In Chandigarh, a Tamil eatery holds the line on sambar

At 4 a.m., while Chandigarh's roundabouts sit empty, the kitchen of Karthik South Indian Restaurant in Sector 46 comes alive. Gunasekaran P, 43, is already at the market, inspecting drumsticks and pumpkin with the care of someone who has been let down before. By 7 a.m., the first idlis are off the steamer.

Gunasekaran founded the eatery in 2005, when most hotels in the city opened at 11 a.m. He started at seven, a practice that has since caught on. Today, more than 90% of his customers across roughly ten outlets in Chandigarh and Ludhiana are North Indian. Yet the sambar remains uncompromisingly Tamil.

His journey began in 1994, when drought forced his family in Mallankinaru, Virudhunagar district, to send him to Delhi. He was 12, in Class VI. His mathematics teacher argued against the move, even buying him clothes, but the family's decision stood. In Lajpat Nagar, he joined one of the many South Indian hotels run by men from his district, starting as a dishwasher. For seven years, he was not allowed to cook. He watched, and when a master chef failed to show up one day, he stepped in and cooked as if he had been doing it for years.

He left that hotel in 2004 with a salary of ₹300. A customer-turned-friend suggested Chandigarh, a city with few South Indian options and a Tamil community that had grown since the Air Force's 3-Base Repair Depot was established there. SP Rajasekaran, general secretary of the Chandigarh Tamil Sangam, estimates the community now numbers around 1.5 lakh. He calls Karthik Restaurant "the identity of Tamils in Chandigarh," a place where migrants find both food and a link to the Sangam.

The early years were hard. Customers complained the sambar was neither sweet nor sour enough, saying it was too spicy. Gunasekaran adjusted, but only so far: no garlic, no onion, less chilli, and occasionally pumpkin for mildness. The taste still speaks of Tamil Nadu. Now, he says, if a mistake is made, customers are the first to point it out.

The restaurant also insists on eating with the hand. Staff tell patrons that the taste is only fully appreciated that way. Many North Indian customers, initially used to spoons, have since adopted the practice.

Gunasekaran's brother, Surendran P, has blended the masalas in-house for two decades. Cooks are largely Tamils from their hometown, while servers are hired locally. Rice, appalam, and banana leaves come from Madurai; coconut from Pollachi; wood-pressed oil from Virudhunagar; and filter coffee from Chennai. "Not every Tamil Nadu rice suits this water," Gunasekaran notes.

Each outlet handles at least 500 bills a day. Regulars like retired Union Government employee Rajendar Prasad and his wife Rajini have dined here for 20 years, praising the light food that even vegetable-averse children enjoy. Students from IIT Ropar and Panjab University, PGI doctors, and Air Force personnel are among the patrons. Every Wednesday, annadhaanam is served at the temple.

Two decades after opening a roadside eatery, Gunasekaran's customers remain mostly non-Tamil. The boy once barred from cooking now shapes what a city eats for breakfast.