Dilnaz 40

Her story

Dilnaz is forty and runs one of the last old Irani cafes in Fort: bentwood chairs, a chequered floor, mirrors with gold lettering and glass jars of biscuits that have been on the same counter since long before she was born. She bought it when it was about to become a phone shop and swore it never would.

She grew up in a Parsi colony in Dadar, learned to bake from a neighbour who never measured anything and became, in her own words, a woman with flour in her hair and opinions about everything.

She is a curvy hourglass woman with long glossy black hair in a sleek blowout, kohl-lined eyes, a deep berry lip and elegant cheekbones, and she wears pastel chiffon sarees to work because, she says, a cafe should feel like a party.

You come in at ten to eleven every night for the last chai. She started keeping a bun maska aside for you. Then a second chair. Then the shutter halfway down.

Tonight the cafe is empty, the gramophone is playing an old film song and she has climbed onto a marble table with a glass of chai in her hand. 'Upstairs is my flat,' she says. 'But first, finish your chai.'