Uncle Sam(osa)

on World Samosa Day (Sep 5 2025)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Some memories are now unraveling and disappearing like threads of well-worn garments but the aroma of deep frying oil, the crunch of crispest bites, and the melting sting of eagerly bitten over-hot potato filling burning both the tongue and the roof of your mouth... That memory begins with Bhola halwai’s steaming masterpieces from the corner shop in my childhood mohalla. 

Bhola (single name only) himself was a character you couldn’t forget if you tried. Mustachioed, unshaven, and portly, he had the look of weary patience stored in his huge pot-belly, the air of a man who had wrestled with hot oil and dough since the dawn of time. A smear of reddish ashy tilak always glistened on his forehead, standing out against skin shiny with sweat from the kadhai. Around his right wrist dangled layers of red and yellow threads, some faded, some fresh, each tied by a different passing priest or hopeful relative, marking the festivals and pujas, absorbed into his daily grind. His uniform was simple: a sleeveless baniyan that was probably clean in the early morning clinging to his top, and a lungi, raised and folded at knee level for ease of movement, airy, practical, as he waded into the daily culinary battle. His bare midriff protruded in between the two strips of clothing, an impressive sight by itself.

Bhola’s shop wasn’t just a shop, it was The Center of a complete ecosystem. Outside, on one side was a chaiwala, clattering aluminum tumblers on grubby tables, steam rising like incense competing with the oily fumes from Bhola’s kadhai. On the other side, a paanwallah, who folded his little betel leaf parcels with the dexterity of a magician, while an old radio croaked Radio Ceylon at full volume competing with crackling static. He stocked bidis and Charminar also, one could buy them singly or in a pack. But he was famous for his Benarasi paan as evidenced by the expressions of reddish delight from his appreciative customers, adorning the otherwise bare, dusty walls of the nearby courthouse building. A row of rickshaw-wallahs parked under an ancient neem tree, puffing bidis, debating lowly fares and local politics in gravelly voices, their eyes darting toward the samosa pile as though willing Bhola to finish faster. And there we  stood, a few coins sweaty in our palms, performing that peculiar dance of impatience, half bouncing on toes, half craning our necks to see if our batch of samosas was finally ready!

When Bhola dropped those pyramidal pastries into hot oil, the whole street seemed to pause. The hiss of frying dough and filling masala overpowered the tring tring of bicycles, the honks of passing trucks, and the loud buzz of the nearby sabji bazar. Each samosa emerged perfectly golden, flaky, fragrant, little  trophies conjured by the master chef. The moment the first batch was laid out on a large metallic platter, chaos erupted. Arms thrust forward, orders shouted, brown tangy imli chutney splashed. Triumph was measured in whether you could snag two fresh samosas before they vanished. Or wait forever for the next batch.

The first bite was pure reckless joy. The crisp shell shattered in the mouth, the filling scalded the tongue, the chutney trickled down fingers, and still we lunged for more. The inevitable burn on the roof of the mouth was accepted as the price of devotion.

Somewhere in mid-teens came the strange, alien world of IIT Kgp. Our NH mess also served “samosa,” occasionally but only in the sense that a chalk sketch is technically a “portrait.” The shell resembled the wrinkled chin of old Chinaiyya, the perpetually grumbling, toothless mess-worker. He was rumored to be among the very first employees ever hired at Kgp, creased, sagging, and weary. The filling was no better: sad, pasty goop that tasted suspiciously like yesterday's aaloo sabji, mashed together with raw spices and repurposed with neither shame nor skill. These samosas were eaten not out of desire but sheer hunger and necessity of survival with the afternoon chai and banter, in between shouting "kappu, Chinaiyya!" as soon as we returned from the Institute and before any evening activities commenced with the Flight of the Bumblebee Swarm of the LGBs. It was more like one might swallow bitter medicine, but was necessary to cleanse the palate from the lunchtime chemicals of sambar & rasam. Yet in those dreary dining halls, the golden memory of Bhola’s samosas persisted, untarnished, undimmed,  unshakable.

Kgp was the prelude to the coming exile, the decades in the US in grad school and beyond during the 80s and 90s. No samosas were to be found in this cultural wasteland. Just imagine the forlorn longing in a landscape of greasy hamburgers and frozen TV dinners. The illegal local desi grocery in the basement of a residential home, run by a resourceful Gujju, sold pickle jars, some repackaged spices, a few other suspicious packets of food and Parle-G biscuits way past expiry dates. Later, he added fading, homemade copies of contraband Bollywood VHS tapes rented to desperate desis for a dollar. But a fryer was too much to risk for the owner fearing an imminent visit from the fire marshal. 

Enter Mrs. YT into the fray, intrepid, undaunted, adventurous. First, with dough made from scratch, later with puff-pastry sheets, she fashioned samosa shells and conjured up the peas and potato filling that were quite good, even admirable. But something, the intoxicating whiff of Bhola’s sweat, that  smoke, and street dust, was always missing.

We moved to Chicago mid-2000s, and much changed on this front. Samosas became plentiful, available at every desi store or restaurant - there were several within easy drive. We were spoiled with options. Yet there were moments of heartbreak. At one gathering, a visiting teenager perhaps driven by greed more than hunger, dropped five samosas he had piled on his plate, right onto the the red brick patio floor in our backyard. Five from a platter of twelve. Pandemonium, and trauma, borne out of the recent samosa scarcity! Some scars do not heal easily. Everyone froze. Someone coughed, someone sighed, and then, at the decisive moment, invoking the sacred "five-second rule," the fallen soldiers were discreetly retrieved, brushed, placed back on the platter, to be consumed by the guests with gusto and some guilty relish.

And now, on this World Samosa Day 2025 today, I sit in this quiet Midwestern kitchen, a steaming chai mug, remembering Bhola but now living in a different world of samosa abundance. Our samosas come from Apna Bazar these days, a strip-mall store wedged between a pizza place, a car wash, and a gas station, thirty-five miles away. The parking lot smells of gasoline and garlic knots, but step inside, and you’re back in the familiar subcontinental chaos. Bhangra beats thrum from a speaker perched in a corner precariously, aunties haggle over methi & mithai prices, sniff at the greens to figure out the freshness. The kids running around, sneaking Good Time biscuits into shopping carts while parents pretend not to notice.

The real power, though, lies in its kitchen. It is ruled firmly by an elderly Sikh lady, her dupatta pinned firmly, her face lined with the authority of someone who has said NO more times than Bhola ever said haan ji. Ask her timidly, “Samosé miléngé? ” and her first response is always the same, stern and unyielding: “Samosé nahin hain, khatam ho gayé.” Door closed, case shut. But then Mrs. YT leans in, switches to Punjabi, and the lady softens, her eyes twinkling as if recognizing long-lost kin. Within minutes, the fryer roars and a dozen golden samosas are produced, crisp and fragrant, wrapped in brown paper bags that begin to spot with grease before we even reach our car.

Not Bhola’s, no. But when we bite into these, still hot, still dangerous to the tongue, the years fade away. I am back at Bhola’s, clutching my coins in my sweaty palm. The taste carries echoes of laughter from NH Mess, sans the visual of Chinaiyya’s wrinkled chin. The reminders of Mrs. YT’s valiant kitchen experiments. The suppressed grief soothed using five-second rule judiciously applied to all trauma and tragedies. And somewhere, I imagine Bhola himself is nodding from his smoky corner shop in the sky, mustache twitching in approval. Haan bhai, yéh lo, pachees paisé mé do samosé.