupke se. Corporate wali Zara, jo hamesha "hustle" karti thi, jo hamesha "optimize" karti thi — woh ro rahi thi.

"Papa," usne kaha, "mujhe sikhao. Poora. Slow. Jaise aapko dada ne sikhaya."

Aur maine sikhaya. Raat bhar. Pehli baar, maine kisi ko woh technique batayi jo sirf feel hoti thi, words mein nahi aati. Ki kaise pata chalta hai ki gosht gal gaya hai. Ki kaise sunai deta hai ki deghchi bol rahi hai — "main tayyar hoon." Ki kaise dekhte hain ki chawal ka danā alag-alag khila hua hai, chipka hua nahi.

Subah, jab usne pehli spoon biryani khayi — uske chehre pe woh expression tha. Woh "arre yaar" wala expression. Woh expression jo maine apne abba ke chehre pe dekha tha, jab unke ustaad ne unki biryani taarif ki thi.

"Papa," usne kaha, "yeh... yeh alag hai. Maine aisa kuch nahi khaya. Yeh toh... yeh toh pyar hai."

Maine kaha, "Haan. Yeh pyar hai. Aur pyar time leta hai. Pyar shortcut nahi hota."

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Ab, likh raha hoon.

Zara chali gayi. Wapas Mumbai. Lekin kuch badal gaya. Usne kaha, "Papa, app kyun nahi likhte? Apni recipes? Apni stories?"

Maine kaha, "Blog?"

"Nahi," usne kaha, "bas... likh lo. Apne liye. Mere liye. Agli generation ke liye. Jisse yeh na ho ki..."

Woh keh nahi payi. Lekin main samajh gaya.

Toh ab main likh raha hoon. Is diary mein. Haath se — jaisa abba likhte thay. Unka handwriting thoda tedha tha, mera bhi waise hi hai. Ink pen se. Blue ink. Wohi brand jo abba use karte thay.

Pehli recipe likhi maine — dum biryani. Lekin sirf ingredients nahi. Woh "dum" ka process. Ki kaise atta lagana hai. Ki kaise aag control karni hai. Ki kaise wait karna hai — 45 minutes, ek ghanta, kabhi kabhi dedh ghanta. Aur woh wait mein kya mehsoos karna hai. Ki deghchi se koi awaaz aayi toh matlab kya. Ki smell se kaise pata chalta hai ki masala "bhun" gaya hai.

Phir galouti kebab. Woh mince ka texture — "itna fine ki paani ki tarah." Woh papaya kitna — "chutki bhar, zyada nahi warna meat mushy ho jayega." Woh seekh pe lagane ka tareeqa — "jaise mohabbat karte hain."

Aur stories. Woh 1985 ki Eid. Woh jhagda dastarkhwan pe. Woh akela kitchen. Woh kauwa khidki pe. Sab.

Kyunki yeh sirf recipes nahi hain. Yeh meri zindagi hai. Meri abba ki zindagi. Unke abba ki. Woh silsila jo khatam ho raha tha, lekin shayad... shayad abhi nahi.

Zara ne kaha tha, "Papa, ek baar aur aungi. Seekhne. Proper."

Maine kaha, "Haan. Aana. Lekin phone office mein chhod ke aana. Bas tu aur main. Aur yeh kitchen. Aur yeh time. Dheera time."

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Raat ke 11 baje ho gaye.

Kitchen mein abhi bhi woh mehndi ki khushboo hai jo maine aaj lagayi thi — Zara ke jaane ke baad, maine thodi si biryani bachake rakhi thi, aur usi deghchi mein phir se dum lagaya. Sirf apne liye. Nahi, sirf apne liye nahi. Un sab ke liye jo ab nahi hain. Akbar Bhai ke liye. Abba ke liye. Unke abba ke liye.

Aur ab, yeh diary band karne se pehle, ek baat aur.

Aaj sham, jab main deghchi ka dhakkan khola, toh woh steam nikli — garam, mehki, poori haveli bhar gayi usse. Aur us steam mein, mujhe lagaa jaise koi awaaz aayi. "Nazeer," jaise kisi ne kaha ho.

Maine upar dekha. Koi nahi tha.

Lekin phir samajh aaya. Woh awaaz thi — woh awaaz thi jo abba kehte thay. Woh "dum" ki awaaz. Ki sab theek hai. Ki silsila jaari hai. Ki khaana ban raha hai. Ki yaadein zinda hain.

Main yeh diary band karta hoon. Kal phir likhunga. Shami kebab ki recipe. Shahi tukde ki story. Aur woh din jab pehli baar maine kisi stranger ko khilaaya tha — aur usne kaha tha, "Yeh toh jaise mere dadi ke haath ka khana hai."

Yeh hai Lucknow. Yeh hai meri zindagi. Yeh hai ek khatam hote dastarkhwan ki kahani — jo shayad, bas shayad, abhi poori nahi hui.

— Nazeer Bhai Aminabad, Lucknow 12 July, 2024

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P.S. — Woh kauwa ab bhi baitha hai khidki pe. Main use kal galouti ka ek chhota tukda dunga. Shayad woh bhi yaad karega. Shayad nahi. Lekin main toh yaad karunga. Bas yahi kaafi hai.