Jhalmuri, a Bengal campaign story

Of course it had to be jhalmuri. Which other snack could so perfectly echo the heat and pungency, the high decibel levels and hurly-burly on the West Bengal campaign trail? The culinary symbol of the hotly contested state assembly polls may still be the Bengalis’ beloved maachh-bhaat — it is now, more than ever before, a symbol of fierce cultural identity, sought to be claimed by more than one side. Yet the Prime Minister’s stopover at a jhalmuri shop in Jhargram offers a different lens through which to view the electoral spectacle.

Consider how the jhalmuri is made, the flair with which a range of ingredients — puffed rice, lime juice, onion, tomato, peanuts, chanachur and mustard oil, to name a few — come together to form an exciting new whole. The result is not necessarily harmony; a melange of such strong, contrasting textures and tastes, of so many degrees of truculence and crunch, could hardly be that. Indeed, a well-made jhalmuri does battle with the body, making the eyes water and the tongue smart. Yet the very aggression of its flavours becomes the greatest source of its appeal. Served in a humble paper packet, to be carried away or eaten on the spot, the purpose of the jhalmuri is not to sate an empty tummy; it is to bring alive senses that may have been numbed by the routine and to alert them to new possibilities.

The analogy isn’t straightforward, but then, the best of food and the most exciting of politics are arrived at through circuitous routes and unexpected connections. And a jhalmuri in its humble complexity may just be the metaphor to speak for the tumultuous multitude that is Indian politics.