Briyani

Breaking a vow not to write about food in this survey of Sing'pore, necessary brevity. Couple of Indian lads, nice looking boys, mid-twenties. Same baby-blue company polos, same skin tone and fine, thin tracery of beard. Hailing from the same village back home, or else close. Here they sit at the Mr. T. T. table bent forward over the single dinner plate set between them, taking care not to encroach on the other's portion. Two hands working forks; turns taken gesturing with the others. Smiles, touch on a wrist, warmth and ease. The pair don't have many opportunities to pause like this. One on the right quickly pulled up, passing the plate over. Enough, he’s had his fill; neatly cleared his side. — Saffron-yellow Briyani easy to tell from a distance. Colour is the key here: the blue, yellow, the rich, glowing young nut tone. Left could be a year or two younger; perhaps the one that has followed here. An illumination from the pair as if a lamp sat on their table. Nightly many of the tables here at Mr. Teh Tarik set aglow by the people’s circle of inner light running around the gathering, all the members across the generations. Lads away quickly, no time to dally, only a few crumbs left behind. Briskly marching along the aisle, the youngster with a hand resting on his shoulder. Brothers in arms. A quick bite. No doubt they have other tasks to perform, the working day still ticking. It’s only eight after all. The construction crews and road-work gangs here can be commonly found in the trenches and up on the scaffolds under arc lights, mainland Chinese, Indians, Banglars. A brief, striking scene in its simplicity. A reminder of the past for the dispossessed. One fears one cannot be easily understood.
         Cinnamon, cardamon, saffron (or tumeric), Basmati rice... there are many varieties and supplements possible.