You begin with trepidation.

But how redolent Seema’s apartment soon becomes, Grandmother! First the toasted aroma of oil being heated, then the roasted sweetness of frying cardamom, cinnamon, cloves. Then onions fried till they’re translucent, then the meaty ginger and garlic, then green chilies and fragrant coriander and mint. How the odors harmonize, how they swell and fill the apartment.

Seema says, coming out of her bedroom, “We’ll never be able to get rid of this smell now.”

But she’s not complaining—her eyes are closed, a beatific smile plays on her lips. She decides to work at the kitchen table too, finishing her edits on the matter for the campaign. There’s the spitting and sizzling from the pots, the occasional splutter of some whole spice exploding, and overlaid on these, the sounds of mothers and daughters working: chopping, stirring, typing, murmuring questions and directions.

By unhurried stages the distinct aroma of biryani assembles itself, at first fugitive and evanescent, but then lingering longer and longer, as though being coaxed out like a shy child.

Seema is overwhelmed. “This is too much. I’ll be so sated by the smell that I’ll hardly be able to eat any of it.”

You know what she means, how filling just the aroma can be—you and Tahera will be content with just a taste of the biryani when you’re done. Gratified by her response, you shoo her back to her bedroom. You taste for salt the simmering sauce of the yakhni that Tahera spoons out to you, you check its meat for tenderness and give your approval.

You are relieved, though you still cannot be perfectly at ease until the very end—when the seal to keep the steam in is broken, and the basmati rice, added to the yakhni while still a little short of fully cooked, budded at the core, has absorbed the spices and liquids and blossomed to a perfect tenderness, releasing to the biryani its own distinctive fragrance. And this you will not know for an hour or more.

Even Tahera relaxes. She’s been an efficient assistant all day, quick in executing your directions. But she’s also been dogged in her efforts, as though she cannot afford to smile until the success of the biryani is assured. She smiles now. She insists you rest, while she takes care of the remaining dishes. But you want your hand in every dish today. As a compromise, you suggest some music to lighten the afternoon, and she agrees, even to ghazals.

So while Tahera gets the ingredients ready for the chicken, the crackling of Begum Akhtar’s inimitable voice, the breathy harmonium and the bright sitar, the comforting percussion of the tabla, infuse themselves into the kitchen as well. It’s your favorite ghazal: “Woh jo hum mein tum mein qaraar tha.” The understanding that we had between us, you might remember or not: that promise of steadfastness.