That samosa life

There was a time, in my younger years, when the humble Hargun samosa was a source of great comfort to me. 

Having swapped (quite against my will, I assure you) the temperate climes of East Africa for a life in bleak middle England, 14 year old Ayushi found herself quite lost. 

My first day at the local comprehensive consisted of citing the Pythagorean theorem to prove I should be in set 1 maths, being appalled that kids didn’t get detention for making teachers cry and spending lunchtime hanging out with my 11 year old sister and her one newly made friend. Everything was grey, the weather, the buildings and even the kids (although I later learnt that this was predominantly due to the fact that most of them ate £1 chicken and chips for lunch and little else).

A few months on and nothing had really changed. People were still as surprised at my perfect English (though upon reflection I think they were just disappointed I didn’t speak exclusively in clicks) and I was beginning to think I should just let people believe that I used to ‘ride an elephant to school everyday’ and even added ‘with nothing but a loincloth of leaves on’ as an embellishment.

I had acquired a few friends who lost no time in introducing me to the aforementioned £1 chicken and chips and the magical combination of chilli sauce and garlic mayo. These friends, however, occasionally fancied a little variety in their beige diet and so they also introduced me to Hargun’s Sweet Centre. Here, £1 could get you 2 samosas and a paneer roll complete with pot of chutney.

My previous experience of samosas were more the 2D Gujarati variety, with fillings such as peas + paneer, egg + onion, or the best of all spiced kheema. This was the first time I was faced with the pyramidical, potato filled structural masterpiece that is the punjabi samosa.

At first, I remember being slightly bewildered at the sheer amount of potato inside. I then surrendered to its pillowy warmth and allowed it to let me forget that my toes were almost always cold (I learned the hard way that ballet flats are not appropriate winter footwear). 

Multiple visits to Hargun’s later and I was still a little bewildered. Why did they only ever contain exactly 3 peas? Did they somehow count them in? How come the chutney tasted so good? How did the pastry retain its perfect crispiness?

At this point, it is worth sharing that the proprietor of Hargun had a son with whom I shared some of my classes. Him and his gang of Asian bad boys ensured that the Hargun samosa achieved cult status amongst the Asians at school by claiming that as it was a triangle, it had illuminati super powers (remember this was the early 2000’s) . Rather creatively, they called it the Samosalati. 

However, it was only during lent, that the Samosalatis started to work their super powers on the rest of the school. Boxes of them were donated to a fund raising effort outside the canteen, where they were sold at cost price to hungry children at breaktime. Listening to white people eat samosas for the first time continues to amuse me to this day. 

‘Ooh its so spicy. I do love Indian food’

‘You guys are so lucky you eat this stuff everyday’

‘Whats the sauce made out of? Can I have it with ketchup?’

‘Nah bruv, I don’t wanna eat that I’ll stink of curry innit’

This samosa revolution filled me with a warm happiness. This little potato parcel gently introduced me to the fact that I was now a ‘British Asian’ and despite not really being from here, there or anywhere, I could feel like I did belong in this strange, grey town.

I recently ate a Hargun samosa again after a long time. It doesn’t quite bring me the same comfort. The little pastry handle on the outside is still perfectly crispy and the chutney still stellar. But the filling is a little dry, a little halfheartedly spiced, and still has too much potato and not enough pea. There are definitely better samosas out there (shoutout to ma Ambala fam) and I would still argue that Gujarati samosas are far superior, but I am still thankful to the OG punji samosa. Thank you for making this culturally confused East African Gujarati feel like she could belong here and thank you for continuing to stalwartly serve the people of this town.