Biryani Amma’s magic touch

Dressed in a deep blue kurta, embroidered lungi and a string of fragrant jasmine coiled around her hair, M.P. Selvi enters the large kitchen she runs — Karumbukadai M.P. Selvi Biryani Master.

The staff of her catering unit look up, some of the chatter ceases and a worker greets her and takes her bag. Selvi is the ‘biryani master’ and instantly commands respect in this large kitchen of over 60 people. In a few minutes everyone is back in the groove, moving quickly and efficiently, oblivious to the smoke and sparks that sputter from the flames. Dum mutton biryani is made by Selvi and her cooks. In this preparation, the meat and rice are cooked together, unlike other biryanis where the two main ingredients are cooked separately. “I am a Coimbatore dum biryani specialist,” says the 50-year-old trans woman.

“I manage it all alone. I keep everything in mind. Many times, we get booked six months in advance.” As she is speaking to us, a satuvam (large spoon) dripping with biryani masala is handed to her. Selvi tastes the marinade and nods, “Okay.”

That’s the final and most important taste test and everybody looks relieved as the head chef approves the dish. “Everyone calls me ‘Selvi Amma (mother)’. There’s joy in being called Amma for a thirunangai (trans woman),” she says beaming. She runs her catering service from her home in Pullukadu, a low-income housing area in the city. She employs 65 people, including 15 trans people. Every week, the team prepares orders of up to 1,000 kilos of biryani on an average. Occasionally, a few weddings add to the workload.

Once Selvi prepared 3,500 kilos of biryani for a large mosque in the city that fed close to 20,000 people. “Why do I like cooking? Once, after eating my biryani, a customer named Abdin called me and said, ‘What taste! The meat falls off the bone like snow’. But it’s not just the taste factor. My customers eat food made by the hands of a transgender person. It feels like a blessing.”

The day we visit, 400 kilos of her special biryani are being prepared for a wedding function. “There is no secret masala in my biryani!” Selvi Amma says, insisting that the taste comes from her attention to detail.

“My mind is always on the pot. I like to add the masalas like coriander powder, garam masala and [spices like] cardamom myself,” she says, gesturing with hands that have fed thousands of people. Ingredients for the wedding biryani are being prepped by two of her employees, Tamilarasan and Elavarasan, brothers in their 30s.

They are cutting vegetables, mixing masalas and checking the firewood. If it’s a big event, making biryani can take an entire day and night. Selvi Amma’s calendar is especially busy during April and May, the holiday season, when she receives up to 20 orders. Her regular customers are mostly from the Muslim community, and she often caters for weddings and engagements. She adds, “No matter how big [in social status] they are, they call me Amma.” Mutton biryani is the most popular dish, but Selvi also offers chicken and beef biryani. One kilo of biryani feeds four to six people. Her ‘cooking charges’ are Rs 120 per kilo, with ingredients being charged separately.

After four hours in the kitchen, Selvi Amma’s clothes are soiled with oil and spices; the heat of the kitchen makes her face glisten with sweat. The grey room behind her is lit by the flames firing the large degchis (cooking vessels).

“People do not last long in my kitchen. It’s not easy to find people who do what we do,” she explains. “We lift weights and stand in front of fires. If they want to work for me, they have to do difficult work. And those who do not want to do so, run away.”

After a few hours, everyone sits down to eat breakfast—parotta and beef korma bought from a nearby restaurant. Growing up, Selvi Amma’s household was often short of food. “Access to food was very difficult for our family. We only ate corn and maize,” she says. “Rice was something we could eat only occasionally, once in months.”

She was born in 1974 in Pullukadu, Coimbatore, in a family of agricultural workers. When she realised that she was transgender (assigned male at birth but identifying as a woman), she moved to Hyderabad, and from there to Mumbai and Delhi. “I didn’t like it, so I came back to Coimbatore and decided not to leave again. I am able to live with dignity as a transgender woman here,” she says.

Selvi has adopted 10 trans daughters who live and work with her. “Not only trans women, but other men and women depend on me for their survival. Everyone should eat. I want them to be happy.”

It was an older trans person who taught Selvi Amma how to cook. She has only been when everyone eats together honing the skills she picked up 30 years ago, she says modestly. “Initially, I went to work as a helper and eventually worked as an assistant for six years. They paid me Rs 20 for two days of work. It was a small amount. But I was happy with that.”

She has passed on the skill to others: Saro, Selvi Amma’s adopted daughter learnt from her. Today, Saro is a master biryani-maker in her own right, and as Selvi says proudly, “is capable of handling thousands of kilograms of biryani on her own”.

“There are daughters and granddaughters in the transgender community. If we teach them a skill, their lives will be enriched,” says Selvi who feels self-reliance is the biggest gift she can pass on to other transgender persons. “Else, we will have to do dhantha (sex work) or yasakam (begging).”

Valli Amma and Sundari have been working with her for over 15 years. “I was young when I met Selvi Amma,” says Valli Amma, who is older than her employer. “My children were little. This was the only earning option then. Now that my children are grown and earning, they want me to rest. But I love working. The money I earn gives me freedom. I can spend as I wish, going on tours!” Selvi Amma says she pays her employees Rs 1,250 a day. Sometimes, when orders are very large, the team has to pull a 24-hour shift.

“If we have to cook for a morning function, we don’t sleep,” she says. The pay then rises to Rs 2,500. She says assertively, “That’s what you should get paid. This is not just regular work. We work with fire!”

Flames light up almost every corner of the huge kitchen. Logs of firewood are even kept on top of the degchi’s lid while the biryani simmers. “You cannot be afraid of the fire. That doesn’t mean there are no injuries. We get burns, you just have to be careful,” she warns. “We suffer. But when you think that you can earn a hundred rupees and eat happily for a week, that pain fades away.”

Achef’s day starts early, and Selvi Amma sets out by 7 a.m. Bag in hand, she hails an auto from outside her home in Karumbukadai for the 15-minute ride. Her day, however, starts even earlier at 5 a.m. when she tends to her cows, goats, chickens and ducks.

Mayakka, 40, one of Selvi Amma’s adopted daughters, helps with feeding, milking and collecting eggs. Selvi loves feeding her animals as “they help ease my mind, especially after the stress from my high-pressure job in the kitchen.”

Work doesn’t end for the master biryani chef after she is back home. She continues to manage all the bookings with the help of her trusty diary and pen. She also organises all the groceries for the next day’s cooking. “I only accept work from people who trust me,” she says as she moves to the kitchen to cook her own dinner. “I don’t like doing nothing and just eating and sleeping.” During the pandemic, work shut down for three years. “We had no other way to survive, so we bought a cow for milk. Now we need three litres of milk every day. Anything extra, we sell,” Selvi says.

Home is in the Tamil Nadu Urban Habitat Development Board quarters. Most of the families around belong to the Scheduled Caste community and are daily wage workers. “There are no rich people here. Everyone is working class and if they need pure milk for their children, they come to me.”

“We have been living here for 25 years. The government acquired our land for road construction and [in return] provided us with a house here,” she explains, adding, “People here treat us with respect and dignity.”

Article courtesy: People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI)