Biryani

It smelt of spices, namely turmeric and cumin, and garlic, and onion, and salt, and pepper, and of the warmth and homeliness of clarified butter. Most importantly, it smelled of home. It came in a large steel pot, too big to be cooked on a home stove, this was a commercial pot. It was made of steel, pockmarked by designs, it was still shiny, light glimmering off of it. Two men were dragging it in, the one holding it on the right was wearing a goatee that did not look good, the one on the left had sincere eyes, sparkling with happiness, maybe he was heady from the smell of what he was carrying. He was clean shaven, maybe just shy of being twenty. Behind them, a man carrying a stomach, cupped in his palms, waddled in. He had a long beard, neatly kept. With one hand, he stroked it. His stomach wobbled. On his head was a white garment, with designs and holes in it, indicating he was one of the religious. They brought it in, set it by the porch and waited. The guard offered a seat to the fat man. He took it graciously, and they waited. The other two stood in the lawn, the eyes of the elder darting around, calculating, the younger one bright eyed, and happy to be in the sun. The air smelled fresh and green and of the new smell they had brought in, wafting all around, exploring the corners of the gated house. The dogs barked at the newcomers, smelling them and especially the fresh new scent dancing in the air. They were excited. They were gated on the other side of the house. A bell rang upstairs, and the guard informed his mistress of the newcomers.

Five minutes later, the large wooden door at the front opened. The new scent wafted in, and a clean one, of lavender? Wafted out. They met briefly at the door, shook hands so that some of the lavender remained on this new one, as it now took to exploring the house. It left its mark on the wooden stairs that smelled of oil, polished and shiny as they were. It looked around the bathrooms that smelt of alcohol, having just been cleaned. It took stock of the kitchen, that was filled with smells just like this one, but also so very different. They were the components of this one. Onions being finely chopped, a fire glowering on the stove, tomatoes being washed. Rice boiling in water on a second stove. It danced through the guest rooms, a sudden sound startling it, this one was of rose, as a machine sprayed the scent out, in droplets of moisture. The new scent rifled through the library room, reminding it of the sticky stuff from trees, and of wood, and dust. It took stock of the humans, who were sweat and worry, disgusting, as all of them were. It danced around the house, and later in the night, went back to the source, as it was placed on the table for dinner.