Filed by Weasalwati, for the Court of Common Appetite
It began, like most national debates do, with fried food and misplaced concern.
Justice Chaatwal adjusted his specs, looked solemnly over his glasses, and asked—perhaps earnestly, perhaps rhetorically:
“Why are we not appreciating the government’s concern for people’s health?”
There was silence in the Supreme Court of Satvik Snacking, the kind that only occurs when everyone suspects the salad bar might be closing soon. Outside, protesters waved samosas in defiance, while someone attempted to chant “Jalebi lives matter!” but got distracted by a push notification for 2-minute noodles.
In the gallery, the Kasrathwallah lobby stood shirtless and proud, advocating that gym memberships should be made tax-free to combat the national obesity crisis. One of them whispered to Weasalwati:
“We can make up for the deficit. Just ask Ambani to hike the price of plastic brooms on Amazon by ₹8. Health for all, cleaning for the privileged.”
Inside the courtroom, the session had barely begun when a dignified voice, thick with diasporic ghee, crackled over the UK video link.
It was Sanskari Balti Chicken, draped in coriander and post-colonial confidence, speaking from a curry house in Leicester.
“I say this with due respect,” it began, “but the samosa is not Indian. It came from Persia. Your lot just deep-fried someone else’s poetry. Let’s be honest, I’m more ‘Indian’ in Birmingham than samosa is in Delhi.”
There were murmurs. Somewhere, a vada pav flinched.
Vada Batatawallah, spokesperson of Mumbai’s greasy resilience, stood up to support the ban.
“Vada pav is regional pride. Bombay soul food. Let the samosa fall if it must. We’ll hold the fort with chutney and spirit.”
Jalebi Devi uncoiled herself with syrupy sorrow.
“I have been offered to gods, to ancestors, to in-laws. But no one questions the rainbow cake from FNP. That arrives full of cream and secrets, yet carries no label.”
Across the aisle, Burger Badshah, reclining with casual menace, bit dramatically into a sesame seed bun.
“But my lettuce is full of fibre. And my… god-knows-what is nutritionally balanced—by international standards.”
No one mentioned that the majority of his pattice was made of potato.
A historian in the back, nibbling quietly on a dry khakhra, raised a finger.
“Actually, potato came to India with the Irish. Technically, it’s all imported calories here.”
He was ignored.
The Labour Minister, arriving late with a Diet Cola in hand, explained between sips:
“We can’t do away with chips-n-chocs. MNCs run that industry. They provide employment. These snacks are feeding families. Of workers, not consumers.”
He looked pained. Or perhaps just bloated.
Justice Chaatwal frowned, tapping his gavel on a plate of dhokla.
“But what about our cricketers? They endorse these noodles. And those fizzy things. Are they not cultural leaders?”
A pause. Then someone whispered:
“Sir… they endorse gambling apps too.”
The silence returned, now heavy with preservatives.
Outside, protesters had stopped chanting. Someone handed out free cola as a peace gesture. It fizzed gently as it hit the pavement.
Inside, Maggi Mascot twirled her metaphorical noodles and looked innocent.
Dietician Dubious, now sipping a turmeric smoothie with creatine, re-entered.
“See, this is a branding issue. Samosas have no narratives. No micro-influencer campaigns. No collabs with fitness podcasts. If they want to survive, they need a rebrand: ‘Heritage Triangles: Ancestral Crunch with Soul’™.”
He was promptly hired by a wellness startup.
Justice Chaatwal finally stood, wiping his hands on a napkin that read “Chaat is Thought.”
“We have reached a point where heritage is hazard, and preservatives are prestige. Where halwa is criminalized and frosted sugar-bombs get birthday balloons.”
He looked directly at the courtroom, eyes glistening like well-boiled chana.
“The samosa may not be ‘purely Indian.’ But neither is democracy. Shall we ban that too?”
He tapped his gavel once.
And once more.
“In the end, the fundamental measure of any institution is not its ranking, nor its funding.
It is the quality of the samosa in the canteen.”
Court adjourned.
Jalebi Devi wept softly. Even Burger Badshah looked away.
Balti Chicken disconnected.
And somewhere, far away in a canteen, a samosa turned golden brown—blissfully unaware it was now a symbol.
Filed with greased fingers and unlabelled affection,
by Weasalwati
For the Digestive Records of the Nation
Parwatisingari's Weblog 
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