Delhi had just witnessed its pre-monsoonal showers. Everything looked freshly washed, a glistening green under the soft, gray sky. The smell of petrichor lingered in the air. Outside the university campus, Sharmaji’s tea stall was buzzing.
University students, office goers, and passersby had flocked for tea and hot snacks. The kettle hissed. The air was thick with the aroma of ginger, cardamom, and fried batter.
A fresh batch of samosas had just been lifted out of the bubbling oil, golden and proud. They were arranged in a steel tray, steaming and stately. Crisp, brown, and crusty — each triangular piece gleamed with confidence.
Inside, they were filled with a spicy potato-pea mixture. But it wasn’t just about taste — the samosa’s entire look was haute couture. He surveyed the crowd and sighed, “Soon, I’ll be devoured. I only wish I could remain this regal forever.”
Just then, Chutney arrived. She was poured into a steel bowl beside him — green, minty, and tangy — a smooth swirl with attitude. Her glossy sheen caught the samosa’s eye.
Samosa blinked. Was it the mint, or was it magic?
Chutney shimmered like a monsoon dream.
“You again,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’re always served together. Some kind of culinary fate.”
She twirled coyly. “Of course. You’re too dry and crusty without me.”
“Oh really?” Samosa chuckled, his crust crackling. “Straight to the filling, really?
She winked. “I bring balance. You’re the heat, I’m the zing. Without me, you’re just a flat,dry crust“
“And you, madam,” he said, leaning slightly, “are nothing without me. I give you purpose — a platform to pour your sass on.”
Before she could respond, Sharmaji picked samosa up, drizzled her lovingly over him, and placed them on a paper plate and handed the plate to a waiting customer.
The customer’s eyes lit up and his mouth drooled. He broke the samosa, scooped up the chutney — and the magic happened oola la.
Hot met cool. Crunch met swirl. Spice met spark.
“Every time,” Samosa whispered, as chutney wrapped around him, “it feels like it’s the first time.”
Chutney blushed slightly. “You hold me like no one else. You’re just too hot to handle — without you my existence has no meaning.”
They knew it — they were interdependent. He gave her a form. She gave him flair.
Together, they made taste buds tingle.
They were comfort food. Memory makers. Rainy-day heroes and party starters. Everyone had a samosa-chutney story.
Once, Samosa flirted with ketchup. “She was… fine,” he admitted. “But too sweet. Not my kind, she lacked the sass and zing”
Chutney too had tried to pair with curd once. “He was polite,” she said. “But bland. I missed your hotness and spice”.
They belonged to each other — where crisp met tang, and crunch met charm.
One dull afternoon, with only a few customers around, Samosa looked at Chutney and said, “Have you ever thought of settling down?”
Chutney swirled thoughtfully. “Maybe in the hills? Just the two of us, two paper plates, and a scenic view?”
“No crowd, no college boys yelling ‘extra chutney!’” he grinned. “Just you, me, and some peace.”
“And cardamom tea to keep us warm,” she added, softly.
But their love- story was meant to be short-lived. They were made to be devoured. Each evening, they met briefly on a plate. By night, they were gone.
Still, it never felt shallow.
Because in every street stall, every rainy corner, their love story was retold — in every shared bite, every satisfied sigh.
“I don’t mind being broken into pieces,” Samosa once said, “if it means you’ll fall on me.”
Chutney smiled. “And I don’t mind trickling — as long as it’s your hotness that holds me”
And so they live — in batches and bowls, dipped and devoured, by happy, hungry hearts.
Their love story, in true sense, is a love triangle.
Because in a world of quick bites and fleeting flavors, some combinations are eternal.
Together they danced on many a plate —
A crunchy-saucy twist of fate.
No fairy tale, no white horse ride —
Just hot oil, steel plates, and love on the side.
Dr Preeti Talwar
