The Layered History of Biryani

Few dishes can claim to have been shaped by empires, carried along trade routes spanning thousands of miles, refined in royal kitchens, and then democratised on street corners — all while remaining essentially, recognisably itself. Biryani is one such dish. What arrives at the table as fragrant, layered rice and spiced meat is, in truth, a palimpsest of civilisations: Persian, Central Asian, Mughal, Deccani, and now global. Its history is contested, its origins claimed by many, and its variations so numerous that no two cities in South Asia can fully agree on what constitutes the real biryani. And that, perhaps, is precisely the point.

To understand biryani, one must first understand pilaf — for biryani did not emerge from nothing. It evolved, over centuries, from a family of rice and meat dishes that have been central to the culinary traditions of Persia, Central Asia, and the wider Islamic world.

Ancient Roots: Rice, Meat, and the Persian Tradition

The story begins with rice itself. While rice cultivation had spread from the Indian subcontinent to Central and Western Asia in antiquity, it was in Persia that the cooking of rice was elevated into a sophisticated culinary art. Persian cuisine developed an intricate vocabulary for rice preparation — polow (rice cooked in broth with separate grains, from which the word “pilaf” derives worldwide), chelow (plain steamed rice), kateh (sticky rice), and tahchin (slow-cooked layered rice) — reflecting a culture that took its rice very seriously indeed.

The earliest documented recipe for a pilaf-like preparation comes from the 10th-century Persian polymath Abu Ali Ibn Sina, better known in the West as Avicenna. In his medical texts, including sections of the Canon of Medicine, he described therapeutic rice dishes cooked in broth, elaborating on several types of pilaf and their nutritional properties. For this, the Tajiks still consider Ibn Sina the “father of modern pilaf.” His name for the dish was reportedly palov osh — said to be an acronym in Uzbek compiled from the basic ingredients: onion (piyoz), carrot (ayoz), meat (lakhm), fat (olio), salt (vet), water (ob), and rice (shali). Whether this etymology is folk tradition or historical fact is debatable, but it speaks to the deep cultural investment these peoples have in their rice.

Even before Avicenna, literary references to pilaf-like dishes appear in the histories of Alexander the Great. When Alexander captured the Sogdian capital of Marakanda — modern-day Samarkand — in 329 BCE, his soldiers reportedly encountered and were so taken with the local rice dishes that they carried the recipes back to Macedonia. These stories, while likely apocryphal according to historians like John Boardman, do testify to the antiquity and prestige of rice preparation in Central Asia.

By the time of the Abbasid Caliphate (750–1258 CE), methods of cooking rice that approximate modern pilaf had spread across a vast territory from the Iberian Peninsula to Afghanistan. The 13th-century Kitab al-Tabikh by Muhammad bin Hasan al-Baghdadi, compiled in Baghdad, describes rice cooked in broth to achieve separate grains, termed ruzz mufalfal — “rice like peppercorns” — preserving the Persian and Central Asian influences that flowed through the Abbasid courts. These texts describe a desired consistency where each grain should be plump, firm, and entirely separate, with no mushiness or clumping. The Spanish paella, the South Asian pulao, and biryani all evolved from this culinary tradition.

From Pilaf to Biryani: A Distinction Emerges

Here is where matters become interesting, and contested. The word “biryani” itself carries multiple Persian etymological threads. It may derive from birian or beriyan, meaning “to fry” or “to roast,” or from bereshtan, also meaning “to roast.” The usage traces to the phrase birinj biryan — literally “fried rice” — with birinj being the Persian word for rice. All roads lead back to Persia, linguistically at least.

But a name is not the same as an origin. Rice and meat preparations existed across the ancient world wherever these staple ingredients were available. The nomadic pastoral cultures of Central Asia relied heavily on both for sustenance, and a one-pot dish of rice with whatever meat was at hand would have been a practical and efficient meal for peoples on the move. The distinction between pulao and biryani, in fact, has never been entirely clear-cut. The British-era author Abdul Halim Sharar noted that biryani carried a stronger curried taste due to greater quantities of spices. The food historian Sohail Hashmi pointed out that pulao tends to be plainer, with meat or vegetables cooked together with rice, while biryani contains more gravy and is cooked longer. The cookery writer Pratibha Karan offered what is perhaps the clearest structural definition: biryani consists of two layers of rice with a layer of meat in the middle, while pulao is not layered.

This layering is crucial. It is the defining architectural principle of biryani — the separation and then reunion of components, each partially prepared independently before being brought together in a sealed vessel to complete their cooking through steam and aromatic exchange. This technique, known as dum pukht (literally “slow breathing oven” in Persian), distinguishes biryani from its simpler pilaf ancestors.

The Mughal Synthesis: Where Biryani Became Biryani

The prevailing scholarly consensus, articulated most influentially by the food historian Lizzie Collingham, holds that the modern biryani developed in India in the royal kitchens of the Mughal Empire, specifically during the reign of Emperor Akbar (1556–1605). The Mughals, who traced their lineage to both Timur and Genghis Khan through their Persianised Turkic heritage, were great patrons of Persian culture. When they established their empire in the Indian subcontinent, they brought with them Persian court traditions, art, architecture, and — crucially — cuisine.

As Collingham describes it, in the Mughal court kitchens, “the delicately flavoured Persian pilau met the pungent and spicy rice dishes of Hindustan to create the classic Mughlai dish, biryani.” This was not a simple transplantation. It was a genuine synthesis: Persian slow-cooking methods and yoghurt-marinated meat combined with the assertive spice traditions of the subcontinent — garam masala, green chillies, turmeric, coriander, mint — to produce something neither purely Persian nor purely Indian, but distinctively Mughal.

The Portuguese Friar Sebastien Manrique, visiting the Mughal court in the 1630s, made a clear distinction between Persian pilau and Mughal biryani, describing grand feasts featuring “the rich and aromatic Mogol Bringes [biryanis] and Persian pilaos of different hues.” The Ain-i-Akbari, the detailed administrative chronicle of Akbar’s court written by his historian Abu’l Fazl in 1590, records multiple rice dishes including palaos, biryanis, and shulla, though it draws little formal distinction between them — suggesting that the taxonomy was still fluid in Akbar’s time.

The emperor Aurangzeb, writing to his son, mentions biryani with evident fondness: “I remember the savour of your khichidi and biryani during the winter. Truly the kabuli cooked by Islam Khan does not surpass them.” He requested that a skilled biryani cook be sent to him — a telling detail about the status the dish held in imperial circles.

The legend of Mumtaz Mahal — that Shah Jahan’s queen, visiting army barracks and finding soldiers malnourished, ordered the royal chefs to create a nourishing one-pot rice and meat dish — is almost certainly apocryphal. But like many food origin stories, it speaks to a truth about the dish’s character: biryani was always simultaneously courtly and martial, elaborate and practical, a meal fit for a banquet and for an army camp.

Across the Subcontinent: The Great Diversification

The genius of biryani lies not in any single definitive recipe but in its capacity for regional adaptation. As the Mughal Empire expanded and then fragmented, biryani travelled with governors, soldiers, pilgrims, and displaced courts, absorbing local flavours and techniques at every stop.

Hyderabadi Biryani

When the Mughals conquered Hyderabad in the 1630s, the dish entered the Deccan. Under the Nizams, who ruled Hyderabad from 1724 until Indian independence in 1948, biryani was refined with an almost obsessive dedication. The Nizams’ kitchens are said to have developed nearly fifty varieties, using proteins ranging from goat and chicken to fish, prawns, quail, and deer. The signature Hyderabadi method is the kacchi (raw) biryani — raw meat marinated overnight in yoghurt and spices, layered with partially cooked rice, sealed with dough, and slow-cooked on dum. The result is bold, spicy, and intensely flavoured, with the meat juices infusing every grain of rice. When the Mughal Empire declined in Delhi after 1857, Hyderabad emerged as a major centre of South Asian Muslim culture, and its biryani became arguably the most famous iteration of the dish.

Lucknowi (Awadhi) Biryani

In Lucknow, the capital of the Awadh region, biryani took on a markedly different character under the Nawabs. Where Hyderabadi biryani is bold and assertive, Lucknowi biryani is subtle and fragrant. The distinguishing technique is the pakki (cooked) method: meat and rice are prepared separately — the meat in a yoghurt and milk-based stock, the rice parboiled with whole spices — before being layered in a copper vessel and finished on dum. The spicing is gentler, with an emphasis on saffron, star anise, kewra (screwpine water), and rose water. The Nawabs of Awadh, renowned for their luxurious taste, approached food as an art form, and Lucknowi biryani reflects that sensibility — restrained, aromatic, and refined.

Kolkata Biryani

When the British deposed Nawab Wajid Ali Shah of Awadh in 1856 and exiled him to Calcutta, he brought his court — and his cooks — with him. The Lucknowi biryani tradition thus migrated eastward, but in its new home it underwent a distinctive transformation. The most notable innovation was the addition of the potato — large golden chunks of it, cooked within the biryani. Whether this was born of economy (stretching the expensive meat further under reduced royal finances) or of culinary adventurism (the potato was still a relatively exotic ingredient in mid-19th century India) remains debated. Begum Manzilat Fatima, the Nawab’s great-great-granddaughter, favoured the latter theory — potatoes were expensive and unusual in 1856, making their inclusion a mark of sophistication rather than poverty. Regardless, the boiled egg and the potato became the signatures of Kolkata biryani, along with a lighter spice profile and a subtle sweetness from kewra essence.

Southern and Coastal Variations

Biryani’s journey was not exclusively a northern affair. Some food historians, notably Salma Hussein, have argued that biryani may have arrived in South India’s Deccan region before the Mughal era, brought by Arab traders and travelling soldier-statesmen. The ancient Tamil literary tradition records a dish called Oon Soru — rice cooked in ghee with meat, turmeric, coriander, pepper, and bay leaf — from the Chola Dynasty period, as early as the 2nd to 3rd century CE. Whether this was a direct precursor to biryani or merely a parallel development is an open question, but it complicates any simple narrative of biryani as a purely Persian or Mughal import.

Kerala’s Malabar coast developed its own tradition, using the short-grained Jeerakasala (cumin rice) rather than basmati, cooked with seafood, chicken, or mutton and infused with coconut and curry leaves. In Tamil Nadu, Ambur biryani is distinguished by dried chilli paste, whole spices, and a dum-style cooking method using coconut milk. Dindigul biryani uses the local seeraga samba rice and is tangier than its northern cousins, with generous amounts of curd and lemon. Each coastal and southern variation tells the story of biryani meeting local ecology, local palates, and local identities.

Beyond the Subcontinent: A Global Migration

Biryani’s reach extends far beyond South Asia, carried by diaspora communities, trade routes, and the simple force of its appeal.

In the Persian Gulf states — Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Oman, and the UAE — biryani is a staple, often saffron-based with chicken, reflecting the dish’s deep roots in the wider Islamic culinary world. Oman’s maqbous uses dried lime, saffron, and smoking charcoal for a distinctive aromatic character. In Southeast Asia, biryani adapted to local ingredients and traditions: Myanmar’s danpauk, derived from the Persian dum pukht, is a mainstay at weddings and festive events. In Malaysia and Singapore, biryani is served with local spice blends and accompaniments. Indonesia’s nasi kebuli is a spicy steamed rice dish cooked in goat broth, milk, and ghee. Thailand’s khao mhok uses chicken, beef, or fish, topped with fried garlic and served with a green sour sauce.

The 19th-century movement of Indian indentured labourers to the Caribbean, East Africa, and beyond carried biryani to yet more kitchens. In Trinidad and Tobago, in Kenya, in South Africa’s Cape Malay community — wherever South Asian populations settled, biryani settled with them, adapting and evolving, absorbing new ingredients and new meanings.

The Modern Biryani: A Democratic Feast

Today, biryani occupies a unique position in the culinary world. In India, it is the single most ordered dish on food delivery platforms — a remarkable achievement for a preparation that was, for centuries, the province of royal kitchens and master chefs. According to Swiggy, India’s largest food delivery service, biryani tops their annual food trends year after year, with hundreds of thousands of new users placing their first orders for chicken biryani. World Biryani Day is celebrated on 7th July.

The dish has proven extraordinarily adaptable to modern life. Vegetarian versions — tahiri made with potatoes and peas, or paneer and mixed vegetables — cater to India’s large vegetarian population. Health-conscious variations substitute quinoa or brown rice. Fusion biryanis experiment with international flavours. Ready-to-eat biryani kits and meal delivery services have made the dish accessible far beyond the traditional centres of biryani mastery. And yet, the classic preparations endure: in Hyderabad, Lucknow, Kolkata, Chennai, and Karachi, biryani restaurants with decades or even centuries of tradition continue to serve dishes made by methods that would be recognisable to a Mughal court chef.

As the food historian Mohsina Mukadam has observed, while biryani may not have originated in India, “with its spices and flavours, it is a completely Indian innovation.” This seems right, but also perhaps too narrow. Biryani is Persian in its ancestry, Central Asian in its heartiness, Mughal in its refinement, Indian in its spicing, and now global in its reach. It belongs, in the end, to everyone who cooks it and everyone who eats it.

What makes biryani endure is not any single recipe but the principle at its core — that separate ingredients, each prepared with care and attention, can be brought together in a sealed vessel and, through the slow alchemy of steam and heat, transformed into something greater than the sum of their parts. That is a metaphor, if you want one, for the civilisational exchange that produced the dish in the first place. But it is also, more simply, the reason it tastes so extraordinarily good.

Sources consulted include Lizzie Collingham’s work on Indian food history, K.T. Achaya’s A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, Pratibha Karan’s Biryani, Colleen Taylor Sen’s Feasts and Fasts, the Ain-i-Akbari of Abu’l Fazl, the Kitab al-Tabikh of al-Baghdadi, and accounts from the Google Arts & Culture project on the origins of biryani.