If a bald head can resemble the moon (pardon the typical Telugu expression), why can’t sambar be Sambhaji’s legacy? I haven’t yet watched the successfully running movie, Chhaava, but I intend to soon. After all, avoiding it seems impossible. Social media is buzzing, TV debates are in full swing, and WhatsApp forwards have ensured that even those living under a rock know about the film’s resounding success.
Naturally, curiosity has been piqued. While some are busy dissecting its historical accuracy, others have moved on to a matter of equal – if not greater – importance: did Sambhaji Maharaj really inspire sambar? This question ranks somewhere between the debate on whether tea is best had with milk and sugar or plain black, and whether mulligatawny soup is just a British take on Tamil Nadu’s rasam. And yet, here we are, embroiled in this delicious controversy, served with a generous side of nationalist pride and historical revisionism.
A tale of misplaced culinary paternity
According to a news report – and internet theorists, who in recent times have proven far more reliable than dull, old historians – the beloved South Indian staple was the result of a kitchen experiment gone right. When the Marathas took control of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu, they longed for their familiar amti (a tangy curry) but found themselves short of kokum. The royal chefs, improvising with tamarind, thus concocted sambar – a dish so magnificent that it was promptly named after the warrior prince Sambhaji himself.
And yet, there is no actual historical record to support this claim. It is about as credible as saying biryani was invented by an absent-minded cook who dropped rice into a pot of meat, or that Kerala’s avial was born out of a chef’s desperate attempt to use up leftover vegetables mixed together with coconut and curd before the king arrived for lunch.
Unlocking secrets of culinary history
The Maratha connection rests solely on phonetics. Sambar sounds like Sambhaji -hence, it must be true. The more one thinks about it, the more one realises that linguistic coincidences could unlock many secrets of history. Apply this principle rigorously, and we may soon be forced to acknowledge that Shakespeare was an Arab – after all, his name contains Shaikh, and a little creative stretching could turn Zubair into the Bard.
Food history is a slippery thing, much like mango jelly. Tomatoes and chillies, now staples in Indian cuisine, arrived from South America via the Portuguese. Asafoetida came from Central Asia and Afghanistan. Even toor dal, now integral to sambar, only entered the Indian kitchen in the 13th century. By today’s rigid standards of authenticity, an ‘original’ sambar might not even qualify as sambar at all.
Sparring over national pride
But that hasn’t stopped people from clinging to their preferred origin stories. Across the world, food history has become a battleground of national pride – Lebanon once tried to sue Israel over hummus, while Turkish and Greek Cypriots continue to spar over halloumi cheese. Why should India be left behind?
In the grand scheme of things, whether or not Sambhaji Maharaj inspired sambar matters about as much as whether Columbus actually ‘discovered’ America when people were already living there. What truly matters is that sambar exists – and that it tastes divine. Its history, like its flavour, is a rich blend of influences spanning centuries and continents.
But for now, I shall put aside these weighty concerns. First, I must watch Chhaava – not because I expect to find a scene where the emperor wistfully stirs a pot of lentils, but because one must stay culturally informed. Who knows? By the time I finish watching, a new theory might emerge – perhaps vada (a deep-fried snack made from lentils and served with chutney and sambar) was named after Vadamalayan!