How the Humblest Vegetable Exposes the Grandest Political Illusions in Bangladesh and South Asia
In a region where politics is performed like theatre and power often behaves like monarchy disguised as democracy, it is ironic — almost poetically so — that the deadliest threat to ruling elites has not always been wars, coups, or revolutions. Sometimes, history’s sharpest weapon is nothing more than a tear-inducing, dome-shaped bulb that lives quietly in every kitchen. The onion, that humble vegetable whose primary job is to flavour curry and torture eyes, has repeatedly rewritten history, destabilized governments, humiliated the arrogant, and revealed the deepest cracks in systems that otherwise appear unshakeable.
And here we are again in Bangladesh — a country whose political seasons change as unpredictably as monsoon clouds — watching an onion crisis metamorphose into something bigger than supply chain fluctuations and inflationary tremors. The price of onions is soaring like a stock market on steroids. Overnight, the ordinary onion has transformed into a luxury commodity, a symbol of both market manipulation and governmental short-sightedness. As onion prices leap past Tk 100, 110, 120 per kilogram and more, the national mood thickens like the smoke rising from a kitchen pan that can no longer afford the aroma it once took for granted.
One might laugh, but laughter here has the bitterness of burnt spices. Because in South Asia, the onion is not just food. It is dignity, survival, emotion — the heartbeat of the poor and the pride of the middle class. When rice prices rise, frustration grows slowly. When petroleum rises, people grumble. But when onions become unaffordable, nations explode. Nothing stirs collective fury faster. Maybe it is because onions sit on every stove, feature in every recipe, appear daily in every home regardless of wealth, class, or political party. When onions rise out of reach, it becomes an assault on the very idea of normal life.
And if history has a sense of humour, it enjoys using onions as its punchline.
Bangladesh’s Current Onion Crisis: A Theatre of Tears
We may call it market volatility. We may call it seasonal disruption. But the collective perception — the one that matters — is simpler: that a crisis like this does not happen by accident. Rumours float through markets like the sweet-rot smell of piled onions: hoarding by powerful traders, hidden stockpiles waiting to be released only when the price peaks, officials asleep at the wheel, or worse — awake and participating. And the people know. They always know. You can silence criticism, but you cannot silence rumour, and rumour has always been the first chapter of revolutions.
In the dusty dawn markets of Dhaka and Chattogram, shoppers stare at a pile of onions the way museum visitors stare at artefacts: with awe, confusion, sorrow, and disbelief. A woman clutching a small bag stares at the vendor with the heartbreak of a mother bargaining for medicine. A rickshaw-puller, clutching his day’s earnings, begs for two bulbs — not a kilogram — just enough to preserve flavour in a single meal. A restaurant owner recalculates menus, contemplating replacing onions with cabbage or prayer. Onions, once ignored and abundant, now sit like guarded treasure.
Economists appear on talk shows offering graphs, charts, and seasonal weather excuses. Ministers deliver solemn statements insisting everything is under control. But the smoke in every kitchen says otherwise. The aroma has changed. The country can smell incompetence even more sharply than garlic.
Governments may survive many crises — financial downturns, scandals, opposition rallies — but rarely do they survive a hungry and humiliated population staring furiously at a pile of onions.
Onions as the Great Equalizer of Power
Bangladesh is not alone in this drama. South Asian political history could be written not in chapters, but in layers — onion layers. Every time leaders forget the ground beneath their feet, the onion resurfaces to remind them that power is ultimately measured not in seats or speeches, but in vegetables.
Consider India in 1980 — a year etched into culinary political mythology as “The Onion Election.” Indira Gandhi did not storm back into power through abstract ideological triumph. She returned because the opposition government let onion prices skyrocket. Suddenly, every kitchen turned into a political battlefield. Housewives — the most underestimated voting demographic — delivered a verdict fiercer than any parliamentary debate. Political analysts wrote papers. Kitchen workers wrote history. And the onion, silent and stoic, witnessed the fall.
Then rewind to 1998. Fresh from nuclear tests and patriotic rhetoric, the ruling governments in Delhi and Rajasthan expected election glory. Instead, they faced humiliation. Why? Because onion prices soared like space rockets, and the public decided that dignity in the kitchen mattered more than prestige in the nuclear arena. Politicians boasted about global power; the masses demanded affordable curry. The result: political collapse. In the irony ledger of history, onions defeated nuclear bombs in determining electoral outcomes.
The saga continued in 2010, when monsoon disruption delayed supply in Maharashtra. Traders hoarded onions like black-market gold. Prices jumped from tolerable to terrifying. Middle-class families went into emotional meltdown. Talk shows heated up; tempers heated more. Governments rushed to impose export bans and emergency imports — desperately trying to extinguish a fire that began not in fields, but in hubris. Too late. The anger had already spread.
Even international relations have been rewritten by onions. When India restricted exports to Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, diplomacy shook. Neighbouring leaders exchanged complaints, and public frustration erupted across borders. Forget warships and missiles — onions were the true geopolitical weapons.
Why the Onion Always Wins
The reason onions succeed where revolutions fail is brutally simple: food is the most intimate form of politics. One can tolerate a weak speech, a broken slogan, a corrupt minister — but one cannot tolerate an empty plate. Democracy, after all, is not sustained by manifestos, but by meals. Political legitimacy is measured not by banners in rallies, but by vegetables in baskets.
When a nation’s poorest cannot afford onions, they learn something crucial: the system has stopped caring about them. That realization is more dangerous than any protest march.
And the onion is uniquely positioned to trigger that realization because:
- It is used daily.
- It is culturally non-negotiable.
- It is emotionally symbolic.
- It affects every class simultaneously.
Rice divides rich from poor by type. Meat divides by frequency. But the onion unites. Everyone eats it. Everyone needs it. Everyone notices when it disappears.
When onions become luxury items, the entire country becomes a protest movement waiting for ignition.
Bangladesh Today: The Smell of Political Trouble
And now Bangladesh stands at the edge of another onion-shaped precipice. The nation watches as inflation surges, as traders grow richer than bankers, as patience runs thinner than onion skins. Meanwhile, political leaders deliver speeches filled with confidence and statistics — forgetting that the kitchen does not debate numbers. It measures truth in teaspoons and tears.
Behind closed doors, power may be congratulating itself on stability. But stability is not measured inside parliament. It is measured in markets.
If rulers believe they are invincible, they should spend one early morning visiting Karwan Bazar unnoticed. No security guards. No media. No microphones. Just the smell of fish, sweat, and disappointment. There they will meet the true opposition: the mother trying to feed four children with Tk 200. There they will understand that a nation does not collapse when protesters storm gates — it collapses when a public silently loses faith.
One day, historians may write chapters on Bangladesh’s onion crisis. But the people living the crisis today smell the future more clearly than historians ever will. They can sense when something has rotted — whether it’s in warehouses, in policies, or in leadership.
The Final Layer
Peel the onion, layer by layer:
- First layer: economics.
- Second layer: governance.
- Third layer: corruption.
- Fourth layer: arrogance.
- Last layer: collapse.
Governments fall not when they are attacked, but when they refuse to listen.
And so the onion waits — silent, spherical, patient. It has toppled leaders before. It will topple again. It never raises its voice. It does not hold press conferences. It does not join political parties. It sits in the market, watching. Knowing.
Because the onion does not forgive egos. It buries them.
In South Asia, no empire is more fragile than the one that forgets to respect the onion.
And in Bangladesh today, the knife is already on the cutting board.
