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By Nayab Tufail

A tray of “zarda” has always visually appealed to me like our very own desi version of the rainbow. Delicate, almost heavenly, saffron-hued basmati rice, boiled, sculptured by the soft, loving fingers of my grandmother into a flawless mound on the tray.Zarda at home was always decorated with as much care and perfection as the bride of our family. I remember once seeing the women of the house prepare zarda in the kitchen. After the mound was shaped, Ammi stuck in neon green crunchy pistachios and fragrant cardamoms, Chachi sprinkled flakes of snowy barfee, after which dadi plopped in the sticky miniature gulab jamuns. Once they were done , they looked at it with the pleasure of having created a work of art, and I looked at it with greedy anticipation, licking my lips.

The delight of popping a voluptuous, gooey gulab jamun into my mouth, from the untouched zarda tray is incomparable to any other mischevious pleasure I ever relished as a child. That pleasure was closely followed by the pain of Ammi twisting my ear , but then and even now, a gulab jamun is worth it all. When we were finally allowed to taste the coveted zarda I found surprises resting on my fork in every bite I was about to take. Sometimes jewel-like red jelly or a soothing clove, or a luscious sultana raisin and at times traces of the shimmering silver foil that garnished it. Zarda was the queen of foods, resting on the exclusive crystal tray,its throne. It exuded redolences of homemade rosewater and melting gulab jamuns- aromatic ecstasy. Every bite felt like heaven on my tongue. It was like the various diverse flavours mingled in my mouth, tickling my tongue playfully. It is now that I realize zarda might have really been a piece of art. A tray of zarda still always smells of the delicious love of my dadi jaan, the magic of eastern spices and my innocent childhood temptations.