The sambar saga: On the provenance and many variations of a south Indian staple

Lazy afternoons in Thiruvananthapuram always had their genesis in lunch. Heady summer vacation days, underlined by long-drawn badminton games and walks to local VHS stores or libraries, were punctuated by hours spent in the family kitchen. For it was here that grandmother's alchemy birthed soul food to die for: hot, fluffy rice, meen varuthathu (fish fry), Guruvayur pappadum and cabbage thoran.

Anchoring the medley was her sambar – an elixir so comforting it could stopgap the 'sambar versus rasam' debate. After all, sambar, unlike rasam, can be had with idlis and dosas. But that's an argument for another day.

Defining sambar is as difficult as counting backwards in a hypnagogic state. Sure, there's a broad outline: lentil and tamarind-based gravy with one or more vegetables, to which sambar podi or powder is added. But unlike standardised restaurant variants, sambar is diverse. And that's really why it's hallowed in south India.

"You'll find sambar-rice in railway stations, Amma canteens, temples, road carts, lunchboxes" says Chennai-based culinary writer and editor Padmini Natarajan. "But we all have our own ways of making it. In Tamil Nadu itself, the podi differs across regions, communities and households. This is a dish that relies on family traditions."

Speckled history

A family tradition – of sorts – is believed to have introduced sambar to the world. The story (with many deviations) goes that Shahuji Bhonsle, second Maratha ruler of Thanjavur (who reigned from 1684-1712), was to welcome cousin Sambhaji – son of Shivaji – to his palace. But preparations for a royal feast were hindered as kokum, used for Maharashtrian amti, was unavailable. So were supplies like moong dal, in whose place toor dal was used.

"Since there was no kokum, they used tamarind, the local souring agent. The dish, made almost by accident, was appreciated and named 'sambar' in honour of Sambhaji," explains Thanjavur native Nandini Vitthal. Vitthal belongs to the Thanjavur Maratha Deshastha community, whose forefathers were priests and officials in Thanjavur Maratha courts.

So the quintessentially-Tamilian sambar was a Maratha creation.

Reservations are rife about this story. But academic and food historian Pushpesh Pant believes it to be true. He says Thanjavur's Saraswati Mahal library has manuscripts that prove this, and adds: "The late KT Achaya (India's most famous food historian) noted there was no mention of sambar before the Thanjavur Maratha era."

That said, it doesn't help that our food history is either disputed or poorly documented. For one, Jayanti Rajagopalan, owner of Hyderabad-based culinary tour company Detours, points to a 1648 account of huli. "Huli, meaning 'tamarind' or 'sourness' in Kannada, was written about by Govinda Vaidya, a poet in the court of Wodeyar king Kanteerva Narasa Rajendra Vijaye. Described as toor dal cooked with vegetables, it was believed to be akin to sambar." Huli is prepared the same way too, except that it often has jaggery and coconut.

Whether or not sambar was a doffing of the hat to Sambhaji, there's no disagreement over the influence of the Thanjavur Marathis on Tamilian cuisine. When this relatively little-known community migrated from Maharashtra, it brought along dishes like puranpoli (boli in Tamil) and pitla (pitlai) and developed a unique cuisine, a confluence of Maharashtrian, Kannada and Tamilian fare. One of their contributions, says Padmini Natarajan, is none other than the divine brinjal dish, kathirikai rasavangi.

Spoilt for choice

Savita Rao, who works in a nationalised bank, has much to say about the homogenisation of 'Karnataka sambar'. The famous (or infamous) Udupi sweet-sour sambar sans vegetables is hardly made at home, she stresses, since it's satvik – cooked by Brahmins at the Sri Krishna Matha. That it became endemic in eateries is more a testament to our collective palate and how enterprising the Tuluvas are.

"Anything to do with the south is considered 'Madrasi'," she laughs. "But in Karnataka, sambar is known by many names – koddel (Tulu), kolombo (Konkani), huli. We Tuluvas add white and red pumpkin, drumsticks and bhindi. But we don't use as many vegetables as in the Malayalee sambar."

Sambar isn't as pivotal in neighbouring Andhra cuisine. That spot goes to pappu charu (rasam-like dal. Pappu is Telugu for 'lentils'), whose consistency is thicker than 'Andhra sambar'. And when it comes to idli and pesarattu (moong dal dosa) accompaniments, people prefer pacchadi/chutney and podi, says Jayanti Rajagopalan.

"One can have a meal without sambar, not without pappu. But people in areas bordering Tamil Nadu may have sambar more often. In Telangana, where food is influenced by Nizami cuisine, there's kaddu ka dalcha, which has meat and chana dal, but also tamarind and sambar-like masala," she says.

Curiously, 'sambar' is rarely called so in most Tamilian homes. Both Rajagopalan and Padmini Natarajan say kuzhambu, an umbrella term meaning 'gravy', is commonly used. Especially when there's rice, rather than idli or dosa, on the plate. "As for varieties, there's paruppu urundai sambar/kuzhambu, in which the dal is balled into kofta-like dumplings and cooked in the masala. And muttai kuzhambu – egg sambar," outlines Natarajan.

Palghat Iyers, who migrated to Kerala from Tamil Nadu, may have brought the sambar to this neck of the woods. Their sambar became distinct due to a crucial local ingredient: coconut. In Palakkad-style varutharacha sambar, fresh, grated coconut is roasted and ground to a paste along with methi seeds, red chillies, coriander seeds, hing, and chana dal. But even Kerala sambar without coconut is unique since all seasoning is in coconut oil. "Ulli or onion sambar is another traditional recipe," says dietician, author and food blogger Nimi Sunilkumar. "And it's hard to find in Kerala today."

Ulli sambar is an exception in a state where just about every vegetable, from beans and raw banana to brinjal and yam, can be used in sambar. Even bitter gourd finds its way in sometimes. "But our sambar has a nice consistency. Tamilians put a lot more water," chuckles Sunilkumar.

Theory of evolution

Like much of its ingredients whose flavours gradually permeate to make the dish tastier the next day, sambar's regional varieties have evolved to offer something to everyone.

There was a time when making sambar masala was laborious – ingredients were sun-dried, roasted and ground to a paste. Homemade pastes may have given way to ready podis, but Pushpesh Pant swears by this comfort food made the old school way: "My personal favourite is the Mylapore Triplicane orthodox Tamil Iyer Sambar. Alas, an imperiled recipe on the verge of extinction. It is prepared with home-ground masala, aromatised with MG hing and tempered with fresh curry leaves with ghee on the side. Bliss with steaming, fluffy rice. Who needs a loaf of bread or flask of wine to gain paradise now?"

No arguments there.