Produced by: Manoj Kumar
Before it sizzled in Indian fryers, the samosa was a savory delicacy in ancient Persia. Called sanbosag, this flaky triangle journeyed through centuries and empires to reach your plate.
It wasn’t born on a Delhi street—samosas were imported luxury. Central Asian chefs introduced them to the Mughal courts, where they were stuffed with meats and nuts, not potatoes and peas.
Once an elite dish of conquerors, the samosa morphed in Indian hands—becoming a potato-powered, chili-laced street legend. Its fillings changed, but its golden shape stayed iconic.
Despite wild rumors, India hasn’t banned samosas. No government label. No blacklist. The Union Health Ministry and PIB flatly deny any such move. The samosa lives on.
The viral claim? That samosas are now tagged like cigarettes—a health hazard. The truth? They’re simply part of a nutrition awareness campaign aimed at all fried and sugary foods.
What’s real: cafeterias must display oil and sugar charts. What’s fake: that samosas were singled out. It’s about moderation, not prohibition—or shaming Indian traditions.
Let’s not sugarcoat it: daily samosas aren’t doctor-recommended. Made with maida and hydrogenated oils, they pack trans fats that clog arteries if you go overboard.
Experts agree: demonizing one food is lazy science. Occasional indulgence? Fine. But guilt-tripping cultural icons like the samosa? That’s junk science wrapped in fear.
Through invasions, empires, and viral hoaxes, the samosa endures. It’s not just a snack—it’s culinary heritage wrapped in crisp rebellion. And no, it’s not going anywhere.