Target Samosa-Jalebi
By Shivaji Sarkar
India’s fight against obesity may soon come with a public notice — stuck next to your favourite samosa stall or jalebi counter. The Union Health Ministry, wants central government offices to install ‘oil and sugar boards’ — warning staffers of the health hazards of deep-fried and sugary indulgences. The noble intent? Encouraging healthy eating. The unintended fallout? A direct blow to an informal food economy that feeds both bodies and bank accounts across the country.
This isn’t just a cultural shift — it’s an economic tremor. And one that could quietly destabilise the Rs 3 to 5 lakh crore unorganised food sector that runs on the backs of Bhantis, Halwais, Mayaras, Mithaiwalas and Modaks — names that don’t appear in the NITI Aayog charts, but feed crores and lakhs of households. In 2023, the Indian “packaged” sweets market of rosogolla, laddoo, barfi of some large confectioners in IMARC study was valued at Rs 6,229.7 crore, and it’s projected to reach Rs 25,970.8 crore by 2032, with a CAGR of 16.67 per cent.
This sprawling informal economy is largely unregulated, yes — but it is also ethical, preservative-free, hyperlocal, and affordable. From Delhi’s Sarojini Nagar to Patna’s Gandhi Maidan, Allahabad’s Loknath, Lucknow’s Hazratganj, Kerala’s beaches or Kolkata’s Garer Maath, India sells an estimated 6 crore samosas daily, may be more. If you add the allied universe of pakoras, vada pavs, Jaipur pyaj kachori, jalebis and other mithais, the numbers multiply — as does their economic gravity. Each samosa, different in every city, represents a supply chain: wheat farmer to flour miller, the aloo vendor, the masala mixer, the oil refiner, the street hawker, and finally the hungry buyer.
And then comes jalebi, India’s golden spiral of joy. Take Ahmedabad — the country’s fafda-jalebi capital. On Dussehra 2023 alone, 17 lakh kilos of fafda-jalebi were consumed in a single day, generating an estimated Rs 175 crore, estimated a national newspaper. That’s more than some tech startups raise in Series A funding. And it’s tens of millions of kilos of jalebis annually, count the volume approximately at Rs 400 a kg. Rosogolla export from Kolkata-Bikaner is no less than imports of nuts from the US.
But while venture capitals get headlines, the jalebiwala gets cholesterol warnings. All India, it’s not easy to fathom the expanse of this economy. While there is a good intent its bad target.
Let’s be clear: rising obesity and lifestyle diseases are real concerns. India is seeing a spike in hypertension, diabetes, and cardiac ailments across demographics. But where is the policy coherence? There are no front-of-pack regulations on ultra-processed branded foods loaded with additives — chips, colas, frozen snacks — flooding Indian shelves. And like samosa-jalebis, are not made fresh or served hot.
Yet, it’s the affordable, preservative-free, freshly-made local food — consumed by daily wage workers, office-goers, and students — that’s now being flagged. This is not public health reform. This is misplaced elitism disguised as nutrition.
The irony is harsh. The very people who rely on these foods for their daily calories — and livelihoods — are being shamed. For crores of urban and rural poor, a Rs 5 to10 samosa or Rs 6 jalebi is often the only meal. Railway stalls sell vada pavs and aloo bondas starting at Rs 10.
If these foods are discouraged without providing cheap, healthy alternatives in the same spaces, the consumer will simply pivot to cheap packaged junk, often worse in nutritional value and more additive – a bigger nutritional health crisis, not a smaller one.
The health ministry’s directive has ripple effect – lower footfall for street vendors, reduced demand for mithai during government functions and festivals – Diwali, Onam, Bihu, Rathayatra – cultural stigma attached to food, long embedded in India’s social fabric. You don’t fix an obesity crisis by targeting a jalebi in Azamgarh-Guwahati or a pakora in Pune-Tiruchirapalli. You fix it by regulating international corporate, not Hiralal Halwai.
Samosas, laddoos, and jalebis are not just items on a plate. They’re India’s culinary soft power. More importantly, they’re the foundation of a decentralised food economy that employs crores without requiring land, degrees, or foreign funding. To disrupt this fragile ecosystem in the name of wellness — without consultation, compensation, or coherent planning — is to denigrate India’s most resilient social safety net the food-street economy.
Let’s not kid ourselves. This isn’t just about samosa-mirchi pakori and calories. It’s also about market realignment. Global and domestic food giants are eyeing India’s growing billion-rupee unorganised snack sector. Unable to beat the local seller on price, freshness, or taste, they now ride the “health” bandwagon to undermine traditional foods and insert factory-packed substitutes. (They did so attacking mustard oil kolhu and now its prices spiralling).
At Rs 5 to10, a street samosa is unbeatable. But with an “unhealthy” tag stuck on it, consumers are nudged toward: Rs 60 frozen puff pastries, Rs 40 “healthy baked” chips or Rs 35 sugar-heavy oat bars. And while the samosawala is forced to hang a warning sign, these packaged snacks carry no visible red flags, despite being ultra-processed, preservative-laced, and sugar-heavy.
India still lacks mandatory warning labels for high-fat, high-salt, high-sugar products in the processed food market — something Brazil, Chile, and even Mexico enforce strictly. Packaged snack makers continue to use preservatives, emulsifiers, artificial flavours and colourants — yet face minimal scrutiny.
Meanwhile, the local halwai using fresh oil, chickpea flour, spices and jaggery is the one under attack. This regulatory bias that masks itself as public health sends the message: homemade is harmful, but lab-made is clean — a myth that is both nutritionally and culturally dishonest.
The potential fallout – millions of daily wage earners, including women and caste-marginalised vendors, risk livelihood collapse. A culture is erased as regional snacks, rituals, and taste traditions face extinction in favour of bland standardisation. Costs rise as replacing a samosa with an oat bar and obesity may worsen with the ultra-processed substitutes.
Instead of warnings, vendors need support — not quiet condemnation. Yes, India has an obesity problem. But solving it by going after traditional, local food is like banning lassi to control cola consumption. India didn’t become obese on samosas alone. And we certainly won’t become healthy by simply banning them with bureaucratic notice boards. The real recipe for wellness lies not in shaming tradition — but in supporting it smartly. Otherwise, we risk frying the very hands that feed us. — INFA