Tiny Crispy Punugulu, Giant Food Memories
Some foods are not just snacks.
They become places.
And for me, Punugulu will always taste like Vijayawada.
Hot evenings. Humid air. Tiny roadside bandis glowing under yellow lights. Tomato chutney dripping from crispy punugulu. The sound of traffic. The excitement of discovering a city through food.
And somehow, every single time I eat punugulu, my mind quietly goes back there.
Now before any Telugu person dramatically says, “Of course punugulu are famous,” yes, I know. Andhra, Telangana, Rayalaseema — we all know the power of punugulu. And yes, challa punugulu are a completely different emotion altogether, but today belongs only to these crispy little golden beauties.
My connection with Vijayawada comes through my mother’s hometown, Aagiripalli, which is a few hours away from the city. Whenever we visited relatives or attended functions there, Vijayawada usually became our stop before catching another bus onward.
Most of those trips were rushed. Packed schedules. Functions. Relatives everywhere. Hardly any time to actually explore.
But during one particular trip, we finally had some free time.
And trust me, younger me took that very seriously.
I decided I was going to “explore the city.”
Now, if you’ve ever been to Vijayawada during summer, you already know what I’m about to say. The humidity there does not politely exist. It attacks you emotionally. You take a bath and five minutes later, you’re sweating again.
But strangely, it is still one of the warmest, liveliest cities to walk through.
That evening around sunset, I stepped out alone, determined to roam around and eat something nice outside.
And then I saw them.
Punugulu bandis everywhere.
Mirchi bajji. Aratikaya bajji. Onion pakodi. Potato bajji.
And right in the middle of all that chaos — tiny golden punugulu frying away beautifully in hot oil.
I had eaten punugulu before in Hyderabad, of course. But somehow, eating them there in Vijayawada felt different.
Like they belonged there.
I asked for one plate.
Twenty rupees.
And back then, twenty rupees actually gave you a full plate.
The vendor handed over these tiny crispy round punugulu along with spicy tomato chutney, coconut chutney, onions, and a little masala powder sprinkled on top.
I took one bite.
And I genuinely froze.
Crispy outside. Soft inside. Slightly tangy. Warm. Comforting. Addictive.
I finished the plate.
Then ordered another.
And because apparently self-control never existed in my life when it came to snacks, I also found a pani puri bandi later and ate that too.
That was dinner.
No regrets.
The funniest part came afterward.
I proudly returned home feeling like I had discovered hidden treasure.
I started dramatically telling everyone in the house:
“You HAVE to eat punugulu from that bandi. They are amazing.”
And these people simply listened to me quietly.
Only later did I realize they had all grown up eating from that exact place because the bandi was literally two lanes away from their house.
I genuinely thought I had invented new information.
The confidence I had needs to be studied.
But honestly, that trip made me fall in love with punugulu forever.
And then there is my amma’s version.
Rainy evenings at home automatically meant one thing: punugulu.
We usually never made deep-fried snacks too often at home, which made these evenings feel even more special.
Amma would take slightly fermented dosa batter, add semolina for extra crispiness, finely chopped green chillies, curry leaves, cumin, onions sometimes, and then whip the batter beautifully before dropping tiny little portions into hot oil.
And my mother’s punugulu were always tiny.
Tiny enough to keep eating endlessly without guilt.
Or at least that is what I told myself.
I think I genuinely waited for rain just so punugulu could happen.
Even now, years later, punugulu somehow continue following me through life.
During one of our wedding anniversaries, we visited Visakhapatnam and stayed there for a few days while covering Simhachalam temple as well.
And somehow, every breakfast buffet still found its way back to punugulu.
Some things never change.
My husband eats two.
I eat ten.
And honestly, I still think I’m right.
Because some foods are impossible to stop at one bite.
Especially when they taste like rain, travel, family, childhood excitement, and Andhra evenings all at once.
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