When you helped yourself to a loaded plate of bhel puri, a bowl of jhalmuri or a generous helping of mirchi mandakki, famous in some parts of south India, did you ever stop to think how or what it is made of? What gives the murmura that puff? Whether it grows in a field or is made by hand or a machine? And how does the mandakki stay that way, proud and exuberant, until just a few drops of water or some other liquid deflates an entire plate of it?
Even those who may have polished off countless bowls of puri – pronounced short, not poori, the deep-fried snack – may not be aware that Karnataka is the largest producer/exporter of puri alias murmure, and in a corner of Davanagere, the district right in the centre of the state, is where an entire mandakki industry lies.
As per statistics, approximately 950 bhattis (furnaces) produce 38,000 kilos of mandakki a day. About 8,000 people are engaged in the making, loading, storing and transport of this variety of puffed rice. Mohammed Arshad, the president of the Mandakki Bhatti Association of Davanagere, says about 45,000 people – including families – are dependent on this trade.
The ‘Pickle Jar Poll Express’ and The Wire travelled to the Mandakki Bhatti cluster in Davanagere, Karnataka, as part of a nine-district tour this election season to gather the pulse of the state, and to bring stories of people unheard this far. We were alerted to the mandakki-making side of the town by people in the main part of the town that is home to another famous dish that several consider worthy of a GI tag – the Davangere butter masala dosa, made with a slather of butter and served with mildly-salted masala-free boiled potato curry. “You asked us what else is there to see in this city, Azad Nagar side is where mandakki is made. But it is a very dirty place madam,” a local told me.
Early the next morning we started for Azad Nagar to film the process of rice being turned into puffed rice, only to find the streets empty and the mandakki bhattis locked. We learnt that work in the bhattis had come to a standstill. The units had been under a lockdown for the past four days – the maal (stock) had not moved, and there was a glut. We went and took a seat at an empty corner bench, where two men sat talking. When I asked why ‘kaam was bandh (work had been stopped)’, people began gathering around us – clearly, the camera and our ‘outsider’ look were enough to draw attention.
A few metres away, a young boy of seven or eight was filling water into colourful pots placed on a cart. He told us how he had to do this daily, due to the water crisis. Ghouse, a young man standing next to the boy, smiled when I asked how much he sold this water for. “We don’t sell madam. We only fill from a nearby tap and keep giving. All of us take turns, otherwise, the supply is once a week.”
Speaking to the all-male crowd gathered around us, I asked where the women were. They merely pointed somewhere in the distance, indicating that they were all home, and the place where we stood was the factory side – even though mandakki is a ‘sanna kaigarika‘ small-scale sector activity, Arshad explains.
Since there was no work, there wasn’t much to film – but we were told about the bhatti (furnace) where the paddy – grown in the city’s Tungabhadra River – is bought, unloaded, heated and put through various stages of soaking and roasting. The next step, we were told, is the application of salt. “That part of work done by women,” in an otherwise all-male labour force, perhaps because of the intensity of the work and proximity to a 200-degree furnace.
The only woman I could find was Nasreen, who owns a tea shop next to one such unit and lives with her daughters and grandchildren. Nasreen, whose daughter returned home after an abusive marriage with an auto driver from Bengaluru, told us how this is her only option for a livelihood, but due to the bandh, that source too was drying up.
Seeing a godown with a 1000 sacks of unsold mandakki piled to the ceiling – only one of the 950 bhattis in the area – we were told by the owner that since the demand was low, they had stopped production. Workers were usually paid half the wages on the days the unit remained shut.
How the trouble began
Rifaqatullah, the secretary of the association, shared the many woes plaguing Mandakki Bhatti, which he says began with a ‘sting operation’ by a local Kannada channel that showed this sector in a negative light.
“You can come and see madam, we use good water from the borewell for each bhatti, not how they showed on that channel. They told us they are talking to us for a television story so that we get more facilities and better pay for all our workers. But they did dhokha (treachery) with us. For just a few TRP ratings, is it fair to strike a blow to the lives of 45,000 people? Even if (what they reported) was true, shouldn’t the government correct things, improve facilities.. there is not even a labour card for any worker here,” he says.
The prime minister’s ambitious Smart Cities Mission was intended to do exactly that – provide better machines and gasifiers, and improve the working conditions of labourers. But like many good-intentioned schemes, this too has existed only on paper. “I have been following reports of the allocation of the Smart City programme for two years – when we first heard (about it). Media reports have quoted Rs 388 crore for different sectors in Davanagere, but after several petitions and attempts to meet the minister and other officials, it was only yesterday that we had an officer of the Smart City scheme tell us that Mandakki Bhatti has been granted Rs 18 crore. ”
Falling under the scheme would mean moving the entire murmure-mandakki making sector 20 kms – to the Harapanahalli road outside Davanagere. But Arshad seems on board with that possibility if it means better amenities. “Anyway, workers work only from 6 am to 5-6 pm.” They can easily return home after, he believes. It is the present glut, non-moving of the product to different towns in trucks that has him worried.
What is causing the drop in demand?
“We supply only to cities and towns in Karnataka, and some new players have now come into this trade, sensing money, leading tooverproductionn,” says Arshad.
The real reason I believe is the lack of export – either abroad or even to other states in India – despite the popularity of puffed rice. Other states like Bihar and Maharashtra have moved on to mechanised and large factories that cater to big players like Haldiram’s and other brands. That industrialisation may have led to the significant fall in demand.
It doesn’t help that the Azad Nagar locality and its inhabitants are oblivious to the changing world around them. Appeals to elected representatives have not yielded much. “Shamanur Shivashankarappa and his son Mallikarjun are good, they hear us out. Siddeshwar, the BJP MP from this area, has not once visited this side. He is MP of Davanagere, but not MP of Azad Nagar?” asks Rifaqatullah angrily. “If we ask the city corporation, they say you come under the Smart City, and this side no one in charge of the programme is even willing to hear us out. Just look at the other side of the road, Mirza Ismail Nagar with its tarred roads and other civic amenities. Hum bhi yahaan ke log nahi hain kya? (Are we also not citizens of this city?)”
The makers of the Davanagere mandakki are clearly being pushed to the edges – literally, in the space they occupy in one corner of this significant city in central Karnataka; socially, in being a community and a class that the rest of the ‘Smart’ City doesn’t want to have much to do with; economically or financially, being the most impoverished households who have no hope of escaping their circumstances.
It is clear to anyone visiting Azad Nagar that this expansive murmure-making hub is in trouble, though they have been promised ‘all facilities after elections’ this May. Until then, the frequently out-of-work factory workers will continue grappling with the water crises and their distressed livelihood.
Vasanthi Hariprakash is an independent journalist, anchor and media strategist, former special correspondent at NDTV 24×7. She is the founder of Pickle Jar, a platform to curate programmes and conversations of social relevance.