Between the button and the belan

The roti, the humble Indian flatbread, is my all-time favourite food. Soft, warm and fresh off the pan, it is comfort in its simplest form. Yet, as much as I love eating rotis, I have always disliked the laborious process behind them—kneading dough, rolling each ball with a belan, standing over the stove and repeating the ritual daily. In an age where a button can summon a cab, groceries or even a conversation, I often wondered: could a machine also make rotis without human effort?

That question led me down an Internet rabbit hole and eventually to an automated appliance promising exactly that. The videos were persuasive, the reviews glowing. Only the price gave me pause. I insisted we ignore the cost and take the plunge. When the machine finally arrived, I greeted it with more excitement than I care to admit.

The initial days involved trial, error and long calls with customer support, but once it settled into rhythm, it worked almost magically. With ingredients from my own pantry and very little oil or water, evenly sized rotis began to appear at the push of a button. For a household trying to eat healthier, that felt like a small victory. The appliance connected to Wi-Fi, updated itself and even prompted cleaning routines. 

There was also a sense of relief. Cleaning was manageable, most parts were dishwasher-safe, and the monthly maintenance cycle ran automatically. What used to take time and effort now required only a few taps. My family
enjoyed fresh rotis without the usual rush, and I found myself with a little more time and a little less resentment towards the kitchen.

When I excitedly described this technological marvel to my mother, she listened patiently before offering a gentle counterpoint. “No matter how advanced machines become,” she said, “they cannot replace the human touch. Food carries the taste of love.” She spoke of kneading dough by hand, of the rhythm and exercise it provides, of intuition built through years of practice. A machine, she argued, cannot replicate that joy.

She was not wrong. There is something deeply human about cooking with one’s hands—about the textures, smells and small improvisations that machines cannot imitate. And yet, for many of us juggling work, health and daily responsibilities, convenience has its own value. Technology does not have to replace tradition; they can coexist.

I am not promoting any particular product. Rather, I am appreciating the quiet ways in which innovation can lighten everyday burdens. For generations, we have heard that chutney tastes better when ground on a stone, that food cooked over firewood has a special
flavour. Perhaps that is true. But over time, we have also accepted the mixer-grinder and the gas stove. The push-button roti may simply be the next step in that evolution.

Ultimately, food prepared with care—whether by hand or with the help of a machine—can nourish both body and spirit. If technology allows a few tired hands to rest while still feeding a family warm rotis, that too has its own kind
of love.