Be it a sick-food, a last resort, or a delicacy, khichdi, in all its regional avatars, is a significant part of the Indian food experience. It may not be India’s national dish, but it is definitely the “wonder staple food of India”, for we find khichdi to be the multifaceted hero of kitchens from Kashmir to Kanyakumari.
For me, khichdi brings back memories of my “khichdi” group of friends from college, each of whom belonged to a different part of India, and treated me to their style of khichdi at some point in our friendship.
The catch being that no two khichdis ever looked the same.
Bihari Khichdi and Break-ups
In its simplest form, khichdi is a combination of rice, lentils, coarse cereals, and spices – but not for my friend Dimple. For Dimple, who identifies herself as a Bihari, khichdi is an elaborate meal.
She prepares khichdi by mixing masoor dal (red lentils), rice, potatoes, cauliflower, and beans, and serves it with ghee (clarified butter), papad, achaar (pickle), and aaloo ka chokha (mashed potatoes).
Dimple’s khichdi story — which she narrated to me one night as she prepared the meal, while I wiped my post-break-up tears — is perhaps one that is shared by many. As a child, she considered khichdi to be the essential sick-food. In her family, khichdi was prepared every Saturday. While adults welcomed this healthy intervention, kids often skipped Saturday lunch altogether.
On that particular night, Dimple’s khichdi did cure me of — and I cringe as I type this— lovesickness. From that night onwards, khichdi kicked Maggi’s butt to take its place as comfort food in my life.
Rajasthani Khichdi at Ratlam
I must confess that my life has had a fair share of Bollywood moments. Inspired by the daring Naina Talwar (Deepika Padukone) of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, my friend Stuti and I decided to go for a “girls only” trip. The destination? Goa, of course (we are nothing if not clichéd).
Little did we know that our story would spiral very quickly into that of Jab We Met, and we would be stuck at Ratlam railway station — known for its infamous Ratlam ki galiyan — for seven hours. Our ‘saviour’, at the time, was no Aditya Kashyap (Shahid Kapoor), but the Rajasthani khichdi that Stuti’s mother had lovingly packed for us.
A popular variant of khichdi in Rajasthan is bajra (pearl millet) khichdi. As rice is scarce in the region, khichdi is often prepared with millets, along with lentils. A little known fact about bajra khichdi is that it is gluten free.
Looking back, I realise that we were consuming a Rajasthani khichdi in Madhya Pradesh, which has its own version of this one-pot dish.
In Jabalpur, for instance, sabudana (tapioca pearls) khichdi is quite popular. The khichdi is spiced with jeera (cumin seeds), salt, sugar, and chopped green chillies. Roasted peanuts are added to it for extra texture and taste.
Punjabi Khichdi as a Last Resort
Eight months ago, I decided to move out of my parents’ house and move in with a friend from college. Jasmine, my flatmate, who identifies herself as a Punjabi, considers khichdi to be the last-resort-five-minute-food. In Punjab, however, khichdi is much more than that.
While some Punjabis cook it with masoor dal (red lentils) and rice, and prefer it to have a liquid consistency, others cook it pulao-style using chana dal (split chickpeas) and rice. Some even cook it with urad dal (black lentils) and rice.
Consumed with dahi (curd) and aam ka achaar (mango pickle), khichdi is especially prepared in Punjab on Lohri, the folk festival that commemorates the winter solstice. It is also prepared by some Punjabis to mark auspicious events such as the purchasing of a new house, or car, or when your child goes abroad, probably to ‘Canneda’ (Canada).
Jasmine, a Punjabi from Amritsar, and I, a Punjabi from Delhi, have often shared a giggle over our mothers making khichdi, jab koi aur option nahin tha (when there wasn’t another option). More than once, we too have banked upon the reliable khichdi to fill our empty stomachs.
Bengali Khichuri of Disagreements
It is a truth mostly acknowledged — at least in my friend circle — that Bengalis take their food very seriously. Friendship wars have been fought over the tiniest ingredients, and my friend Debrup and I are living proofs of the same.
Two debates that ensue every time Debrup and I decide to eat together are the raita (yoghurt with raw vegetables and spices) debate — I prefer raita with Biryani, while he dislikes it — and the aaloo (potato) debate — he rarely eats a meal that excludes a preparation of potatoes, while I avoid potatoes on a daily basis.
So, when he invited me to lunch during Durga Puja, I had some reservations, especially because he was going to cook the beloved khichdi.
While gobbling down mouthfuls, Debrup narrated his khichdi, or as he calls it, khichuri story. Like Debrup, Bengali khichuri is never single. It double-times with lyabra (a spicy medley of seasonal vegetables) and begun bhaja (brinjal fritters) and is often found flirting with papad, omelette, and fried fish.
Bhog’er khichuri is especially prepared during Durga Puja celebrations in Bengal and is served in pandals.
I might disagree with Debrup on some of his food choices — and most of his life choices — but I agree with him that Bengali khichuri is a delicacy like no other.
Dilli Khichdi That Wasn’t
Having tasted khichdis from different parts of India (I am still looking for South Indian friends who can treat me to khichdis of their respective States), you might think that I am a khichdi expert. Here’s the truth: My Dilli (Delhi) khichdi is khichdi (or hodgepodge) in the true sense of the term.
Growing up in cosmopolitan Delhi and having a mixed lineage — I am part Dogri, part Punjabi, and part UPite — every dish that I prepare has elements from these different cultures (that does mess things up a bit, to be honest).
Though Delhi doesn’t have one particular khichdi to its name, it is in this city that I have had the pleasure of eating many variants of the dish.
These many khichdis that have given birth to this slightly disjointed piece of storytelling. Then again, our memory too is a bit of a khichdi: An array of unconnected events that surface at random times in our minds.
To end with a Geet (Kareena Kapoor) quote from Jab We Met (didn’t I say that I was completely filmy and clichéd?): Funda zada ho gaya na?
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