The Social Samosa

The ubiquitous samosa is a  humble and delicious snack. This deep-fried triangular-shaped crispy dough shell with delicious potato-pea stuffing is one of the many options in the 'tiffin' or 'halwai' or 'farsaan' tradition in India. In terms of popularity and acceptance, it rubs shoulders with the batata wadas, idlis, vadas, dhoklas... and perhaps comes a notch higher. Nor is it of ethnic Indian origin per se. Refer to Wikipedia for the history of samosa and as early as the 10th century it seems to have been popular in the Middle East as sambosa.  It is also very well known in South Asia, Central Asia, Western Asia, Mediterranean, North Africa, South Africa and the Horn of Africa, whew......only 3 more continents to be captured.

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Life is a strange kettle of tea. Very few people realize the salience of the moment gone by.  Barring philosophers, or perhaps even psychologists  Mostly we are consumed by the mundane. Retrospectively, we do a great job of analyzing our lives and distorting memories and expectations.

For Anita her life's decisions and non-decisions constantly jostled for heavy-duty reflection.  Tending to her 3-year old and going through the motions of managing house, she constantly played with 'what ifs' and 'had beens', arranging them like a game of tangrams. No arrangement was perfectly satisfactory or acceptable. Futile pursuit, yes, but everyone needs the freedom to arrive at that momentous insight on their own.

Anita has traded normal for a new life. Normal is always subjective. Her normal was to pick up life's strings after a maternity break and get back to work and economic independence. Back to being a corporate slave in the business world. Running the race and hating every moment of having sold her soul. Not having time enough to smell the flowers. A linear process of cause-consequence thinking only made for a bleak persepctive.  For the sake of togetherness and family, she has consented to exist as a non-entity in a new country, which did not acknowledge her beyond a number, or her degrees or experience. She ultimately flocked to one of the places where all the lost immigrants congregate regularly, searching for a tentative solidarity and reassurance of sorts - a language school.

It all started when Semiran confided to Anita during the French language class that they were renting the Italian cafe.She congratulated her on the enterprise. This did explain Semiran's preoccupation of previous months, as she was working both part-time and helping her husband set up the cafe. Anita would sometimes stop by  at Semiran's cafe. She would often be away,  and it was always her soft-spoken and gently-smiling husband who asked her for her choice. The Italian land-lady made her presence promptly at lunch time to take-away two sandwiches for a working lunch with all the propriety as the shop-owner.

The mundane observations which shape perceptions never are spoken out in conversations. Like play-dough these are always being shaped, reshaped with necessary changes in the course of a person's life. Time is running at it's fastest and everybody keeping pace to it in the way they can or want to. Births, marriages, illnesses, deaths, separations, job losses, changing jobs, careers, losing weight, hobbies, reading, family time, giving up sugar, vacations, social media, paperwork - the preoccupations of life are so many...The only time we truly do nothing is when we sleep. Our bodies, minds and even souls march to a beat so strenuous and fast that we can't disengage even for a second because we will miss the beat. Sleep is an escape and a blessing.

One evening Semiran volunteered that they were facing a problem of footfalls. No body appreciated home-made food or sauces. A German immigrant herself she had always strong disdain for the natives of low-country Belgium. And of the town in particular. Did that explain the lukewarm relationship they shared on most days? Fluctuating warmth from let's meet for coffee to a forced hello on other times. Nothing surprised Anita anymore. She was often put out to explain her own occasional strange and bizarre behavior at times to herself and so never gave deliberate thought to the misdemeanors of others.

Today, she was her helpful best. But isn't it yet another sandwichery amidst so many others in the area, asked Anita? There were established Italian, Thai, Chinese, Greek, Japanese places in the vicinity, not to mention a popular bakery and three pita-durum shops. You must offer something different! And then she
remembered the Samosa. Give that a try, it is an awesome food. Semiran shook her head, having never heard of anything of the kind. Though each spoke decent English, describing the Samosa as a product and enterprise was a difficult task for Anita.

How can one explain the taste, the ensuing aroma, sound of them being fried in hot oil, wiping sweat of the brows or allowing  them to meet at your chin, the accompaniments ranging from the sweet tamarind sauce, to the chole and grated horse-radish combo, to the mint chutney or even a new avataar of samosa in plain yoghurt, the samosa-chat. Not to mention a bite into the pastry and the stuffing and being transported to temporary nirvana. On a foreign soil, in an uber-clean, almost sterile cafe, sipping on mint tea and lauding the merits of a popular street-food of one's motherland is a surreal experience.



........To be continued......

(P.S. Trying my hand at something new so bear with me. If I am inspired, might finish it, or else will convert it to drafts, which is easy way out, isn't it?)