Partha Pratim Dasgupta
(Partho_dasgupta@yahoo.co.in)
There are more complicated ways to understand West Bengal, but few as reliable as watching what people eat when no one is trying to impress anyone.
Take jhal muri.
Puffed rice is tossed with a sharp drizzle of mustard oil, chopped onions, green chillies, coriander, boiled potatoes, a hint of tomato, and a generous handful of chanachur. It is mixed briskly in a steel bowl and scooped into a paper cone that softens almost instantly from the warmth of the hands holding it. It is not plated. It is assembled. The process is quick, almost careless, yet always guided by instinct.
There is no ceremony here, and yet everything about it is ritual.
On the platforms of Howrah and Sealdah, vendors move with practised rhythm, spoons clinking against metal, their calls cutting through the chaos of arriving trains. During Durga Puja, the same mix finds its way into the hands of revellers navigating crowded pandals. The mustard oil cuts through the humidity; the spice lingers just enough to demand another bite. Officegoers, students, labourers, and families— no one stands apart from it.
Jhaal muri does not discriminate. It does not need to.
In a state where identity is often debated in louder, more ideological terms such as language, art, politics, and history, this unassuming snack quietly sidesteps all of it. It belongs equally to everyone and, therefore, to no one in particular. That may well be its quiet power.
Which is why, when Prime Minister Narendra Modi paused during a visit and picked up a modest Rs 10 serving from a roadside vendor, it did not feel staged in the way such moments often do. On the surface, it was disarmingly simple: a leader eating what millions eat, without preamble or spectacle.
And yet, the ripples were immediate.
Political responses rushed to decode intent, to locate symbolism where the act itself offered none. Was it outreach, optics, or strategy? The questions came quickly, almost reflexively. In doing so, however, the moment was elevated far beyond what it demanded.
Because the truth is, there was very little to oppose.
To critique someone eating jhaal muri in Bengal is, in a sense, to critique Bengal itself, its streets, its habits, its small daily indulgences. It risks sounding removed from the texture of lived experience. At that moment, the opposition faced a unique dilemma. Engagement meant amplification. Dismissal meant irrelevance.
Sometimes, the most effective gestures are those that leave no clear entry point for disagreement, allowing for a more harmonious dialogue and reducing the likelihood of conflict.
Capturing the pulse of Bengal has never been straightforward. It is layered, contradictory, deeply sentimental yet fiercely intellectual. It resists simplification. And yet, every now and then, it reveals itself in fragments, in a song hummed absentmindedly, in the rhythm of a tramline, in the quiet insistence of mustard oil in a snack that refuses to be diluted.
Jhaal muri is not just food. It is a language.
A “chatpata” dialect spoken across Kolkata and extending into the heartland, carrying a familiar pungency that feels like home to those who know it. It does not demand attention, but it commands recognition.
Perhaps that is where the real story lies—not in the act itself, but in how effortlessly it blended into everyday life.
In a political landscape often defined by grand narratives and louder declarations, a paper cone of jhaal muri offered something else entirely: a reminder that connection, when it works, rarely announces itself.
It simply fits.
(The author is Senior Fellow at IIT Guwahati Technology Innovation Hub)