The great Mysore Pak panic: When sweets become suspects

For many references to the neighbouring country, which was recently involved in terror activity in India, has turned the crunchy biscuits of Karachi Bakery and the juicy Mysore Pak sour

Hyderabad: Names, as it turns out, are dangerous things. They can trigger outrage, protests, petitions – and now, apparently, indigestion. Just ask Mysore Pak, the poor little sweet that has landed smack in the middle of a political food fight.

First it was Karachi Bakery and now Mysore Pak. For many references to the neighbouring country, which was recently involved in terror activity in India, has turned the crunchy biscuits of Karachi Bakery and the juicy Mysore Pak sour.

Surely, Shakespeare must be turning in his grave for writing such a false quote: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.

How wrong? With Karachi as prefix and Pak as suffix how could the confectionary be sweet whatever it might be? For the bard of Stratford-upon-Avon a name may be just a label which doesn’t change the underlying essence or quality of something. But for those imbued with patriotic fervour it means a different thing altogether.

For many Mysore Pak is just a deliciously ghee-laden treat from Karnataka. You ate it, loved it, and maybe passed out for a bit from the sugar high. But now? Now it’s a threat to national sentiment—all because of that three-letter word at the end: Pak.

First it was Karachi Bakery under siege. Never mind that it’s based in Hyderabad and was founded by a Sindhi who migrated during Partition. The logic was simple: Karachi = Pakistan = Not Okay. Never mind the biscuits are more Indian than chai. The prefix alone is enough to make people lose their crumbly, buttery minds.

Now, in the sequel nobody asked for, we’ve turned our sweet wrath on Mysore Pak. Because – gasp – it ends in Pak. That’s right. Apparently, even syllables are now suspicious.

Let’s be clear: Mysore Pak has absolutely nothing to do with Pakistan. It wasn’t invented in Lahore, it doesn’t have a visa, and it hasn’t shown up on any border radar. The “Pak” in Mysore Pak comes from the Kannada word Paaka, which means “to cook” or “to make a syrup.” In other words, it’s the sugary glue holding the whole delicious thing together. It has more to do with your grandmother’s kitchen than geopolitics.

The great-grandson of the original inventor is now into the news, looking understandably perplexed, saying there’s no reason to call it anything else. “Pak,” he explained, also means “pure.” But try explaining that to someone who’s already halfway through a WhatsApp forward about how Mysore Pak is secret propaganda.

Some enterprising folks have suggested renaming the sweet as Mysore Shree, which sounds less like a dessert and more like a mild-mannered uncle who runs a printing press.

The man who gave us Hamlet didn’t foresee Mysore Pak becoming the real tragedy. Somewhere in the literary heaven, he must have choked on his metaphor. Shakespeare must be possibly Googling the word Paaka. Clearly, the Bard never faced the wrath of social media, or tasted the modern-day outrage that comes when a name sounds remotely foreign.

We live in strange times. Where syllables are suspicious. Where desserts are detained for questioning. Where sweets must prove their citizenship.

Let’s take a moment to imagine what would happen if we extended this logic further. Will Lahori Kulfi be deported next? Will someone try to rename it? At this rate, even jalebi might be labelled suspicious for being too twisted.

This is culinary paranoia at its worst.

Look, nobody’s saying patriotism isn’t important. But we can love our country and still let our sweets be sweet.

So the next time someone clutches their pearls at the mention of Mysore Pak, offer them a piece. Let them taste it. Let the ghee work its magic. And then gently explain: this isn’t political—it’s just dessert. If there’s one thing that can unite us all, surely it’s the universal love of things cooked in alarming amounts of sugar and clarified butter.

As for Mysore Pak? Relax. It’s just Kannada for delicious.