Follow the biscuit crumbs

“Take a left and…” the passer-by’s voice fades into a distant hum as a sudden breeze brings a telling smell. We don’t need directions to the biscuit factories at Old Washermanpet any more; we thank the man distractedly, and simply follow our noses.

It’s a narrow street, lined with houses with clothes-lines on balconies and grocery stores with strings of cheap plastic toys. A lanky young man (we later find out he’s A Akbar) guides us into an alley that opens out into our destination — a biscuit factory.

“There are ten such factories in this street alone,” explains Akbar as we take in the overwhelming aroma of the Lala Gunda speciality — butter biscuits. Akbar gets back to work — he pulls out a chunk of elastic dough from a corner on his worktable, spreads it with a rolling pin, and cuts out circles using a cookie cutter.

Cut, lift, drop; cut, lift, drop… he follows the rhythm with mechanical precision, filling tray after tray that his colleague Imran Sharif will stack into racks, to be slid into the diesel-operated oven in a corner.

The brown biscuits, priced at ₹1 or ₹2 apiece depending on the size, are sold in tea shops across the city.

Hundreds of thousands are consumed every day in Chennai alone, and the cottage industries of Lala Gunda supply the biscuits fresh, keeping up with the demand without batting an eye-lid.

Not quite assembly-line

“The area has over 50 such units,” Akbar tells us. The 37-year-old learned the craft from his father. He works on a daily wage, so does every other worker at the factories.

Akbar works under Fazal Mohammad, the ‘mesthiri’ or leader. His team consists of ‘masters’ who mix the dough and shape it into circles and squares; and helpers who stamp initials on the biscuits and place them inside the oven. “There are over 500 men working in this industry in Lala Gunda,” says Y Yaseen. Behind him, a machine is mixing the dough — it consists of maida, dalda, sugar, and milk powder. “Some ten years ago, we had to do this by hand,” explains Akbar. “Work has become easier today.”

Mohammad offers us a couple of freshly baked biscuits — mildly sweet, and still warm, it’s crumbly and also a little moist. “We have around five of these every day during the three tea breaks we take,” smiles Mohammad.

Next door, R Kumar and team have almost finished with their work for the day. R Fathima Begum and her mother S Shameem squat on the ground by an oil lamp, packing the end products in plastic covers. It’s unusual for women to step into a biscuit factory — it’s a male-dominated space.

Needs and dreams

Begum goes about her work with a detached efficiency; she’s ten months pregnant and is here for the ₹300 she makes every day. “The doctor told us she’s having a caesarean,” says Shameem, here to keep her daughter company. The dimly-lit room is extremely hot; but Begum is used to it.

Each of them work in the factories hoping to save up; Begum for her delivery, and Kumar, for his own set-up. “But it’s less likely that I’ll save enough,” he says. “I need to take out a loan and it’s the bosses who get loans, never the worker.”

Kumar explains that until a decade ago, the biscuits were baked in brick ovens. “Most of us have switched to diesel-operated ones,” he adds. Ameer Basha and R Kumar operate the only existing brick oven in the area in the factory across the road. Kumar slides in a tray of creamy circles of dough into the oven. The small square glows red; inside is a world of burning wood.

Basha spoons circles of dough by hand into trays; he’s making coconut biscuits. “I make enough for just one man who sells the biscuits in trains,” explains the 44-year-old. He calls him the ‘train party’.

“He’ll be here any minute,” adds Basha, offering us a biscuit. It’s gooey, and is a little too sweet. The fact that it was baked in an oven that’s older than the man who baked it, makes it that much more special.