Blog after Nihari and bean sprouts

Gar firdaus bar ru e zameen ast..
If there is a Paradise on earth, it is this.. it is this..

Well, this is what I think of everytime I smell nihari on my palate.. the flavour of five continents and 16 different spices.
The ribbons of Persia and the bylanes of Purani Dilli.
The smell of Isfahan married to that of my house.
Papa's awadhi intricacies about slicing the adrak too thin, so its 'maheeen' enough for the Adab and tehzeeb of civilised behaviour.
Bringing the plates, warmed up before a Chinese meal, otherwise the Maitre'd's had it.
For nihari, it all about the flavour. Khush- bu.
A farsi word, as intricate as their faces. regal as their eyes. Deep as their hearts.
Dipped with the blood and heart of Love's etiquette.
The fragrance of itrs blended with the flakes of khus khus,
green as the robe worn by the parizaad.
Mix with a little green ginger, grated thin as ice and remove the top off the deghchee before you smell it.
Mystic and melting in your mouth, before you know it, you have melted, like the fragrant oil, which floats on top of the meat, which has lost its soul in the embrace of the poppy seeds, blended fine with the javitri and jaiphal and all the saffron of the world.
I remember eating it in scorching white heat of a Delhi afternoon, in the middle of a lane, packed with scooters and rickshaws, honking cars and old cows..
a recipe as old as the secret passages under the Red fort and as mystical as the Sufis which fill its air.
Ba Khuda..!