Jhaal Muri on Train

[Author’s Note : I thought of this piece when I wanted to write something about travel and food and this memory from personal experience came to my mind, Reading time : 10-15 mins]

‘Lalgola‘ – read the tired looking LED indicator, blinking feebly. It was the only train that left from Kolkata to my ancestral hometown some 300 miles south.

“Red Ball Of Heat” is what it meant loosely translated from the native Bengali word, and it was not difficult to see why.

Dutifully obeying Einstein’s law of relativity, the 3 hours of travel time expanded , edged on by the hot sun and the stinking heat.

The fact that this train was jam packed with a variety of men, who for some reason brought on their unique odours into the mix, only helped Einstein’s cause. It would not have taken him much persuasion to prove his theory to this bunch.

Me , My Mother and Father secured our luggage and found ourselves a small seat fitting snugly amidst a sea of men. We were placed tightly between the itchy man with warts and the sweaty man with warts.

As the train drudged along grunting at the weight of its obviously over weight passengers, the hot sun rained from above. Simple metal seats, open windows without panes, and compartments jam-packed with men , women and children, this was the epitome of the Indian train faring experience. None the less, to be fair I must say, it was nothing new. Every year, every month and everyday the train traveled from kolkata to its distant cousin town, efficiently delivering an eclectic mix of bengalee passengers in some 3 short hours. It was routine. However, as the clock ticked away, I threw hopeful glances towards the other side of the compartment. This journey had its few merits and it was to come eventually. The only question was, when and how soon.

And then, I heard, “Jhaaal Muuriiiiii ! ” shouted a voice from above the crowd in a dreary yet firm voice. Our saviour had arrived.

Like Moses parting the waves, he parted the sea of men with his precious cargo of spicy treats. Jhaal Muri , is a local delicacy that has two of the most coveted items of food loving Bengalees – Rice Puffs and Spices.

It was a lip smacking combination of tastes that could over power the discomfort of other sensory perceptions and one of the few trademark delicacies available to the dreary train passengers specially in eastern and northern parts of India.

As the man came into full view, my dad , always a foodie eyed the large mixing pot of spices, raw mango , lemon juice , puffed rice and many other lip smacking delicacies. His enthusiasm was only short livedfelt as he feet a conscientious tug on his shirt by my dutiful mother, who had been observing the whole scenario unfold.

As their eyes met, an invisible conversation unfolded. Within seconds all his hopes of Jhaal Muri died out. One look and done.period.

That is what I love about married couples. Because I have always wondered how they manage to transmit so many romantic and not-so romantic intentions between each other with one simple look.

Of course, she was right, my dad had had an upset stomach yesterday.

But, like most times, I came to his rescue and ordered one pack of Jhaal Muri for my self , an extra large one.

As we happily munched on the “Jhaal Muri” , me frequently and my dad, occasionally, the journey no longer seemed so dreary and the odor so awful.

The stinging smell of sweat , the rude summer heat ,the lack of space in the congested train compartment and all other discomforts seemed less discomforting in the company of this tasty delicacy as we blissfully kept moving towards our destination.