In Praise of the Samosa

New Indian Express

2 days ago

If you know me even a little, you'll know about my unwavering love for the humble samosa. And now, with the monsoon clouds gathering over Delhi, that craving only grows stronger with every grey sky and cool breeze. I can't quite recall when this love affair with the triangular snack began, but I've sampled countless versions from different regions over the years. After much enthusiastic research, I've concluded that my favourites are the classic Punjabi samosa—stuffed with potatoes, coarse coriander seeds, a hint of salt, and, when in season, sweet green peas—and the Bengali singhara, with its delicate diced potato and peanut filling. Paired with garam chai served in a mati'r bhaar (clay cup), few things come close.
Chef Naresh Kotwal of Ikk Panjab has, rather amusingly, taken it upon himself to fuel this obsession. Every time he spots me, he appears with a plate of piping hot samosas in hand. His version isn't the oversized, dough-heavy rendition so common outside Punjab. Instead, these are perfectly proportioned, with an ideal ratio of crisp casing to soft, flavourful filling. True to tradition, they are lightly spiced, relying on texture and balance rather than fiery heat—the way samosas are made across Punjab.
Of course, it's no secret that the samosa didn't originate in India. Known historically as sambusek, its roots trace back to 7th-century Central Asia, particularly Kazakhstan. 'The original samosa was more of a dumpling,' explains food anthropologist Dr Kurush Dalal. 'A ceramic bowl would be filled with meat, sealed with dough, and slow-cooked inside a tandoor.'
Like many culinary traditions, the samosa made its way to India along the ancient spice routes. It is widely believed that the Turks first brought it to the subcontinent. However, the original meat-filled version didn't quite suit the local palate. Over time, Indian resourcefulness transformed the samosa, giving rise to countless regional interpretations. In North India, you'll find the familiar potato-filled samosa, laced with coriander seeds; in Bengal, the delicate singhara, its filling of diced potatoes or seasonal vegetables; in Gujarat, the crisp, crescent-shaped ghughra packed with fresh produce; Bihar's hearty mutton samosa; the Jain community's dry fruit-stuffed variety; and, of course, the indulgent, sweet mawa samosa enjoyed across states, especially Rajasthan.
At a recent event celebrating the launch of her book Monsoon: The Indian Season of Resilience and Flavour at Ikk Panjab in Connaught Place, Chef Asma Khan reminded us of how much of our food heritage has been shaped by cultural exchange. 'Just because invaders brought something here doesn't make it any less Indian,' she pointed out. 'We adopted it, adapted it, and made it our own—and how!'
The Bohra community's arrival in India further added to this evolving tapestry with the 'patti' samosa—delicate parcels wrapped in thin sheets of dough, crisp and golden. The southern states took to this too, giving rise to Hyderabad's luqmi, typically filled with spiced mince or eggs, and Chennai's famed onion patti samosa. Among Bohras, the smoked toor dal patti samosa remains a shining example of culinary mastery.
Given Delhi's reputation as India's melting pot, you'd expect to find versions of these samosas tucked away across the city. And you do—but not always in the way tradition intended. In a somewhat comical twist, the capital has embraced a modern lineage of samosas: chowmein samosas, pizza samosas, pasta samosas—the list continues.
Places like Munni Lal Halwai in Chandni Chowk still serve the traditional, flaky-edged Punjabi samosa, bursting with potatoes, peas, and the unmistakable scent of coriander seeds. Meanwhile, Bangla Sweet House in Gole Market is known for its giant, generously spiced versions. Those seeking something different might find themselves at street stalls in Lajpat Nagar or Karol Bagh, where experimental flavours like cheesy pizza samosas or chowmein-filled varieties are all the rage.
To be clear, I have nothing against these new-age samosas. They're fun, quirky, and—let's be honest—they taste more like spring rolls or calzones than the original triangular parcels of joy. But isn't that the beauty of it? Call it innovation, call it reinvention; every version adds another layer to our shared food history. There's room for them all to coexist—a crispy, spicy, flaky reminder that food, like culture itself, never stays still.