The Jhalmuri Jhatka

 © 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Jhalmuri, ah yes! I see that it's now getting its due recognition in the media. Not that it needs it, mind you. But I can see you nodding, "About time!" And how long before it gets the UNESCO Cultural Heritage Food designation? Not that it needs it, mind you. But... 

The very first time I had jhalmuri, I didn’t understand it. Only now I realize that you’re not supposed to understand it. Like your other most significant relationships, you’re supposed to encounter it, embrace it, survive it, fall in love with it, and then miss it forever if you can't get it regularly unless you make it yourself in this cultural wasteland called the Midwest, often competing with samosa chaat. But Mrs. Yours Truly is also a fan so I have some hope.

I wasn’t aware then that as a non-Bong, just another kid orbiting that deep mysterious kalchar, I was actually being exposed to a snack with a cult following. I didn't have a clue that a street magician, following an occult craft, had just handed me the flavor-bomb of a concoction in a newspaper cone. A passport to Culinary Chaos. Beautiful, chaotic, inviting, it needed to be tasted. And that it would test your intestinal fortitude in the days to come. Much like the rest of the life's little pleasures.

What is this jhalmuri, you may ask, as did I once. Let's start with the puffed rice, so airy, acting innocent, like it has no idea what it has just gotten itself into. Pure puffery! A crunchy little liar. Because then comes the piquant mustard silkiness sliding in, oily like a villain's monologue, hitting the back of your throat with a sharp, nasal kick that makes you question your life choices and clears your sinuses at the same time. 

And the pungent little onion bits? Oh, chopped, weaponized & kicking. Tiny red shards of truth, biting through everything, reminding you this snack was designed to take you way out of your comfort zone. Meanwhile, the boiled potatoes pieces tossed in, doing their best to hold the group together like the only emotionally stable friend in our ragtag bunch. Soft, soothing, quietly heroic. A truly tangled tanginess tale.

The cucumbers, cool, crisp, trying to de-escalate the situation. But it is already too late. Because the green chilies have entered the arena. The heat, the attitude, the sting. The numbness of your mouth as it absorbs the capsaicin of the tiny, thin diabolical fruit. The kind that feels like a sweet swift tongue-lashing from your spouse: confusing, thrilling, and just a little humiliating.

And just when you thought you’d mapped the battlefield, Bam! Chopped tomatoes. Tart, juicy little plot twists, popping in with dramatic timing like, “Oh, you thought this was over?”

All of it tossed together, no apologies, no pretending politeness of umami balance, no Michelin-starred haute cuisine. Just like a Bengali girl saying hot to your timid approach. A bit of lonka, morich, amchur and other mystery spices rolled together, aggressive, addictive. O ma go, ki jhaal! Ooo sss sss oooh ooo!h And somehow, tying it all together, that hint of newsprint ink from the ghost of yesterday’s headlines, seeping into the flavors like a reminder that this moment, too, is fleeting.

They call it a street food. I called it a personality transformation. Jhalmuri is never just a snack. It is a whole experience wrapped in urgency. You have to eat it fast, before the puffed rice gave up, before the magic collapses into soggy regret.

It's the feisty food that fights back even now, and still wins - on the way in and on the way out. Take it from an addict. You may experience many other different foods, snacks and cuisines as you live your life but... you never truly forget that first crush, your very first jhalmuri, right?

Staircases & Seasons 

(for SXC friends ’75–’77)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

At SXC Ranchi, those sun-drenched years,

Summer Blossoms bloomed, so did our hopes & fears,

Us Foolish Boys strutted with badly faked poise,

Spouting grand philosophies with nervous noise.

“Co-ed!” we had heard, with carefully drawn lines,

Together in classroom, apart by design.

Boys took one staircase, girls took another,

Lest mixing the footsteps lead to scandals, Oh brother!

And there stood the Jesuits, glaring and tall,

Guardians stern, hugging corridors & walls,

Eyebrows arched like commandments, not be forsaken,

Ensuring no stairs were improperly taken.

One misstep, a glance, a pause too long,

And we’d know we’d committed a grievous wrong,

Sent back downstairs with our conscience aflame,

A stinging rebuke, head hung in shame.

The Girls Common Room, myth, rumor, and lore,

A land no Foolish Boy had ever seen before,

But, we imagined the space, with confident art,

In fanciful detail in our dreaming heart.

The Canteen, though public, was Boys Only, 'tis clear,

While Blossoms stayed away, though the snacks still drew near.

For Chhotu ran errands, chai & samosas in plates,

A broker of peace offerings in the Divided States.

Back and forth flew, that tireless envoy,

Feeding both hunger and gossip with non-stop joy,

He bridged the great gap no one else could transcend,

A courier, a witness, a silent little friend.

We named them Blossoms, so colorful, so bright,

As if seasons explained our distance and sight,

While we, awkward planets, circled their grace,

Too afraid to approach, too foolish to embrace.

But tell me, friends, five decades down the lane,

Do those staircases still keep "scandals" restrained?

Do Jesuit glares still, quietly decree?

One path is for them, and only the other for thee?

Does another young Chhotu, now a phone in his hand,

Deliver via app to the still No-Man's Land?

Or has Time, with a shrug, redrawn the old world rules,

Allowing free glances on stairway to any young fools?

The Autumn Blooms today, why aren't they here?

With us Foolish Old Boys in this WhatsCrapp sphere?

Why skip our reunion of jokes overripe,

Of nostalgia filtered through pixels and hype?

Do they recall, with an eagle-eyed view,

The lines drawn then, think we never outgrew?

Do they decline to re-enter that frame?

We promise to behave (mostly), please believe our claim. 🙏🏻

Wondering, quite simply, no riddle, no ploys,

Why won't they join us, the Foolish Old Boys?

That Candy Crush 

 © 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, it's that time of the year when this part of the world starts to experience spring fever. Quite literally due to all the pollen from budding flora. Yay! But, we have mostly escaped the clutches of Old Man Winter. Thumbed our noses at the shadowy subterranean hog with wildly inaccurate weather predictions. Feeling quite smug, having dodged the arrows of a half-naked toddler during the Valentine Day massacre of hapless husbands. Only to run headlong into the marketing juggernaut of the Big Sugar. Marshmallow Peeps, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and myriad other sticky concoctions in pretty pink, pastel purples, pale blue, lemon yellow, cutesy stuff on faux green plastic grass. The ones that are now forbidden fruit. "Look, don't touch!" were my instructions as I approached the On Sale aisle at the Big Box stores nearby. Jiminy Cricket! It's Easter, of course, properly observed and respectfully celebrated, with The Hunt!

When our little ones were a wee laddie and a wee lassie, "we" decided to take them to a local community Easter Egg Hunt. At that time, I did not have the foggiest idea as to how a rabbit became associated with such insane activities. I still don't. Nor did I have much knowledge about this specific rite of passage in the journey of fatherhood. But I got swept along with other dads, all of us sleepily, sheepishly following the leadership of our better halves. After all, nothing says wholesome family bonding like watching toddlers descend on the candy battlefield like a pack of sugar-crazed hyenas. The concept is simple enough: colorful plastic eggs filled with candy scattered across a field, and a horde of tiny, over-excited humans unleashed to collect these. What could possibly go wrong?

We were about to find out.

The event began with what some organizer (clearly not a parent!) thought would add a festive touch - a massive horn blast from a gleaming firetruck provided by the local Fire Station #5 manned by two burly firemen in full regalia. The blast at such close quarters was like heralding the proverbial Armageddon, the final battle between the forces of Good and Evil. Half the little kids screamed like banshees and bolted back at remarkable speeds to their parents in pure terror, bawling uncontrollably. Our little ones, who hated any unexpected loud noises to begin with, were frozen in place, looking at us accusingly, eyes brimming with barely held-back tears about such betrayal. They had probably started considering adopting new parents.

Once the mass trauma inflicted was eventually soothed, tear-soaked cheeks were patted dry, and many underpants changed, the Easter Egg Hunt began. Only it wasn’t a mere “hunt.” It was more like a reenactment of Lord of the Flies with sticky baskets clutched in grubby little fists, rapidly filling with shiny decorative rocks, wilting daffodils and other treasures... and occasional Easter eggs.

Some kids earnestly stuck to the task of being hunter-gatherers, diligently searching for Easter eggs, darting around like feral squirrels. A few others went full evil goblin mode, raiding fellow kids' baskets or yanking the loot straight from the hands of the smaller children. And their parents, the role models and champions of these kids, cheered them on, beer cans in hand. 9 AM was apparently not too early to start imbibing on those days. Laughing, filming, and throwing in motivational lines like “Get in there! Grab it from him/her!" Scoffing, "It's just candy!” in response to protesting parents.

Then came the near-fistfights. Yes, actual grown-ups jawing, demonstrating their punching prowess in the air… over the ownership rights of flimsy plastic eggs filled with off-brand jellybeans. One parent had to be strongly urged to distance themselves from another because his 4-year-old’s basket was strategically looted by a gleeful 6-year-old with the reflexes of a stealthy ninja and zero remorse. The Easter Bunny retreated quickly as local lawmen stepped in to quell the Great Candy Riot of Y2K.

After that debacle, the dads made a unanimous family decision: NO MORE. Next year, a few neighbors decided to do a backyard-only egg hunt, strongly influenced by their better-halves. Smaller crowd of children, wiggling like a can of worms in anticipation, the few neighborly parents keeping peace. Only low-level efforts "hiding eggs"  required of the reluctant dads, directed by the watchful moms. Due to the silly notions of "getting along" and "sharing is caring" being observed, it was a tame affair. No excitement, no firetruck induced trauma, no alcoholic beverages, no screaming and no chances of anyone getting a black eye over a chocolate mini. The variety of candy was also much improved, as tested for quality purposes by yours truly, resulting in many of the parents revisiting their New Year resolution targets and gaining several pounds of regrets over the next few weeks. 

In the decade that followed since, this little backyard hunt became something of a quiet tradition in The Village. Our "Village." The same patchy grass recovering from winter. The same reluctant dads pretending not to take their egg-hiding duties too seriously. The same moms still supervised like benevolent generals, ensuring fairness prevailed and no child left with an empty basket or emotional scars.

Time, as it does, kept marching without asking permission. The wee laddies and wee lassies and all their co-conspirators in sugar-fueled joy stretched upward, voices deepened, interests shifted. Baskets were traded for cell phones. Pastel colors gave way to casual indifference in multiple shades. Teen attitudes replaced toddler eagerness. Easter mornings became less about the hunt and more about sleeping in… or not showing up at all. “I’m gonna hang out with ...” they’d grumble, in that tone that meant you, the ignorant parents, wouldn’t get it anyway. Some families moved away, chasing jobs, schools, or simply a different chapter. The backyards grew quieter. Fewer and fewer eggs were hidden each year. Eventually, none.

And this year, the sky doesn't seem like it got the memo from that floppy-eared rabbit. A stubborn cold rain has settled in, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes the start of spring feel like a rumor rather than a promise in the Midwest. The grass, brownish with emerging shoots of green, once trampled by eager little feet, lays undisturbed. No high-pitched squeals of glee, no tiny hands triumphantly holding up brightly colored eggs like hard-won trophies. Just the soft patter of rain… and memory.

I look out the window a little longer than necessary, coffee in hand, watching the backyards that once hosted epic battles of sticky-fingered diplomacy. There are no firetruck horns blaring. No wild or mild chaos. No huge candy-fueled skirmishes requiring neighborhood arbitration. Just a quiet, almost respectful stillness, as if the space itself understood its role in something that had already happened.

And yet… it doesn’t feel entirely empty. Scattered somewhere in the corners of that damp yard, beneath the grass, tucked into the tree line, hidden in places only little hands would think to look are echoes. Squeals of laughter. Outrage over jellybeans snatched by others without respecting the honor code yelled "Dibs! I saw it first!" Of triumphs, betrayals, and the pure, ridiculous joy of finding a plastic egg filled with something far too sweet. Those moments have simply stayed while the children have grown up and flown, leaving behind the empty nesters with fading memories. But, Gray Catbirds are back. Occasionally disrupted by the hissing of our two indoor cats Maxwell & Maui who are furious about their territory being invaded by these feathery menace. Looking out and watchful during the daily trek of our neighborhood mooch, a tuxedo cat named Hammi who has adopted us as surrogates, regularly showing up at the kitchen door for social visits and second helpings. I see them busily building their new nests for the imminent arrival of their little baby birds. Spring has sprung.

Happy Easter, everyone!