A Sepia Moment

To (Aji) Thata...who introduced me to the delights of Haleem

It’s the holy month of Ramzan. Every evening as my cab drives past Thilak Nagar, I am assaulted by the scent of meat cooking in rich, spicy gravies. The little stalls that dot the area are preparing to serve the Muslim families who will break their fast in the evening. Inevitably, I am transported to my days in Hyderabad, when Ramzan, for those of us who aren’t Muslim that is, was synonymous with Haleem. At first sight, a plate of Haleem looks anything but appetising-mutton cooked slowly in lentils to a gooey consistency, with a layer of ghee floating at the top. But give it a couple of mouthfuls and you will realise that the dish is truly the stuff of the gods.

Come Ramzan, and each week I would sample Haleem from a different restaurant. My partner in this weekly culinary expedition? My Eighty something grandfather. Every Friday evening it was something of a ritual. He would pick up the packet of Haleem and have it ready for me by the time I returned from work. After a hurried shower I would carefully open up the packet-typically an inconvenient foil wrap which was liable to a ghee spill if the edge wasn’t snipped close to the top, warm it to just the right temperature-a tad bit too hot and the smell of super-heated ghee could be a turn off, and serve it in three brown melamine bowls that lay waiting in my grandmother’s crockery shelf. I would tuck in, pausing occasionally to comment on how it compared with the Haleem that we had sampled the last time around. Thata, always the connoisseur with all the fine things in life, would wait till he had eaten the last spoonful to give his verdict.

Cut to my last weeks in Hyderabad. Fittingly enough, it coincided with Ramzan. But this time around, thoughts of Haleem were pushed to some remote corner of my mind. In a month’s time I was to head out of the country. There was work to wrap up, shopping to be done and a visa to process. Our little ritual became sporadic, sometimes because I was delayed at work, but mostly because my enthusiasm was channelled in a different direction. It was not until the very last day, as I had lunch with Thata that I mentioned in passing about barely having sampled the Haleem that season. I can still remember the day vividly. The monsoon had set in and I was worried about finding my way to the railway station through the heavy down pour.

A few hours before I boarded the train, my grandmother and I realised that Thata was not in the house. A quiet man, it’s easy to miss his absence in my grandparent’s sprawling old bungalow. It was pouring outside and my grandfather’s car was not in the garage. I instantly sensed a hint of panic in my grandmother’s otherwise confident bearing. But before we could evaluate our options, we heard the car pulling in and stepping gingerly out of it was my frail grandfather, a little package of foil wrap in his hands. Amidst disapproving looks from my grandmother, Thata quietly handed over the package to me, cautioning me to snip it carefully to avoid a spill.