Growing up in a Gujarati household, rotlis were an integral part of my childhood. I have memories of my grandmother making rotlis every afternoon in the long hot summers and smothering them with butter as soon as they were out of the frying pan. We would then come and grab them fresh and hot and sprinkle sugar or spread jam and roll them up like little Indian burritos. My mother would make them after work and we would help her to roll them and then cook them. We would wait for them to “fulelIi” which essentially means for them to puff up. And then we knew they would be good. Eating rotlis is just synonymous with my childhood and I think of most of the childhoods of my Gujarati peers. Our mothers, grandmothers and aunts rolling rotlis. It’s a classic vision for most of us. For me rotlis denote love. Because they are made with effort. They take time. But if you get to eat fresh rotlis, you know you are loved. For the past few years as life has gotten more hectic and the lure of convenience is more and more tempting, our mothers and aunts have bought their rotlis from little shops. And they are satisfying and fine. But I often felt sad that my children wouldn’t know a classic Gujarati childhood of watching your mum and grandmas (or male relative! Hello we are all about gender equality here) make rotlis and waiting for them to be done so you can roll them up with honey (my kids choice of sugar overdose). But lockdown took us to new heights of necessity and now we all make our rotlis. My kids see me rolling them, “sukeli-ing” (grilling them) and then buttering them generously. And now they eat them by the pile. My son loves them with salted butter and honey and my daughter loves them with jam. This makes me really happy. I think they feel my love. And I feel happy that my babies are growing up the same traditions that we all did.
I’m not giving you a recipe for rotlis today. Can’t be bothered to type it all out. I’m just being philosophical. But I will give you a recipe soon.