Hyderabad faces LPG shortage; weddings may suffer.
Hyderabad kitchens anxiously counting LPG cylinders amid shortage.
The firewood arrived at 5 a.m., a truckload of rough timber that Mohd Naseer never imagined he would be grateful for. At 51 years old, after three decades of building a catering business that feeds hundreds of people every week, he is cooking biryani over an open flame like his grandmother did, like it’s a hundred years ago and the world hasn’t invented gas cylinders yet.
My name is Fatima, and I am Naseer’s daughter. I have watched my father build this business from nothing, his hands always smelling of cardamom and cloves, his laugh echoing through our kitchen as he tastes another pot and declares it perfect. Ramzan is our busiest time. Families break their fast together, weddings multiply, the city comes alive at sunset hungry for the food my father has spent his life perfecting.
Today, he stands over a wood fire in our backyard, sweat dripping down his face, stirring a massive pot of biryani with a wooden ladle as long as my arm. The smoke stings my eyes, but I don’t move away. I want to be close to him, to share this strange, painful moment.
“Beta,” he says without looking up, “go check the small cylinders. See how many we have left for the korma.”
There are three. Three small cylinders for the delicate dishes, the ones that need precise flame, the ones that cannot taste of smoke. Three cylinders to feed the five weddings we promised to cater this week, the iftar gatherings, the families who trust us to make their celebrations beautiful.
The wedding invitations had already gone out. I know because I helped address some of them, sitting at our dining table with a pot of glue and a stack of cream-colored envelopes. A bride in Banjara Hills, her mehendi designed by an artist flown in from Dubai. A groom’s family from London, their flights booked weeks ago. The food was decided after three tasting sessions, my father noting every preference, every allergy, every special request.
Now I have to call them. I have to tell them we may not be able to deliver.
The first call is to the bride’s mother. She answers on the first ring, her voice bright with anticipation. “Fatima beta, is everything ready? We are so excited, the guests are starting to arrive!”
I tell her about the gas. I tell her about the firewood, the three cylinders, the uncertainty. There is a long silence on the other end. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller, older. “What do we do? The food is the heart of the wedding. How do we have a wedding without food?”
I don’t have an answer. I give her my father’s number, tell her he will explain better. Then I sit at the table, surrounded by envelopes, and I cry.
My brother Yusuf is at the distributorship this morning, standing in a line that wraps around the building. He sends me photos: dozens of men, all in the same uniform of desperation, holding empty cylinders like offerings. The distributors told hoteliers they are on their own. Helpless, they said. There is nothing we can do.
Yusuf has been there since 3 a.m. He hasn’t moved more than ten feet in four hours. The line stretches, but the cylinders do not.
I think of the hotel representative they mentioned in the news, the one whose branches need over a hundred cylinders a day. I think of him making the same calculation we are making, dividing dwindling resources by impossible demand, coming up with numbers that make no sense. Some of his outlets have space for firewood stoves. Others do not. Those others will close.
Close. The word sits heavy in my chest. My father has never closed. Through floods and elections and the terrifying early days of COVID, he found a way. He cooked in smaller batches, delivered on bicycle, slept three hours a night. But this is different. You cannot negotiate with an empty cylinder. You cannot will gas into existence.
The government has saved supply for domestic users. I understand this. I do. Families need to cook. Children need hot food. My own mother is cooking dinner for us on our home cylinder, carefully, counting each meal. But what about the caterers who feed those families during celebrations? What about the hotel that serves the iftar meal that breaks the fast? What about the small tea stalls, the roadside vendors, the thousands of livelihoods built around feeding people?
My father’s hands are red from the heat of the firewood. He has burns on his forearms from sparks that flew while he stirred. He doesn’t complain. He just keeps cooking, because that is who he is.
“This biryani will be good,” he says, tasting from the pot. “The smoke gives it something. An old flavor.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that we can go backward, that firewood can replace gas, that tradition can save us when modernity fails. But I see the worry behind his eyes, the way he glances at the three small cylinders, the way his shoulders tense every time the phone rings.
The bride’s mother calls back. She has spoken to my father. They have a plan: fewer dishes, simpler menu, everything that can be cooked over wood will be, and for the rest, they will source from another caterer who still has gas, for now. It is a compromise, a patch, a hope held together by phone calls and good intentions.
I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know if the strait will open, if the ships will move, if the cylinders will come. But I know that tonight, my father will cook biryani over firewood, and somewhere in this city, a bride will eat it at her wedding, and for one moment, the world will feel almost normal.
Outside, the line at the distributorship grows longer. Yusuf sends another photo: the sun is higher now, the men more tired, the cylinders still empty. But no one leaves. No one gives up. Because giving up means closing, and closing means letting down the families who trusted us, the brides who sent invitations, the guests who are flying in from abroad, trying to navigate flight disruptions and canceled plans and a world that has suddenly become very small and very uncertain.
We are all waiting. Waiting for gas, waiting for peace, waiting for the strait to open. And while we wait, we cook. We cook with firewood and hope, with smoke-stung eyes and burning hands, because that is what we do.