street eat repeat. Mixed feelings

I remember the precise moment at which I became a khichdi convert.

It was at a razzle-dazzle Gujarati wedding — one of those events that feature tinkly fountains, rainbow-hued mocktails and cascades of flowers. The dinner plates were the size of hula hoops. And the menu traversed the world in 800sqm.

There was Thai, Chinese and Khao Suey. There was a barbecue counter, a Mexican counter and an Italian counter. A dramatic display of salads and an elaborate West Asian spread. A grilled panini stall, a crêpe stall, a pav bhaji stall and a dosawala. In short, anything that a fan of the broccoli-and-babycorn school of Gujarati cooking could desire.

I was trying to decide whether to storm the live Italian counter or wrestle my way to a bowl of veg khao suey when a revolutionary thought struck. I headed to a quiet table at a far corner. Here were no hordes of hungry guests bellowing, “Mushroom daalo .” No chefs doing fancy things with knives and pans. In fact, nobody other than a group of chattering grannies. And two silver serving bowls featuring the true speciality of the evening — a lovely, slushy khichdi and a pale, sweet-spicy Gujarati kadhi.

This is a combination that the Gujaratis do better than anybody else. As I tucked into the soothing, ghee-laced mush, it seemed strange that anybody should bother with the rajma-stuffed burritos and faux cheese fondue. (Please note that I keep impressive company. Emperors Akbar and Jehangir often chose khichdi over the rich Mughal fare at the table.)

After all, khichdi is the ultimate Indian comfort food. The stuff you eat when it’s grey and stormy, when your nose is running and your throat is tickling, when you’ve binged on one butter chicken too many. It’s as gharelu as those bahus on TV. But can suddenly turn all fancy and fusion.

If you look hard enough, you can find mushroom khichdi with makhani ice-cream and lobster khichdi with Chettinad masala. There’s also quinoa khichdi and barnyard millet risotto out there. Not to forget sushi khichdi rolls with mushroom rice, carrot and cucumber stuffing.

The traditional khichdi, however, is a mixture of rice and pulse — and as long ago as the 14th century, the Moroccan traveller Ibn Battuta drooled over this one-pot dish. The Europeans dismissed the dish as a “mess of rice and doll”. In 1673, a British doctor named John Fryer scoffed, “The diet of this Sort of People admits not of great variety or Cost, their delightfullest Food being only a sort of Cutcherry, a sort of Pulse and Rice mixed together and boiled in Butter with which they grow fat.”

A British journalist covering the Ajmer festival in the 1800s served up a startling story about ‘two tremendous copper pots’ filled with rice, sugar and dried fruit. So desirable were the contents that men ‘well wrapped up with clothes and stuffed with cotton were seen leaping down into the boiling pot’ to get their share of khichdi!

Essentially, khichdi is a happy hotchpotch made with rice and lentils. Every kitchen and corner of the country has its own recipe. The version made by the Bengalis is a rich party dish served with a meat curry or fried hilsa. The bisibele bhath of Karnataka is scrumptiously peppery. Jodhpuri khichdi is made from gatta . Even the British overcame their initial resistance and cobbled together kedgeree — a breakfast dish that replaced the pulses with fish and egg. The Kutchis believe that a khichdi a day keeps the doctor away. The Biharis are so fond of the dish that they even have a ditty:

Khichdi ke chaar yaar

Dahi, papad, ghee, achaar

Some khichdis are made with cracked wheat. Others with corn and sabudana. The irresistible baked version made at Swati Snacks — that landmark Mumbai restaurant — arrives at the table with a creamy layer of dahi on top. While Khichdi Samrat serves up innumerable versions including cheese khichdi, dry fruit khichdi and spl Vrindavan khichdi.

It seems unfair that the khichdi I grew up on was a grim concoction designed to scar me for life. It seemed created for people recovering from cholera and tastebud lobotomies. Clearly, the khichdi makers of my childhood didn’t consult Ain-i-Akbari or even Tarla Dalal! So it was only years later, as a student in LA, that I gave khichdi a second chance. We needed a 20-minute dish. So my Bengali roomie tossed scraps of veggies into a pressure cooker, along with some wormy daal, rice, a fat blob of butter and the few spices we had on hand. Three whistles later, we were in khichdi heaven.

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