What is Soan Papdi?
It is a flaky, cube-shaped sweet, prepared using a mix of Gram Flour (Besan), Ghee (clarified Butter), Sugar, and Elaichi (Cardamom)
Soan Papdi has had it. Enough is enough.
For years, Soan Papdi has been the butt of jokes, the subject of memes and the recipient of the most insulting treatment ever meted out to an Indian sweet.
She is gifted, received with a forced smile, placed in a cupboard and promptly regifted. Sometimes without even opening the box.
She has travelled more than most of us. Mumbai to Delhi, Delhi to Bengaluru, Bengaluru to Pune and back again. She probably has more frequent flyer miles than a business traveller.
And yet, nobody appreciates her.
So today, Soan Papdi wants answers. WHAT EXACTLY DID SHE DO WRONG?
Let’s establish a few facts.
Soan Papdi is flaky. In the right way. She is sweet. Just as she should be. She melts in your mouth without demanding a jaw workout. She has layers. She has texture. She has character.
She is, quite frankly, a rather accomplished confection.
And yet, the moment someone spots her familiar cardboard box, the reaction is almost universally one of disappointment.
“Oh no! Soan Papdi!” Really? OH NO?
What is this? A medical emergency?
Kaju Katli arrives, and people behave as though royalty has descended upon the household. They admire the silver foil; they count the pieces and ration them carefully. Gulab jamun gets standing ovations. Motichoor Laddoo is welcomed with open arms. Mysore Pak commands respect.
But Soan Papdi? Suddenly, everyone is a food critic.
“Who gives Soan Papdi?”
“Why can’t people give something else?”
“Let’s pass it on.”
PASS IT ON? She is a sweet, not a hot potato! And before you dismiss her, remember a few things.
WHO WAS THERE FOR YOU WHEN THERE WERE NO FANCY-SHMANCY FUSION MITHAIS?
When mithai shops hadn’t started experimenting with everything from paan-flavoured chocolate to blueberry cheesecake barfi, what held the fort? Soan Papdi.
When you needed something lightweight that wouldn’t require special handling and had a respectable shelf life, who came to your rescue? Soan Papdi.
When you wanted to revisit the nostalgia of childhood Buddhi ke Baal, that magical, wispy confection that disappeared almost as soon as it touched your tongue, who reminded you of it? Soan Papdi.
When you were on a tight budget and wanted to take something sweet to someone’s house without selling a kidney, who stood by you? SOAN PAPDI!
Where was your pistachio-rose-gold-leaf-infused artisanal mithai then? Still in someone’s imagination, probably. However, Soan Papdi was there.
Affordable. Dependable. Portable. Delicious. And this is how you repay her? Shameful!
I would also like to address the scandalous practice of regifting.
A box of Soan Papdi is presented to Person A. Person A doesn’t want it, so it goes to Person B. Person B passes it to Person C. Person C gives it to Person D. By now, the box has attended three family gatherings, two housewarmings and one wedding. It has probably been to more homes than the family priest.
Boxes of Soan Papdi in Indian kitchens have witnessed multiple Diwalis, survived house moves, and outlasted marriages. Some may even qualify as family heirlooms. And nobody thinks this is insulting?
Imagine being a sweet and discovering that your primary purpose in life is to be transferred from one household to another without anyone actually eating you. Even courier companies have better working conditions.
Perhaps Soan Papdi needs a publicist. Because clearly, her PR has been disastrous.
She doesn’t come with exotic flavours or elaborate packaging. She doesn’t have a celebrity chef endorsing her. She doesn’t need liquid nitrogen, edible flowers or a dramatic tableside presentation. She simply arrives in a box. No drama. No attitude. No airs. She doesn’t even demand refrigeration. She is the dependable friend who turns up without making a fuss, only to be mocked for not arriving in a designer outfit.
And now she has had enough.
I imagine her calling a press conference.
The Rasgullas are seated in the front row. Gulab Jamuns are looking uncomfortable. Kaju Katli is avoiding eye contact.
Soan Papdi clears her throat.
“I have a few questions for the nation.”
“Why am I considered an inferior sweet?”
“Why am I the default joke every Diwali?”
“Why is being regifted my destiny?”
“And why, when someone receives me, do they immediately start looking for another person to give me to?”
A journalist asks, “But aren’t you a little too flaky?”
Soan Papdi looks at him. “Have you looked at your own personality?”
Silence.
Another journalist asks, “What about your packaging?”
She replies, “I am a sweet. Not a luxury automobile.”
A third asks, “Do you have anything to say to the fusion mithai brigade?”
She pauses.
“Welcome to the industry. I was here before you.”
Mic drop.
I propose that we begin a national movement.
JUSTICE FOR SOAN PAPDI.
Stop treating her like an unwanted parcel. Stop making her the punchline of every Diwali joke. Stop assuming that a sweet has to cost a fortune or come wrapped in imported paper to be worthy of appreciation. Open the box. Take a piece. Eat it. Give her a fair chance.
And the next time someone gives you Soan Papdi, resist the temptation to ask who you can pass it on to. Instead, remember the years she stood by you.
When your budget was tight. When you needed something that travelled well. When you missed the buddhi ka baal of your childhood. When the mithai universe hadn’t yet discovered its obsession with fusion.
She was there.
SOAN PAPDI IS NOT THE PROBLEM. YOUR LACK OF GRATITUDE IS.
And frankly, she deserves an apology. Justice must not only be done. It must also be eaten.
