
7 Street Foods You Can't Miss When You're In Bengal
Muskan Kalra
Jun 02, 2025
This is Bengal's version of pani puri or golgappa. It consists of a crispy, hollow semolina shell filled with a spicy and tangy mixture of mashed potatoes, chickpeas, spices, and tamarind water. The taste is an explosion of flavors in your mouth.
Originating in Kolkata, this has become a national favorite. It's a flaky paratha wrapped around a savory filling, which can include marinated and skewered chicken, mutton, paneer, or mixed vegetables, along with onions, sauces, and sometimes an egg.
While it can be a light meal, luchi (deep-fried, fluffy flatbread made from refined flour, similar to puri) served with alur dom (a spicy and flavorful potato curry) is a very popular street food combination.
A quintessential Bengali street snack, jhalmuri is a dry, spicy, and tangy mix of puffed rice (muri), chopped onions, tomatoes, green chilies, various spices, peanuts, and a dash of mustard oil. It's often served in a paper cone and is perfect for munching on the go.
These are deep-fried fritters made with a variety of vegetables like potatoes (aloo'r chop), eggplant (beguni), onions (peyaji), and sometimes even fish or meat chops.
This is a rich and indulgent deep-fried flatbread stuffed with a savory filling, typically made of minced meat (chicken or mutton), eggs, and onions. It's a substantial snack that reflects the Mughal influence on Bengali cuisine.
A hearty and flavorful snack made from dried white or yellow peas that are boiled and then often pan-fried with onions, tomatoes, and a blend of spices. Try ghugni chaat, which is often topped with onions, coriander, and sometimes tamarind chutney. Read Next Story

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Mint
7 hours ago
- Mint
My mother, the family's memory-keeper
After a great-aunt died, my mother read a little tribute I wrote for her and said wistfully, 'You're the writer in the family. Perhaps you'll write something like that for me after I am gone. Why don't you write it now so I can read it?" I rolled my eyes and said, 'The feeling won't come now." In the last few weeks as my mother struggles with a slew of sudden health issues, the feeling still hasn't 'come" but when I see her lying in a hospital bed, confused and shrunken, I feel perilously close to it. I didn't grow up in a family that said 'I love you" easily. That was too western, like in a Hollywood movie. 'Have you eaten?" is the way we said 'I love you." When I lived in America, my mother would call and ask if I had eaten. Sometimes I made up dishes to avoid telling her I had cereal for dinner because I had been too tired to cook. It was a love lie. Years later when I returned to India, a middle-aged man, my mother still decided the household's daily menu. She watched cooking shows on television and wrote down recipes 'in rough" on pieces of scrap paper. The ones that got passing grade were transferred to her 'fair" recipe book. At dinner, if we failed to appreciate the dish adequately, she would be miffed. Just as she showed love through food, she expected to be shown love through our appreciation of it. In her own ill health though, she is liberated from the need for such niceties. After my sister made chocolate pudding for her, she asked grumpily, 'Is this pumpkin?" Also read: How we have steadily devalued the book review At meal times she still presided over the division of food. Everyone got exactly the same number of prawns, the chicken drumsticks were reserved for the youngest members and the potatoes and potol (pointed gourd) divided fairly though she would complain she was tired of divvying up potatoes and potol all her life. But she still did it, not because the rest of us could not do it, but because it is the last semblance of control a matriarch has over her grown family. This year she ceded that role to my sister. But she would still subject it to eagle-eyed scrutiny saying, 'That piece of mutton is a little small. I am just trying to be helpful." It was my sister's turn to roll her eyes but that too was mother's love, even if it felt measured out by the millimetre. 'Mother, have the marrow bone from the mutton curry yourself today," we would tell her. But she refused. Self-sacrifice is ingrained in the Bengali mother. She would serve herself the smaller prawn but also make sure we knew what she had done. Again cue the children's eye-roll. I am the stereotypical mother's boy. My mother could always be counted on to regale visiting guests with stories of some debating prize or good conduct medal I had won in school. It didn't matter that several decades had elapsed and the boy hero of her story was now a balding middle-aged man. My school medals were kept in a locker not because they were worth much but mother was afraid a burglar might think they were. Yet I know nobody will give me such unreserved (and often undeserving) love ever again. She read everything I wrote, twice over, corrected me if I got an anecdote wrong, complained if it was too complicated, then neatly cut the newspaper clippings and saved them in a folder. Once she observed slyly, 'Oh I seem to feature in many of your articles." I cringed yet again. But every time I tried to actually interview her about something, she would demur, 'What do I really understand besides aloo-potol?" That wasn't true. Mother had studied mathematics in college. She had become a dancer when respectable Bengali women didn't do such things. I have a black-and-white picture of my mother caught in motion on the stage of the New Empire theatre in Kolkata. She had gentlemen friends, some from pedigreed families but in the end she settled for a sight-unseen arranged marriage with a solid Bengali engineer. They were together happily for over 40 years till he passed away. His job with British Rail allowed them to travel all over Europe by train. I marvel at pictures of her in a sari in a restaurant in Paris or at Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen. At her age I had not been to most of those places myself. She would get carsick, airsick, seasick but still travelled everywhere. 'I've thrown up everywhere," my mother says with some pride. Yet sometimes I cannot help but wonder if my mother, the dancer, did not dream of the life not led. Like many women of her generation, she became 'homemaker". As a boy I came home from kindergarten and once told her, 'Ma, don't go to work like Swapan's mother next door. I want you to be home when I come home." My mother would often tell that story fondly much to my mortification. She was both fan girl and friend of some of the biggest names in Kolkata's music and dance scene, from singers like Hemanta Mukherjee and Suchitra Mitra to dancers like Prahlad Das. She remembers waiting at a bus stop and a Morris Minor, licence plate number 6706, stopping in front of her. 'Hop in," said Hemanta Mukherjee. 'Which way are you going?" she replied. 'Why are you worrying? Whether I am going to Tala or Tollygunge I will take you home." She would tell us that story over and over again. We would get exasperated because we knew it by heart. Now I realise she was telling herself as well, reminding herself that she was more than aloo-potol. Perhaps that's why my mother, much to my minimalist sister's exasperation, is a hoarder. It's as if she saves everything she thinks might be of value in a life without the usual markers of achievement—postgraduate degrees, high posts, honours and accolades. Her drawer groans with old chequebooks, birthday cards, perfume bottles. She saves plastic bags, sorted by quality. Duty-free bags are premium. She lives for the day when one of us will sheepishly ask for a 'good plastic bag". In a throwaway world, my mother saves. I came home from a trip to find that there had been a shaving foam accident while I was away. The bottom of my canister of shaving foam had rusted away. My mother found foam everywhere in the bathroom, halfway up to the ceiling, covering the sink, all over the washing machine. She had carefully saved two takeout containers worth of foam, slightly grimy now. 'It's of no use now, isn't it?" she said mournfully. It was not, but in retrospect in a world of waste it meant something. Also read: How social media posts overshadowed the Pahalgam tragedy As a hoarder, she is also the family's memory-keeper. Mother is the person my sister and I go to when we want to check whether something happened in 1985 or 1986. She can triumphantly bring out her diary and tell us. She can remember what sari she wore at a wedding 30 years ago. Her own age though is a state secret. 'Don't tell anyone till I am gone," she instructs us. Now suddenly and unexpectedly, she is a shadow of her former self. She gets confused and scared. She resents new indignities like diapers and attendants. But as she sits in bed, exasperated with a body that does not cooperate, confused about the time of the day, demanding her slippers so she can go to the bathroom on her own, my sister notices she's still fixing her hair in the mirror. And I know the mother I knew is still there, still reassuring herself that it wasn't just all about aloo-potol. 'Your mother is talking about some dance school in Park Circus," her doctor tells me perplexedly. 'She is disoriented. But it's a true story," I tell him. 'She is telling you a story of the woman who was a dancer." I might be the writer in the family but she is its storyteller. 'Cult Friction' is a fortnightly column on issues we keep rubbing up against. Sandip Roy is a writer, journalist and radio host. He posts @sandipr.


The Hindu
20 hours ago
- The Hindu
In Assam's Goalpara, children give lessons on coexistence with elephants
GUWAHATI Kabita Sutradhar, a Class 4 student of government-run Dorapara Lower Primary School in western Assam's Goalpara district, has a simple solution to reducing human-elephant conflicts (HECs). She says one must first know what the elephant is called in the language or dialect of each community sharing the animal's domain, and then try to understand what these communities think about the elephant and how they read natural signs to anticipate its moves. 'The elephant is called hathi, gaja, and oirabat in Assamese and Bengali, miyong in Bodo, mongma in Garo, midar in Hajong, huti in Rabha, jongli in Mishing, and hadi in the Tiwa language,' she said at an event to mark World Environment Day on June 5. The event was organised by the Centre for Microfinance and Livelihood (CML), an initiative of Tata Trusts, working with 159 primary schools in the Balijana Education Block of the Goalpara district. Some of these schools are on the routes elephants take to migrate or move between rivers and jungles. Many children of these schools are used to HECs in their villages, too. Witnesses to conflicts Kuldeep Das, the CML's coordinator for the district, said Kabita and other students displayed wisdom beyond their age and underscored, without probably realising it, traditional methods of handling a critical situation with a modern outlook. 'Some of these children have been witnesses to conflicts near the schools in our project area, when the elephants come down from the hills yonder during winter when paddy ripens,' he said. Dipanwita Kalita, the mathematics coordinator for the district, said a key component of the project has been to provide primary school libraries with quality books and learning materials to develop foundational literacy and numeracy and reduce dropout. Some of these 'child-friendly' books are on environment and elephants, which the children read aloud during the event. 'Our project involving the local communities goes beyond classroom activities. It focuses on coexistence with elephants and other animals just as diverse communities coexist in the area,' Mr. Das said. Conflict mitigation The focus was also on the elephants in north-central Assam's Udalguri district, where HEC-related crop damage and property loss are serious concerns for local communities. Members of Aaranyak, an Assam-based biodiversity conservation group, distributed high-intensity torchlights to 10 residents of Nunaikhuti village, one of the HEC flashpoints in Assam. 'These torches are intended to improve night-time visibility and help deter elephants, providing a simple yet effective tool for community safety in a HEC situation,' a spokesperson of the group said. The villagers were also taught practical mitigation strategies and the use of HaatiApp, a mobile phone application designed to monitor the movement of wild elephants and respond to conflicts with elephants. According to a 2024 survey by the Assam Forest Department, the State has an estimated 5,828 elephants. A year-old report by Aaranyak said 812 people and more than 300 elephants died because of HEC in about a decade.


Time of India
21 hours ago
- Time of India
'Death of architecture in Delhi' hides layers of history; explore forgotten tales from Mughal arches to Partition memories
Source: Outlook Traveller In South Delhi, a peaceful Spanish-style baroque house is set to be demolished to make way for a larger, developer-built structure. This is not an isolated case—such transformations are rapidly reshaping the city's landscape. For archaeologist, curator, and art historian Anica Mann, this marks more than just the loss of one home. She sees it as a symbol of the slow disappearance of Delhi's unique architectural identity. Speaking at the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, Mann described this trend as the 'death of architecture in Delhi,' where historic homes are being replaced by generic, modern structures with little character. Historian Anica Mann highlights Delhi's vanishing architectural memory Mann emphasised how Delhi's architectural memory is being erased in tandem with its history. 'The memory of the modern is being forgotten, just as the memory of Partition was,' she reflected. Through her project Delhi Houses, Mann has been documenting and archiving the city's disappearing architectural gems on Instagram. The aim was to preserve the stories and people behind these homes, before they're lost forever. The panel discussion also featured anthropologist Sarover Zaidi and architect Rafiq Kidwai. While the event could have devolved into pure nostalgia, it instead mapped the evolution of Delhi's architecture in response to shifting societal needs. Older Delhi homes weren't buildings; they were constructed around the lives of people living in them. Created for women and families, these homes had plenty of storage, expansive dining areas, and terrazzo floors that hid dust and were thus practical and pretty. Modern homes, though, are planned with resale value and cost-effectiveness in mind. They are small, cookie-cutter, and personality-free. Mann deplored the fact that, in the interest of being modern, we are sacrificing community and warmth for cold, impersonal living areas. As Zaidi so eloquently phrased it, "The drama of the house has been lost." Mughal-era houses in decline One of the photographs Mann presented was a former great 17th-century house from the Mughal era in Old Delhi. Although in ruin, its arches, carvings, and leaning trees told tales of a rich past. "Perfumed air from ittars would have filled the courtyard, while music and lively chatter echoed through the alleyways," Mann stated. Courtyards, which were the focus of Delhi residences, provided natural cooling and social interaction. These are a rarity today. The disappearance of joint families and legal division of properties have resulted in vertical building and the disappearance of open, shared areas. Barsatis (rooftop rooms) were culturally significant as well. They were spaces of congregation, exotic settings, and locations for movies such as Delhi-6. They are now promoted as luxury penthouses, removed from their collective origins. How architecture fostered connection and belonging Mann also remembered a trip to a century-old house on Hanuman Road, where an old couple still upheld daily routines such as presenting Shiuli flowers to Hindu gods. These houses are not mere abodes—they are vessels for culture and faith. But as nuclear families migrate to new suburbs, and ancient homes are divided or sold, these traditions disappear with the walls that once contained them. A number of the Old Delhi dwellings also had distinct features such as outdoor benches along the entrance, meant to facilitate neighborly interaction. These subtle but deliberate architectural touches created a sense of belonging and community now mostly missing in contemporary developments. How refugees shaped Delhi's urban landscape The discussion at KNMA also touched on Delhi's post-Partition identity. Mann described how families fleeing carried what they could—furniture, heirlooms, memories and invested their resilience into building new homes. These weren't merely survival shelters, but testaments to hope and pride. Architect Karl Malte Von Heinz was instrumental in designing homes for these refugee communities. His legacy is still seen in Jamia Millia Islamia's vintage school buildings, one of the parts of "a period of gracious living" described by Mann. As time passed, separate communities created their own niches throughout the city: Bengalis in CR Park, Northeasterners in Majnu Ka Tilla, Punjabis in Rajouri Garden. Each of these enclaves infused the city with its own cultural and architectural taste, entwining a rich urban fabric. Haunting presence of homes and memories During the Q&A session, one audience member raised the idea of haunted homes and referenced Walter Benjamin's notion that homes can emotionally linger long after we've left them. Mann drew a parallel with Japanese beliefs, where lovingly cared-for objects can acquire spiritual presence. 'An old house can feel alive with past experiences,' she said. 'Homelessness isn't just about lacking a roof; it's a haunting absence of rootedness.' Also Read | Cobra in the hospital! Snakebite victim's family brings live venomous snake that bit him; sparks panic and fear