Making A Meal Of Samosa-Jalebi

Anyone working a full day will testify to feeling hungry around 4-5 PM. A samosa, fried with potatoes and spices enmeshed in a triangular cover of maida, the all-purpose flour, is a convenient option. Some health-conscious men and women avoid oil and the maida cover, stuffing the spice-laden potato in between slices of bread.

Samosa adds calories, high cholesterol, and more. Alternatives like burgers or pakoras also carry similar risks – more or less. Being affordable, it is a hot favourite, literally. It controls the hunger pangs till you hit home and the dinner table, late in the evening.

Arguably, samosa’s ideal companion is jalebi, the deep-fried coils of fermented batter dunked in sugar syrup. Its freshness is guaranteed when lifted from the frying pan, into the tub with sugar syrup, rightly accused of seducing those with a sweet tooth. It is cheaper when compared to other sweets.

Although not singled out, the two ‘culprits’ have been termed hazardous by nutritionists and diabetologists. They point out that one in five Indians is obese, and the country has a silent, but sure, excessive salt and sugar consumption epidemic.

The Indian health ministry’s ‘internal’ order to study its impact and launch a general awareness campaign nationwide, using films and print visuals, has triggered a debate. Since a media report from Nagpur began the debate, the Maharashtra Government was the first to disclaim. And the Union government announced that it had no plans to ban or curb the stuff. But the damage, it seems, was done.

The government noted that it took a ‘patriotic’ turn. Are samosas or papdi chaat meant to be regulated to indirectly promote pizza, burgers, and French Fries? And, are lassi or sugarcane juice more harmful than the assorted Colas?

Suspicions persist. Will the government’s campaign against homemade and bazaar Indian foods and drinks help the multinational chains of fast food? Their growth has increased with fast-paced urbanisation. With migration, eating out is a compulsion. Yesterday’s homemakers have joined the workforce with less time for cooking. Easy-within-reach, factory-made, attractively packaged stuff, available within minutes of online booking, is becoming the norm. How to tame this and preserve the family’s food-health?

Bluntly put, the government does not want a problem on its hands that it cannot solve. In the current trade and tariff tussle, India’s huge but protective market is a major target and the offensive by MNCs (call it food colonisation?) is backed by their governments.

ALSO READ: The Cold War Over Frozen Desserts

But food, after all, is and should be left to personal choice. At the domestic level, the ‘eat-this-and-not-that’ agenda is less social or scientific and more political. It targets non-vegetarian food, or rather, those who produce and trade in it. This has widened the schism.

The government’s initiative may have ebbed. But this could be a convenient, temporary pause. Viewed critically, the risks of excessive consumption of sugar and trans fats need to be highlighted and curbed. Like the off-the-shelf products that carry details of ingredients, food outlets may be asked to display them and even more, the risks involved.

Food and drink are the new tobacco. To enforce it, however, would not be easy. Whether the display of gory health hazards on cigarette packs has succeeded is debatable, since neither the industry nor the consumers seems interested in updating data.

Back to the delectable samosa-jalebi, the debaters need to know their sweet and spicy sides. And a bit of history in the modern-day context: there is nothing swadeshi about the two if you know their West and Central Asian origins. But over the centuries, they have evolved enough to be appropriated and globalised.

Why else did we grow up being told that the tie knot in school uniform was ‘samosa-like’! And why do the Indian American lawmakers call themselves the “Samosa Caucus”?

Samosa’s adaptability allows it to fit into numerous culinary contexts. Whether served at a casual street food stall, a festive gathering, a government meeting or a formal banquet, samosa can be enjoyed at any occasion.

Side-stepping another never-ending debate on the number of vegetarians and non-vegetarians in India, the fact remains that, like Biryani, one of the many ‘imports’, India has turned samosa largely vegetarian. But tell a Turk or Iranian about a vegetable samosa, and he will scoff at it. So, in food, vegetarian or not, to each his/her own taste.

Samosa came to India as Persian ‘sambosag’, meaning ‘triangular pastry’, with a savoury filling of vegetables like spiced potatoes, onions, and peas, but also included meat or fish, or even cheese. It was, and still is, baked and not deep-fried as in South Asia.

The ‘samsa’ was introduced to the Indian subcontinent in the 13th or 14th century by chefs from the Middle East and Central Asia who cooked in the royal kitchens for the rulers of the Delhi Sultanate. The pocket-sized food was also a readily available snack for workers and travellers across Asia. Across South Asia, samosa is a staple Iftar food for Muslim families during the month of Ramzan.

Across eastern India, it is ‘Shingara’. Its Bangladeshi cousin, with the same name, is normally smaller than the standard variety and has onion and meat. Called ‘Shingada’ in Nepal, it was introduced by Marwari merchants hailing from India’s Rajasthan.

In Pakistan, samosa has evolved region-wise. It is spicier in Sindh and Punjab and has potato-based fillings. But samosas sold in the west and north of the country are less spicy and contain minced meat-based fillings, of lamb, beef, or chicken. Karachi has kaghazi samosa, with a paper-thin and crispy covering. Peshawar gorges on sweet samosa.

The Maldivian samosa is called ‘bajiyaa’ stuffed, expectedly, with tuna filling. Called ‘samuza’ in Burmese, it stretches to Southeast Asia. It is ‘samoosa’ or ‘sambusa’ across East, West and South Africa.

Before chicken tikka masala evolved, it was popular in Europe. Clever chefs serve it as a starter to an Indian meal.

Now, the jalebi. Worldwide, it is called jilapi, jilebi, jilbi, jilipi, jelabee, jerry, mushabak, zulbia, z’labia, zalabia, pani walalu. Whether served as part of the main course or as a dessert, it retains its unique place among milk and Khoya preparations because of its longer shelf life.

According to an Indian diplomat, Ambassador Nagma Malik, jalebi might have started life in Turkey and then arrived in Tunisia long before making its way to India.

“Priyamkara-nrpa-katha”, a work by the Jain author Jinasura, composed around 1450 CE, mentions jalebi in the context of a dinner held by a rich merchant. Sanskrit treatise ‘Gunyagunabodhini’, dating before 1600 CE, lists the ingredients and recipe of the dish, which are identical to the ones used to prepare the modern jalebi.

Norman Chevers’ book, A Manual of Medical Jurisprudence for India (1870, page 178) mentions “jelabees” as a historical way of poisoning prisoners in India in the 1800s.

To conclude, government efforts and doctors’ warnings be damned – the Indians, being “straight as a jalebi” – see the contradiction – will continue to hog. Some may even dance to the “Jalebi Bai” tune. They are “like that only.”