Today is a working day.

I am sitting in another country, surrounded by the familiar rhythm of work: calls, messages, meetings and people moving from one task to another.

Nothing about the day feels like a Friday in Oman.

And yet, for some reason, Oman came back to me this morning.

Maybe it was a smell from somewhere nearby. Maybe someone had opened a pot of biriyani. Or perhaps it was simply memory playing one of its little games.

But suddenly, in the middle of an ordinary working day, I could almost smell it again.

Biriyani.

That unmistakable fragrance of ghee, fried onions, mint, masala and rice escaping from a freshly opened pot.

And with that smell came everything else.

Friday in Oman.

The phone calls.

“Where are you?”

“What’s the plan?”

“Come, let’s have lunch.”

And just like that, I was no longer sitting here.

I was back there.

Fridays were different

Friday in Oman always felt different.

Perhaps it was because the week finally slowed down. Perhaps it was the comfort of knowing there was nowhere to rush. Or maybe it really was something as simple as the fragrance of lunch beginning to fill homes and restaurants.

By late morning, particularly after Friday prayers, the rhythm of the day seemed to change.

Restaurants became busier. Families stepped out. Friends began calling one another.

Sometimes, one phone call was all it took.

People you had not seen the entire week would suddenly appear. Someone would bring another friend. Somebody else would say, “My family is also coming.”

A table planned for six somehow became a table for twelve.

That was Friday.

During the week, everyone was occupied with work, school, meetings, shifts, traffic and responsibilities. Friday gave people an excuse to reconnect.

You called the friend you had been meaning to call.

You visited someone you had been promising to see.

You met colleagues without discussing work.

Families stayed around the table a little longer. Children played. Nobody seemed particularly interested in checking the time.

And somewhere at the centre of all of it was food.

A journey from Malabar to Arabia

The fragrance usually reached you before the plate did.

Biriyani had a way of announcing itself.

For those of us from Kerala, that aroma could take us home in an instant.

Malabar biriyani had its own comfort. Thalassery had another personality. Kozhikode another.

Then there was Hyderabadi biriyani: richer, stronger and more dramatic, with the aroma of dum escaping the moment the lid was lifted.

And then came the Arabic table.

Mandi. Majboos. Kabsa.

A large tray placed in the centre, everyone sharing from it, somebody quietly pushing the best piece of meat towards somebody else.

There was something meaningful in that simple gesture.

Food was not merely served.

It was shared.

And Oman taught us that beautifully.

My first Shuwa

Then there was Shuwa.

Shuwa always felt different because it belonged to special occasions, celebrations and traditions.

My first taste of Shuwa is still connected to a person and a memory.

Habib brought it for us when we were at SalamAir. Today, he is a pilot with Oman Air, but when I think of my first Shuwa, I still remember him bringing it and all of us gathering around.

That is the strange thing about food memories.

You may forget the date.

You may forget what meeting you attended that day.

But you remember who brought the food.

You remember opening it.

You remember the aroma.

You remember everyone gathering around.

Later, whenever suppliers or visitors came to Oman for meetings, we would often take them to try Shuwa.

It almost became our way of introducing them to Oman.

You could show someone the office, the presentation, the business plan and the city. But to understand a little of Oman, they also had to sit down and taste it.

Watching someone experience Shuwa for the first time was always special.

The slow-cooked meat. The aroma. The tenderness. The apparent simplicity of the dish, and yet the extraordinary tradition behind it.

Some meals become part of a meeting.

Others become part of a memory.

The conversations around the table

Friday lunches in Oman were filled with those memories.

There was always something on the side.

Raita. Pickle. Salad. Gravy. Dakkous with mandi.

And every table seemed to have at least one self-appointed expert explaining how everything should really be eaten.

“Take some gravy.”

“Try this pickle.”

“Mix this with the rice.”

“Don’t finish the meat yet.”

Then came the inevitable debates.

Malabar or Hyderabadi?

Mandi or biriyani?

Mutton or chicken?

Basmati or kaima rice?

Everyone had an answer.

Nobody changed their mind.

And everyone kept eating.

Eventually, the food slowed down, but the conversation did not.

Perhaps that was the best part of Friday.

People talked about everything.

Family. Children. Work.

Someone going on leave. Someone returning from India. Someone newly arrived in Oman. Someone preparing to leave after many years.

There were weddings to discuss, new jobs to celebrate, worries to share and good news to announce.

Friday gave people something increasingly difficult to find in busy lives: time to listen to one another.

And then came Sulaimani

Of course, there was dessert.

Kunafa. Umm Ali. Payasam. Sometimes something homemade that somebody had brought along.

Everyone would declare that they were too full.

Everyone would still eat it.

And finally came Sulaimani.

That small glass of hot tea after a heavy meal somehow felt necessary.

You held it slowly. The table became quieter. Nobody rushed to leave.

Someone would eventually say, “Okay, let’s go.”

Then another story would begin.

Another joke.

Another ten minutes.

Sometimes, another Sulaimani.

Eventually everyone went home.

And then came that famous Friday afternoon sleep.

Air-conditioning on. Curtains closed. Phones silent. The house suddenly peaceful.

After biriyani, something sweet and Sulaimani, that sleep felt almost compulsory.

You would wake up later, look at the time and wonder for a moment where the day had gone.

By evening, Friday would begin all over again in a different form.

A drive. A visit. Tea somewhere. Another friend’s house. Children wanting to go out. Families meeting again.

And before you knew it, Friday was almost over.

Then you started waiting for the next one.

More than the food

Looking back, perhaps we were never really waiting for the biriyani.

Or the mandi.

Or even the Shuwa.

We were waiting for the feeling that came with them.

The phone call.

The gathering.

The laughter.

The long table.

The smell of food arriving.

The children running around.

The friend you had not seen all week.

The simple happiness of having time for people.

And now I am back here.

Another country.

A working day.

The phone is ringing. Messages are waiting. Life has moved on.

But somewhere amid all that noise, one familiar fragrance brought back an entire world.

That is what memories do.

They do not always arrive through photographs or old messages.

Sometimes they arrive through a smell.

A taste.

A name.

A seemingly insignificant moment.

And suddenly, a place you left behind feels very close again.

Today, it was Oman.

Today, it was Friday.

It was biriyani, Shuwa, Sulaimani, laughter and the faces of people I can still picture sitting around a long table.

And for a few moments, in the middle of this working day, I found myself waiting again.

Waiting for another Friday.

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