Delhiwale: Raju’s biskut machine
In a bustling Delhi bazaar, hawker Raju sells fresh nankhatai biscuits from his elaborate cart, a mobile bakery attracting locals during winter.
Listen to them talking loudly in Hindi.

She—Ummm, I have to eat nankhatai! I will only eat nankhatai!
He—Then eat Meerut ki mashoor nankhatai!
The source of the man-woman sound in this crowded noisy neighbourhood bazaar is a tape playing on a loop. The tape is fitted inside an elaborate cart showing off a giant stove-like equipment. The cart is of Raju, the hawker of… guess!
The egg-less nankhatai biscuit (authentic Dilli pronunciation is biskut) is said to have been birthed by entrepreneurial Parsis in the Dutch bakeries of Surat. Today, numerous migrants who have made a home in Delhi make their living through nankhatai carts. Each nankhatai cart is a bakery on wheels. All nankhatai hawkers make the biscuits in real-time, right on the street. The dough, usually packed inside a tin canister, is a mix of suji, maida, besan, khoya, sugar (lots of it!), ghee, elaichi powder, baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. Each time a vendor makes one more batch, he first pulls off some of the dough, splits it into a dozen pieces, and pats each into a circle, arranging them on a platter, which is put atop a coal-fired salver. The platter is covered with a karahi, and the stuff inside is left to steam for a few minutes — best eaten piping hot.
Raju’s establishment is far grander than most nankhatai carts. It has a large wood-fired stove/oven he calls “biskut machine.” Currently, a great fire is raging inside, visible to passersby walking along the bazaar lane—see photo. This cold evening, after every few minutes, Raju unhooks a metal flap at the machine’s lower portion, taking out a tray of freshly made nankhatai from inside the flap, and replacing it simultaneously with a new batch to be baked. He stays mum, letting the tape do the talk. (Turns out that the jingle’s aforementioned claim about Meerut city is just marketing talk).
Raju learned to make the nankhatai 15 years ago from his mama Kundal Lal, who hawks the same in suburban Loni. All day long, Raju moves through various south Delhi bazaars, returning home to Batla House late at night. He sells the biscuits only in winter. “In summer, I sell kulfi.”
For the next few minutes, Raju unhurriedly pulls his cart through the bazaar lane. On reaching a busy road, he hops onto the front seat of his bicycle, to which the cart is attached by a complicated system of nut bolts. He starts to pedal, joining the rush-hour traffic.

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