Europeans came to our land in search of spices.

That’s what I’ve been told. In history books. In dinner-table lectures. And perhaps, even in some previous life, I was the vendor handing out a paper cone full of Jhalmuri to a Portuguese man who didn’t know what hit his palate.

You see, while others traded pepper, cardamom, or cinnamon, I, true to my entrepreneurial spirit was probably the guy saying, “Bhaisaab, le lo ekdum chatpata Jhalmuri! Masala extra, emotion free.”

Somewhere, I feel, that’s still who I am.

What is so great about Jhalmuri?

Everything and nothing.

It’s puffed rice, onions, mustard oil, green chillies, peanuts, some bhujia, coriander, tomatoes if you’re fancy, and lemon juice that tastes better when squeezed with existential dread. There is no recipe only instinct. No proportion only impulse. No balance, just chaos in a cone.

And it tastes divine.

My life, lately, has become Jhalmuri.

Too much chilli in the wrong place. Too little crunch. A lot of mustard oil floating on top, trying to pretend it’s holding things together. Every now and then, a surprise bite hits you, hard peanut, burnt rice, or something spicy that shouldn’t be legal.

It’s unstructured, imbalanced, overwhelming, and yet somehow… I keep munching.

People ask, “What’s going on?”

I say, “Life is Jhalmuri, boss.”

You may wonder, what do Europeans have to do with all this?

Absolutely nothing.

But I needed someone to blame. The British took Kohinoor, and I’m taking poetic license. It’s only fair. The bigger question is if we all sold our spices for silk and silver, what did we keep for ourselves?

My answer: Jhalmuri.

Unpackaged. Unbranded. Untamed.

Because when the world feels too much when plans crumble, routines dissolve, and people surprise you with their odd mix of sweetness and spice I don’t crave order. I crave Jhalmuri.

Maybe, just maybe:

Life is not meant to be a neatly plated continental course. It’s meant to be a roadside snack. Messy. Spontaneous. Eaten standing up while dodging traffic, opinions, and one’s own expectations.

So here’s to Jhalmuri.

May your life be as unapologetically unpredictable, mildly crunchy, and beautifully imbalanced.

Later. Jd.