94. Roadtrip - II

In my past life, I had no idea about the famous "Star Biryani in Ambur" until much later. But to be frank, from today onwards in this life, I know exactly when it all began. Today was going to be my first time tasting their legendary biryani — and I already knew how it would change everything.

Funny how memory works. I hadn't even tasted it yet, but my stomach already had a phantom craving, as if it was remembering something from a dream.

In my past life, Star Biryani had become a ritual for me and Appa. Our weekend road trips always started the same way—first stop at Ambur for biryani, then snacks packed for the car, followed by deep conversations and old Tamil hits playing on the stereo. And before we even noticed, we'd be home.

So here we were again, repeating that journey in a different timeline, me trying hard not to grin too wide. Appa, unaware that I was floating in memories he hadn't lived yet, just asked, "Nila, do you want one full or half plate?"

I blinked. "Full. And 65 Chicken. No questions."

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "So confident. Have you already tasted it or what?"

"Let's say... I just know I'll like it."

While we waited for the food to be delivered to our table, I let my eyes wander around the restaurant. It was a modest building beside the Chennai-Bangalore highway, but there was a sense of legacy in its walls. The menu was minimal, the staff quick, and the customers—ranging from truck drivers to families in SUVs—spoke of how universal good food can be.

They had a timeline painted on one wall—a journey of success that spanned more than a century:

1890 – Hussain Baig, the original "biryani legend," developed his secret recipe and began selling from home.

1927 – His son, Khurshid Baig, opened a diner named Khurshid Hotel in the Ambur town bazaar.

1971 – Nazeer Ahmed, his son-in-law, continued the legacy with Rahamaniya Biryani.

1992 – Star Biryani received nationwide recognition, several awards, and made headlines.

But I wasn't reading for history. I was reading for emotion.This wasn't just a restaurant. It was a memory factory.A Muslim family's recipe—layered with generations of care—made with such subtle and balanced flavours that it wouldn't leave you bloated or heavy for long travels. That, I'd come to appreciate deeply over the years.

I remembered in my last life how I'd fallen in love with their Biryani Kathirikai thokku—a tangy, spicy brinjal gravy that I liked better than raita. It clung to the long, slender grains of rice and gave a punch to every bite. That combination, along with crispy, red Chicken 65, was something I could never find replicated quite right anywhere else.

By 2020, that combo would become everywhere, a staple in so many South Indian restaurants. But in 2013, to childhood Nila, this was magic on a steel plate.

Our Biryani came in hot with plates soon to be at our table. The smell hit me first—warm spices, ghee, and the faint tang of lemon. It was like someone had ground comfort into a scent.

Appa served us both half the biriyani first to start with. We both took our first bite in silence.

"What did I tell you?" Appa grinned.

Nila just closed his eyes for a second, then smiled. "You're right. This is too good. It's not spicy, but still has flavour. The chicken is tender."

"And this Kathirikai thokku... Appa, please tell me you like it!"

"Like it? This is better than anything I've had with biryani so far."

As we ate, we didn't talk much. We didn't need to. The food has our full concentration, and our mission is to enjoy every bite of this Biryani.

After the last bite, Appa leaned back and said, "Nila, I hope this becomes our thing. You and me. First stop, biryani. Then music."

I looked at him. "It already is, Appa."

He didn't understand what I meant. But that was okay. Some secrets are better kept until their time comes again.

After paying the bill, he went to buy a Sweet beda in another small stall while I went to buy some chips and biscuits for the remaining trip, and maybe to bribe my brother so he won't be angry. I enjoyed this good food without him.

"Next stop—home," he said.

After finishing our biryani, we still had nearly two to three hours of journey left ahead of us. How long it would actually take depended entirely on Appa's driving mood. If he was in a "let's cruise and talk" mood, it might take the full three hours. If he decided to drive like he was chasing something, maybe we'd get there a little sooner. But for now, I wasn't in a hurry at all.

We rejoined the highway, the sky slowly dark from morning to night. I plugged in my phone and connected it to the car's stereo. A new playlist of recent Tamil movie songs started playing—some fast beats, some emotional melodies. It was my turn to keep Appa entertained, and I took the job very seriously.

"Appa, you know this song is from a movie where the heroine actually has no dialogue in the whole film. Can you believe that?" I said, as I skipped to the next track.

"She doesn't talk at all?" Appa asked, surprised. "Then how do they show her emotions?"

"Expressions, body language, music—it's amazing how much we can say without talking," I replied.

Appa smiled. "Just like your mother. She gives me one look and I know exactly what's about to come."

I burst out laughing. "Poor you!"

As the next song played, soft and mellow, I suddenly felt the urge to bring up something I'd been thinking about since I returned to this life. My brother Santhosh. In this timeline, he was still just in 3rd grade. But I remembered everything. His struggles. The labels people threw at him—'hyperactive', 'slow', 'not focused'. The way teachers and relatives misunderstood him. The way I had to fight for him, even as a teenager myself.

"Appa," I began slowly, "how is Santhosh doing in school?"

He glanced at me. "He's alright, kanna. He's always full of energy, you know him. He runs around a lot, gets bored quickly. Sometimes his teachers say he's a bit distracted."

I nodded. "Hmm."

Appa looked at me again. "Why? Did something happen?"

"No, no," I said quickly. "But I was thinking... maybe we should just keep a close eye on him. Not in a bad way, just... be aware. Some kids take time to find their way, and sometimes teachers don't know how to handle them."

Appa sighed. "I agree. Your amma worries too. She says he doesn't sit still, skips words while reading. But he's so smart in his own way."

"He is smart," I said firmly. "But not everyone sees it. And you know... sometimes, if no one notices early, they grow up thinking they're not good enough."

There was a pause. The car hummed gently beneath us as we drove past long stretches of farmland and quiet hills.

"You're very mature for your age, kanna," Appa said after a moment. "I don't know where you get these thoughts from."

I smiled and shrugged. If only you knew...

We stopped once at a roadside tea shop. Appa got a strong filter coffee, and I got a lemon soda, and we shared a pack of murukku.

The shop owner recognized Appa—they talked for a few minutes about politics, petrol prices, and the weather. I just sat on the cement bench, legs swinging, soaking in the feeling of being free for two days.

When we got back into the car, I played some old Tamil hits. Songs Appa grew up with.

He started singing along, and I joined him mid-verse.

We laughed. We teased each other. We even argued about who was better—Ilaiyaraaja or A. R. Rahman. (Obviously, I defended Rahman.)

"Appa," I said, turning serious again. "If Santhosh struggles with reading, or sits separate from others, or says something like 'I hate school'... promise me you won't ignore it?"

Appa nodded slowly. "I promise. We'll take it seriously. I'll even talk to his teachers again."

"And maybe let him try sports?" I added. "He's so energetic—maybe that's where he'll shine."

"Good idea," Appa said thoughtfully. "Maybe we'll put him in swimming or running."

"Or cricket," I said. "He loves Dhoni."

Appa laughed. "What boy in Tamil Nadu doesn't?"

As we neared our town, I saw the familiar welcome arch rising like an old friend. My heart warmed at the sight. Home. Amma's rasam. Santhosh's mischievous smile. The sound of the TV running all day. The smell of clothes just brought in from the line. The chaos. The peace.

I turned down the music and leaned back.

"Appa," I whispered.

"Yes, kanna?"

"I'm really glad I'm home."

He reached out and gently patted my head. "So am I, ma. So am I."