The X Files

I hop across the narrow gulley and land at the threshold of Zaki hotel. A man, Maqsood, who’s patiently folding samosas, tells me that Jamil makes the best roomalis around. ‘‘On the top floor is his theeya,’’ he points skyward. ‘‘Jamil has worked all over Nizamuddin, with at least 30 restaurants,’’ he says.

The street is awash with a watery fragrance of jasmine as I climb to the third floor in search of my guru, Jamil. There isn’t much of a landing, just a corrugated tin roof above, a dough-laden table and a convex iron pan and stove below. On the black floor of a dingy room next to the stove, a man and four children are fast asleep. ‘‘Jamil bhai,’’ I try to shake him awake. But he’s in Neverland.

An hour later, I’m back. When I greet him, he corrects me—his name is Mohammad Zameer, not Jamil. Zameer bhai asks me to wait for him in the restaurant till he’s had a bath.

Some 30 minutes later, he beckons. Back on the third floor, a trough is overflowing under the tap. I turn it off. He empties 20 kg of ‘‘superfine’’ flour into a large aluminium tub. ‘‘Ideally, one should mix eggs, milk, baking powder and salt in the flour for roomalis. For 20 kg flour, at least 20 eggs. But since this is a dhaba…’’ He picks up the packet of salt, ‘‘We’ll only mix salt.’’ He sprinkles two fists full. Then he thrusts his arms into the tub to mix the two.

He instructs me to pour water into the flour. By now, he’s upto his elbows in the soft pillow-like mixture. He places the ‘pillow’ on the table. There’s a half-tub of flour left over. I pour water into it. He nods, and I go for it.

‘‘You’re spending more time scraping the dough off your arms than kneading it,’’ chides Zamir bhai. I knead vigorously. We have another ‘pillow’ ready. The master puts the two together and nods again. I take the plunge with both hands. The tub starts to rock and the air sucks my skin with loud swooshes.

Zameer bhai then finishes the 20 kg job in 20 minutes and with less than 20 drops of sweat in the mix (I counted). He leaves the swollen mass standing for 10 minutes.

The pan is blazing hot now. The master flattens a ping pong size ball of dough with both hands and thrashes it between his palms. It gets thinner and wider. Then Zameer gives the disc a spin on his index finger. He smiles like Vishnu as I watch awestruck. He tosses the disc into the air and the membrane-thin pancake lands softly on his arms. He turns it over on the seething pan. It turns pale and tiny air bags spurt on the surface.

I try the same technique but end up ruining seven pedas. I get the eighth one spinning. It rotates and gets wider before descending like a cool balm onto my baking hands. Once the roti is on the pan, it’s impossible to turn it. I burn my fingers. The flames lick the inside of my arm as I lean over the pan to catch another flying saucer.

As the sky outside changes colour, we have a collection of 50 roomali moons. Zameer makes Rs 120 per day for this trial by fire, and there are no fixed hours. ‘‘A dhaba is open 24 hours,’’ he says. Before I quit, I leave my cigarette pack for Maqsood, who was smoking while we made rotis. The boys, Alam (12) and Fazlu (14), clean the troughs. There’s no government school in the vicinity—only tandoors and a huge police station at the mouth of Nizamuddin street.

I walk away, with a refrain stuck in my head: Just chill chill, just chill…