There’s something about the egg roll. Like poetry and love, it’s layered. There’s texture and tartness balancing the heat and the salt, a flaky-skin outer lightness sets off the chewy bite at its heart. Like viraha, the heat scorches you but leaves you longing for more. But we’re getting ahead of our story.

First things first, an egg roll cannot be had at home. That is a cardinal principle. It is to be had at a roadside stall. Preferably in Calcutta. There are pretenders to be had all over the country but the real thing is as Calcuttan as Sourav Ganguly. You elbow your way to the front of the crowd around Roll-Da, the hero of our story, angle yourself dead centre in his range of vision and in a suitably raised voice, ask for one dobol-deem. He pretends not to hear. You pretend not to mind. There’s the clackety-clack of the metal spoon on the huge cast iron tawa, the whoosh of speeding traffic behind you and eggy vapours all around you. Your stomach growls but you’re patient. Chhoton is chopping onions on a wooden block at a speed that would make Julia Child blush. You make a mental note not to notice his nails. A man in a string vest is pounding a huge lump of dough, slick with oil, ridged with his knuckle-prints. Now he flattens the dough balls into parathas. Roll-Da ladles on some oil, gives it a quick swirl and a backward sweep and flicks the paratha onto the pan. Press. Flip. Press. Swirl. Flip. Press. Two eggs are cracked directly onto the paratha, all left-handed insouciance and studied carelessness. Flip. Press. Peyaaj ? Oh yes, you head-nod. And chillies. And lime. Nods all around. And some more please. Sauce? At this point your reverie breaks. Now there are two kinds of people in this world, the ones who drown their egg roll in ketchup and discerning sophisticates who don’t. Being a discerning sophisticate, you head-nod vigorously, both sides this time, the picture of outrage. Roll-Da nods approvingly, clearly he’s a fellow sophisticate. You have heard of distant places where people stuff their rolls with unmentionables like cucumber and paneer. An involuntary shudder passes through you. Roll in hand, you extricate yourself from the crowd. It’s too hot. But it’s impossible to wait any longer. You bite. Your mouth is on fire. You open your mouth, gulp air and turn the contents of your mouth around to cool them down. You wave one hand in front of your open mouth, like a fan. Your choshma has fogged up in the meantime. You take them off, the world around you blurs into soft focus. Another bite. What bliss! That perfect balance of salt, acid and fat. Oh no, in your hurry you’ve bitten off bits of paper which now stick to the underside of your mouth. Dang! You decide not to think about it. Mmmm. Roll-Da has surpassed himself. Choshma back on, you realise that in your excitement you clutched the roll too tight, the paper on the underside has collapsed and now there are eggy dribbles down the front of your shirt. You shrug expansively. In this world of moh-maya, what after all is a mere shirt? The world already seems like a better place. You stare fixedly into the middle distance and smile through a mouthful of egg roll.