He traveled to every part of the world by boat, on horseback, and on camel, crisscrossing the desert, climbing mountains, and crossing valleys, searching for the princess of his dreams. So, the prince started his frustrating search. вЂњHow will you possibly know if your princess is sensitive until many years have passed? You donвЂ™t have time for this, Son.вЂќ He wanted to find a princess who was beautiful, kind, witty, charming, and, most important of all, sensitive.

He wasnвЂ™t willing to marry just any princess.

Now, this particular prince was quite finicky. Inspired by the recipe from Pratibha Karan.Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess. And a subtlety of spices that is guaranteed to send your taste buds to a trance.ДЄnd itвЂ™s the delectable Doodh Biryani I cook this morning. This was supreme mastery accomplished over centuries.Д«ut the stunner that stole my heart in this city of the Nizams where food was religion and Biryanis a cult was the divine Doodh Biryani. This could not be just peerless culinary excellence. This was the land of the Kacche Gosht Biryani, lamb, rice and spices cooked together (yes, not assembled) to a blissful perfection. The crowded pantheon of Hyderabadi biryanis, sharply distinct from their northern counterparts, left the biryaniphile in me speechless in awe. A mecca of art, architecture and of course food. And delectable folklore around its origin.Дelhi left me metamorphosed to a diehard Biryani addict.ДЄnd it was not long before that the nomadic gypsy in me was ready to relocate yet again. Its own secret spice-mix handed down generations. With its subtle undertones of yes, sweetness.Д®ach lane, bylane and alley of old Delhi seemed to have its indigenous Biryani. The austere yet dropdead delicious Nizamuddin Biryani. With its alluring fragrance of ittar and rose water. This was a hedonists paradise unlike anything I had ever experienced before and prodigal indulgence was religion. The decadent world of Mughlai cuisine, unmasked in front of me, left me spellbound and numb. Time flew on rosy wings and one day it was time for me to leave Assam and move on to Delhi.Дelhi was explosion on my food senses. The stark simplicity a sharp contrast to the Calcutta Biryani.Д«y the time I was to leave Guwahati, I was confused, which one of the two Biryanis I would opt for if compelled to make a choice. Rice cooked with chicken and a melange of winter vegetables вЂ“ carrots and beans. Guwahati introduced me to the seething Brahmaputra, the Lady at Kamakhya, the warm, loving, innocent Assamese people and exposed my palate to Assamese cuisine, simple, rustic yet delectable.ДЄnd the unpretentious Kampuri Biryani. Back to Assam but now Dada and I were perennially pestering Maa to cook the Calcutta Biryani.ДЄnd then one sunny morning, a still teenaged me bade farewell to the pristine life in my lazy time-stops-still hamlet by the river and took the long arduous bus trek via emerald forests and mist-riddled hills of Meghalaya to Guwahati for further studies. That my taste buds attempted but failed to unscramble. Perfumed with a complex medley of spices.

A delight of rice cooked with lamb or chicken and fried potatoes. For all that my town could brag about was a mishtir dokan or two, with their disciplined rows of sandesh, seas of rosogollas and armies of hectoring flies humming around with dogged determination, a telebhaja shack that churned out fuluris, begunis and all the sin (that was insanely addictive though) and a couple of frugal military hotels that served rice, watered-down dal and fish, either fried or curried with potatoes.ДЄ vacation to Calcutta (yet not christened to Kolkata) introduced me and Dada to the magic of biryani. Sylhet, the land of my ancestors.Д®ating out was unheard of. She was furiously finicky with her rice вЂ“ the smell, the texture, the size of the grains, even the colour had to be perfect.ДЇood was hearty and delicious. The farmer turned up once a month with his gunny sacks of rice and pulses, Grandma would take a fistful of rice from a sack and smell it, either give a frown of disapproval or a nod of approval. And they reciprocated if they had an excess.ДЇish was from the green river. You plucked fruits and vegetables every morning from the lovingly tended backyard garden (long before Farm to Fork had emerged as a hype), if you had a surplus, remember refrigerators had yet not invaded our kitchens, you sent it to your neighbours. Growing up in a sleepy hamlet in far-flung Assam was bliss. And a canopy of twinkling diamonds above. We lie on the grass, wet with autumnal dew, by the lazy green river. Bapi points out to me and Dada in a hushed whisper of a tone.

Unscramble finicky