Ritual and Routine: Idlis, Darshinis, and Belonging

by Aashi Singh

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If you asked me what my favourite breakfast item is, I’d say idlis without a second thought. Ever since I migrated to Bangalore, idlis have been my one true companion. Soft, fluffy, and cloud-like, they melt in my mouth when paired with hot, steaming sambar,  making their way to my plate every morning because of their taste, affordability, predictability, and nourishment that is deeply tied to my emotions.

This daily ritual often unfolds at Sri Udupi Park, a darshini near the Hulimavu Bus Stand on Bannerghatta Road. The open entrance invites passersby in as the clang of steel plates spills onto the street, mingling with the hiss of batter hitting hot tavas and the sharp aroma of fresh coconut chutney. I walk up the steps, order at the counter without looking at the menu, and move to the open kitchen with my receipt. The server asks if I want sambar dip, a local term for idlis drowned in sambar, or “normal,” where everything is served separately. I always choose sambar dip. Within two minutes, a steel plate arrives, the idlis submerged in a generous ladle of spicy-sweet sambar, waiting to be relished. I take my spoon and move to one of the standing tables.

The space has limited seating because darshinis are meant for quick eating since people don’t usually linger afterwards. Tables are shared, and strangers stand shoulder to shoulder. I often overhear conversations in multiple languages, which centre around commutes, deadlines, weather and Bangalore traffic. I rarely speak to anyone, yet the act of occupying the same table feels communal. In a city that can be overwhelming and anonymous, this small, repetitive act of eating beside strangers gives me a sense of belonging to the city and its culture.

Sri Udupi is one among many darshinis scattered across Bangalore. They serve quick meals at modest prices while maintaining taste, hygiene, and tradition. Everyone talks about Rameshwaram Cafe, but Udupis are for both locals and migrants: elderly men in crisp white clothing, women in sarees with gajra in their hair, students carefully stretching monthly budgets, IT workers rushing to offices at 8 a.m. People from across the lines of social divide come together through their shared love for food. Over time, when the cashier recognises your order before you speak, these darshinis begin to feel like an extension of home. Recognition becomes routine, and familiarity provides visibility in a city that is always running. 

Darshinis lie somewhere between tradition and modernity; their traditional way of functioning continues even today, but they adapt to the fast-paced routine of city life. These establishments are perhaps the city’s original fast-food chains, providing nourishment while preserving the taste of local cuisine. They carry a rich history that can be traced back centuries. According to an article by India Today, the Udupi restaurant tradition originates from migrants from the temple town of Udupi, who, in the early twentieth century, popularised affordable vegetarian cuisine across South India.  

Rooted in Brahminical food practices, darshinis strictly serve vegetarian meals, but the shared dining reflects a step away from exclusionary practices since people across class, caste, and linguistic lines share the space as well as the food served on the plate. However, the traces of caste history remain with the curved rim of the filter coffee glasses that have been historically associated with practices of maintaining untouchability, as coffee could be directly poured into the mouth without the lips touching the rim, reflecting anxieties around caste ‘contamination’.

Migration, then, is embedded in the very origin of the Udupi model. Perhaps that is why I feel such an attachment to it. As someone who moved cities, I find comfort in a food tradition that itself travelled, adapted, and took root elsewhere. The idli becomes more than breakfast; it becomes proof that food travels across and makes its home in newer spaces, while remaining anchored to its origins. 

Idlis then become signifiers of connection and comfort, an ease to the loneliness one feels living away from their home. Whenever I fall sick, it isn’t North Indian khichdi that I reach for, but idlis. They soothe both stomach and sentiment. Popular narratives of Bangalore celebrate benne masala dosa and filter coffee, but for me, the city is tied to the soft idlis consumed each morning. They match the city’s pace, quick, but they also slow me down just enough to feel grounded.

Some say you can map Bangalore through its darshinis, from Vidyarthi Bhavan to CTR. Many participate in “thindi walks,” tracing the city’s culture through breakfast trails. I haven’t done that yet. For now, my single plate of sambar-dipped idlis is enough to make me feel a part of the city’s recipe book. It anchors me in a city that is always changing. There are other food stories to share about the city, like my preference for Tamil-style sambar over the usual Karnataka version, but those can wait for another day.