Jhalmuri, An Emotion, That Gave West Bengal Elections A Spicy, Tangy Twist

Despite Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s repeated visits to West Bengal during the 2019, 2021 and 2024 elections, he never used the humble jhalmuri as a mode of outreach. This time he did. He bought a pack for ten rupees from a roadside vendor in Jhargram. The moment quickly went viral. The snack became a story; a story that was savoured by the aam junta. While for the aam junta, the story was: ‘PM bought a roadside snack’, for Bengalis, it was a different high. A jhalmuri high.

“Jhalmuri Is A Break From Redundant Monotony”

Animikh Chakrabarty

In Bengal, there runs a common phrase. Any redundant political news, or of cheap thrill, that gets passed around, often gets termed as ‘jhalmurir thonga hoe geche,’—it roughly, not literally, translates to 'today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s jhalmuri pack.'

Jhalmuri, as a snack, is in itself the embodiment of this duality. You have it during a group gossip, or to have some flavour after a bland day, returning from work.

Chickpeas, nuts, puffed rice, chopped onion, chopped chilli, mustard oil, chanachur (or what some sections boringly term as namkeen), and a tad bit of achaar (pickle). All poured into a tin container and mixed vigorously with a wooden stick, jhalmuri is a break from redundant monotony. One can customise it in many forms, as per their liking. When I looked at the preparation of jhalmuri in Jhargram recently, the first thought in my mind was, that was a very bland prep work.

Jhalmuri, however, is not something one has in times of need. It’s not a hearty meal or a protein alternative. It’s a ‘timepass’, something which we eat for a momentary gratification and a lingering aftertaste. It’s never the need of the hour, but when we pass a jhalmuri stall, we just stop and say, hmm, maybe, just a little.

When I was in Class VI, my father and I opened a jhalmuri stall in our locality. It was a one-day pop-up that we made as a proper “DIY” project. We charged Rs two for a cone of jhalmuri from our neighbours. We divided the roles between the two of us—one became the accountant, the other made and sold jhalmuri. Maybe this marks the first instance of my earning for labour. The communist ideologue state that I grew up in never made me think of that work any less, or any differently.

The makers of jhalmuri in Bengal, or anywhere in India for that matter, are, however, not this romantic. It’s a section and a profession that one would perhaps choose when there is barely any investable capital for him to do any other business. When we mock Mamata Banerjee for making ‘Chop Shilpo’ (fry industry)— a term that explains the state of unemployment—famous, jhalmuri is perhaps the adjacent stall. It is befitting that a party and its leader, who mans his terms on the basis of virality and cheap thrill, would choose jhalmuri as his unconscious choice. Maybe so that it seems like the party, often termed as anti-Bengali, is, on the contrary, very relatable to its culture.

However, one must not forget the thonga (cone). Made of newspaper pieces, the thonga contains news of unemployment, mismanagement, failed foreign policy, economic failure... they are sometimes made of question papers or answer sheets of important exams. We, as a habit, go through the small words printed in the thonga, and don’t forget. The thing that we crumble and throw away far after the tangy, tasty, savoury snack is consumed is just a vessel. When the fun is done, the vessel is of no use.

“An Emotion That Bridges Childhood Memories And Daily Life”

Pritha Mukherjee

While the world knows jhalmuri as a snack, to a Bengali, it is a cultural emblem—an emotion that bridges childhood memories and daily life. Whether served during a political rally or a rainy afternoon adda, this humble mixture of puffed rice is the heartbeat of the state. It is an emotional currency that remains inflation-proof.

Bengal is a land of contradictions, steeped in tradition yet fiercely intellectual. It is often divided by politics but is always united by the palate. As the Assembly polls reach a fever pitch, the jhalmuri remains the silent witness to every conversation, political or otherwise. People know that irrespective of who wins the poll battle, the humble muriwala will still be there, serving jhalmuri in newspaper cones.

How did jhalmuri become the big news story this election season?

What started as a quick snack break for Prime Minister Narendra Modi in Jhargram turned into one of the most talked-about moments of the 2026 West Bengal election. It was not just about the food; it was a masterclass in political optics that felt like a rare glimpse of the man behind the protocol. Standing by a humble roadside stall, the PM’s simple request—"Bhai, humein apna jhalmuri khilao”—resonated because it tapped into the universal Indian love for street food, momentarily stripping away the layers of heavy security and high-stakes campaigning.

Wasting no time, the TMC focused on the scripted nature of the event. The impact on airspace for other leaders is a standard opposition tactic to highlight the disruption caused. It frames the moment not as a snack break, but as an exercise of power that inconveniences others. For the TMC, it provided an opportunity to question the authenticity of their rival’s “Bengal connection”.

The BJP, on its part, framed the interaction as a light-hearted moment that the Opposition took too seriously. By focusing on the “chillies” in the snack, they turned a logistical complaint into a narrative about their opponents being rattled by the prime minister’s popularity. For the BJP, it was a successful piece of digital content that humanised their leader.

Eventually, it became a viral moment for the public, which briefly replaced policy debates with a conversation about a 10-rupee snack, proving that in Indian politics, the “personal” is also “political.” Jhalmuri is the unshakeable heartbeat of Bengal because it refuses to be defined by the high-stakes political drama of the day. While leaders may use it as a prop for the campaign trail, the snack represents a rare, democratic sanctuary where status and ideology melt away into a single, oil-stained paper cone. It is a resilient, pungent promise that no matter who holds power in the Assembly, the rhythmic clinking of the muriwala’s tin will continue to provide the soundtrack for the city’s shared memories and spirited debates. In a land of constant change, the humble jhalmuri remains as Bengal’s one true, fiery constant, the spicy soul of people who know that life, much like the perfect mix, is best enjoyed with a little heat and a lot of heart.