Karachi

It was a regular day at Zoya Mahal, the south of Karachi. Chotu was gnawing at birds too lazy to chase them. Peri as usual was busy hiding with just a little tail in a corner to find. And Tinku lay there basking in the glorious morning sun. It was half past seven, and the uniquely ordinary Friday ritual unravelled itself at Zoya Mahal. The curtains were changed, the frames were reset, carpets were out to soak the sun. The weekly cleaning had commenced. Among everything that Zoya looked forward to on Fridays, her favourite was her trips to Gizri or Teen Hatti.

Soon, she was hurrying amid a crowd, looking through the myriad of vendors at the Gizri Bazaar. As Zoya rushed by the sight of rickshaws, and cycles, a small Suzuki full of flowers eyed her in amusement. The scent of fresh flowers of all kinds gushed through her nostrils, transporting her to a different world. She swiftly looked at her watch to keep track of time and walked toward the heart of Gizri to reach her usual vendor, Kareem Chacha.

While they spoke, her eyes nonchalantly scanned buckets of flowers around her until they locked into her ‘Gulaabs’. They had a deeper hue than usual, with an extra splash of water and romanticism, she picked up a bunch. And almost instantly, picked up an adjacent bunch of tuberoses & Genda’s. Despite her hurry, she lingered a minute longer in front of a stall full of ceramic pottery—pots, plates, cups, and tea sets, of all shapes and sizes. “So beautiful....” she thought to herself. While there must be more than a dozen tea sets all bought & collected by her spanning different parts of South Asia, she flirted around the idea of buying one more for her evening chai sessions at Zoya Mahal.

Ten minutes later, Zoya rushed back to her car with covers full of flowers and porcelain. Content with her purchases, she returned home to find Lata Bhaji in the kitchen humming - ‘yaad kia dil ne kahan ho tum, jhoomti bahar ho kahan ho tum’ already prepping for the lunch —Tender chicken, Birista (fried onions), Basmati rice, herbs, whole spices, and ground spices in a brass copper plate; dollops of ghee, and dairy, all ready to be cooked.

While Lata Baji worked on the chicken marinate, Zoya tuned the stereo to ‘yaad kia dil ne kahan ho tum’ By Lata Mangeshkar and Hemant Kumar. The Jumma was truly taking its shape. The menu was set and quick runs to bazaars were made in the quest for fresh ingredients & groceries, for lunch.

After doing her bit in the kitchen, Zoya changed into her favorite saree in a jiffy and adorned the house with her Gulaabs and Genda's, turning the house romantically picturesque. The tuberoses found their way to the brass vase over one of the antiques near the mirror door.

There amid the typical bustle of a Jumma evening, Zoya could hear Lata baji, scraping off the remnants of spice from the grill pan. The chicken minced with rice feverishly boiling in the cauldron working its way to become a biryani. 

The doorbell rang shrilly, it was Saba, Hira, and Hamza. Zoya sprinted to the door to find Saba already smiling ear to ear waiting for her to open the door. And as legend would say, they did their hug and dance. 

“Zoya madam kahan ho tum?” Hira lets out a chuckle to break into a burst of laughter. While Hamza remained calm and composed patiently waiting for his turn to greet. Saba without spending a minute made herself comfortable on the sofa. As she sat, quickly, warily, she looked around, pausing at certain spots: the antique-looking stool beside the lamp, tea cup sets, the newly done curtains, ceramic jars near the balcony, colourful candles, and several new paintings around; the intricately detailed maroon rug on the floor; the Gulaabs and Genda’s around the room; the tuberoses meticulously placed in certain corners, veranda connecting indoors and outdoors; The entire room was pulsating with materials, memories, and vivid hues — beige, browns, sea greens, maroons, grey’s and a pinch of blue making the room almost seem like a painting.

Saba then looked at the dining table which was now dressed in a maroon table runner with porcelain plates and portions of dishes. “This looks so good!” She beamed. “I have been dying to eat Zoya’s biryani for a while now” The soothing smell of aromatic rice filled the room as Zoya brought in the donga full of Biryani into the living room. “Ah! Zoya’s Hyderabadi Biryani!” Hamza fluted with delight.

Saba then poured the pudding from her Tupperware into tiny porcelain bowls painted in Prussian blue. “This is my favourite! Hira exclaimed in joy. “Now I can’t decide what to eat first” The pendulum of her desire swayed between the two. It was precisely then, Zoya felt the glee of celebrating little things in life. The evening breathed through Zoya and Saba’s little big giggles, Lata baji’s immaculate-looking fingers serving food, Hamza quietly savouring his Biryani, & Hira telling them everything that they did or didn’t know.

As a ritual, the Chai followed one after the other and so did the conversations.

Written by Athira Nair