An Aroma Remembered, A Pickle Reborn

The mind has its own ways, its priorities and preferences, he knew. Why else would it think of pickles instead of pious thoughts or prayers at dawn? He wasn’t hungry; breakfast was hours away. It wasn’t craving for food, but simply the remembrance of a smell from the distant past.

He wasn’t too fond of his grandma because he sensed she wasn’t too fond of him. A tough, no-nonsense lady, a disciplinarian; she never wielded a stick, nor delivered a slap. But her tongue shot fiery flames, and her words singed, scalded, and burnt.

She had a mellifluous voice, and sang very well. Home-schooled, she could read the puranas. In long summer afternoons, she often sang to herself, usually from the Ramayana. Her favourite was the lament “Hey Banagiri, Hey Latagiri, mo kanta gale mruga maari.” She was fully immersed in her song, in Sita’s distress after the deceitful abduction by Ravana. She became Sita, and Sita’s sorrow became her own.

Purnamasi and Jogindra had lovingly named their first-born Ramachandra, hoping he would someday be the king of their household. Alas, that was not to be. They lost Ramachandra at eight to malaria, under tragic circumstances. Krishna had left Gopapura when he was eight!

Both grieved long, but the death of her beloved son left a wound in Purnamasi’s heart that never healed. After the customary rituals and mourning, life in their home slowly limped back to normal. Work in the household was so relentless from dawn till night that there was scarcely any private moment even to weep alone. Yet sorrow resurfaced, often unpredictably, years and decades later.

During summer afternoons, a few women assembled in Purnamasi’s courtyard veranda to break tol (mahua) fruit for oilseeds, or cut green mangoes for pickling. The task was manual, monotonous, and time-taking.

Once in a while, Purnamasi would sing Keshava Koili, the iconic Odia song of sorrow and loss, beginning invariably with a whisper and a sigh: gala putra bahudi naila — the son went away, never to return. All the women hushed to silence. Slowly, Purnamasi would sing each pada, all the thirty-four padas of Keshava Koili Chautisha. The other women, who knew the song by heart, joined in discreetly, reverentially, in chorus. The plaintive mourning filled the house, overflowed to the neighbourhood, and became an invisible but palpable stream of sorrow on the forlorn village street. Her personal grief became a communal sharing of loss. And who hadn’t lost someone dear?

In these moments, she was a different person, not the irascible, sharp-tongued ruler of her house.

She was not tall, but strong, and could effortlessly pick up from the chulha a large handi filled to the brim with hot, boiled paddy. A little slip or falter, the handi could fall and severely scald her.

He remembered her for these and many other things, but mostly for the sweet mango pickle she made every summer. Before the mangoes could ripen, occasional summer storms felled raw fruits which came home from the fields in bushels. Most of it went to make aambul; easy to make and store up to two years or more; and an item of daily use in curries—aambil, sour fish curry, and others. Aambul was also a popular side dish with basi pakhala.

Mangoes were diced, salt and turmeric added, and put out in the sun which sucked out the moisture, and cooked to make it supple. That was all. It was ready to be stored.

Making achaar—pickle—was another matter. It needed the necessary ingredients, and the skill. Not everyone could make the perfect pickle; but grandma could.

Pickle was a limited-edition delicacy, served only when she was in a good mood, or if a member of the family had aruchi—lack of appetite and disinclination to eat—after a bout of fever. A piece of her zealously guarded pickle sufficed to banish aruchi.

When the pulp was gently cooked—neither overcooked nor hard—she would add mustard oil and spices ground on the shil batta, the manual stone slab for grinding, into the pot. The patli continued to sit in the sun for the oil and spices to seep into the diced pieces. Then, she added jamain gud—liquid gud—pouring it out from a mathia, a tall earthen pitcher.

The magic began shortly thereafter, with the sun cooking the gud and evaporating moisture to ensure the pickle wouldn’t spoil for years. Not that it ever lasted that long. In years of abundant mango yield, the previous year’s sweet pickle was allowed to be exhausted with bonus pieces unexpectedly served—to children for good conduct, for cheerfully helping with household chores, and to adults for quid pro quo unknown to kids.

The patli sat in the middle of the open courtyard during the period it got the full glare of the afternoon sun, and shifted out of harm’s way when the cattle returned home in the evening. But when it was in the sun, anyone who passed by the patli was enchanted by the aroma wafting up from the pot. Many lingered a while longer to savour the enticing fragrance, but perish the thought of opening the thin cloth cover and sampling a piece. Grandma didn’t guard the pot, but should one take liberties with her achar-under preparation, all hell would break loose. Tempests, typhoons would visit the house and much damage would be done. Scars would remain forever.

So, the passersby passed meekly though greedily, and waited with the patience of yogis to someday savour the delicacy.

She made the best sweet mango pickle ever. He had not tasted anything better than her pickle.

Since the morning had begun with no thoughts of prayer but of pickle, he was seized with a fantastic idea.

How about making grandma’s pickle; recreating the delicacy from remembrance of its exotic fragrance, and nothing else. When grandma made her pickle, he was about eight years old. How could he have known the ingredients or the recipe, except that diced mangoes and liquid gud went into that delicacy?

He scanned YouTube which offered several recipes for sweet mango pickle—Nisha Madhulika, Odia mitha achar, Brahmapur mitha achar, and Chandrakanti’s Odia Foodies; the last one appeared to be closest to what grandma might have used.

In the market, he didn’t get Himsagar, the variety preferred by grandma for her sweet pickle. Not every variety makes the best sweet pickle. But he had to make do with what was available.

He followed Chandrakanti’s recipe for achar masala, carefully measuring the portions, and frequently pausing the video to ensure he didn’t miss a critical ingredient or unmindfully roast the kalajira; and ground it himself to ensure a rough texture, not too fine.

No liquid gud, nor the delicious lumps of gud once produced in the village. He used the packed jaggery bought online.

Then he pushed aside the video, and began the process. Would grandma have done this? He asked himself every now and then. Mercifully, the spouse was away at her kitty lunch, and he had free run of the kitchen. Cooking is like meditation; without full focus, you achieve no benefit or satisfaction.

When the spouse returned home, she asked, “What did you cook? It smells fabulous.”

After sampling a piece, she wanted more.

“Sorry, it’s a limited-edition delicacy. Only a few pieces would be issued per week.”

A fragrance remembered, a pickle reborn.

---

In the South: A Story by Salman Rushdie

On 16^th May, 2026, Literati Lounge, Bhopal’s leading Book Club, hosted a discussion on The Eleventh Hour by Salman Rushdie. Anshu Vaish chaired the well-attended session.

Nishi Agrawal initiated the discussion with introductory comments on each of the five stories after which several members shared their thoughts about the stories, and other recent works by Rushdie. 

Here is a brief review of “In the South”, the lead story in The Eleventh Hour by Salman Rushdie.

The story opens ominously: Junior falls and dies, yet the day is otherwise ordinary—don’t people die every day? Rushdie begins with a sprawling 81‑word sentence, setting the tone for the story’s meditative pace.

The lead story is about two old men, “eighty-one years old. If old age was thought of as an evening, ending in midnight oblivion, they were well into the eleventh hour.” The quintet of stories gets its title from this sentence.

The old men live in Chennai – in the South, which is not merely geographical since Hindus also associate south with Yama or Death.

Senior is waiting to die – “[E]ach morning he regretted that he had not died in the night.” Junior isn’t bubbling with zest for life, but he’s happy to be alive. Senior has lived a fulfilled life, but is now lonely. His large extended family is a nuisance, a swarm of mosquitoes. Junior, a clerk, had an uneventful life, never married, but has no regrets or complaints, though he is enthralled by the much younger D’Mello’s enchanting descriptions of Mumbai – the legendary bitch-city - and looks forward to his periodic visits which Senior much resents.

Both men are frail, their health in decline. Junior shuffles slowly when he walks. Senior has “multiple health problems of the very old, the daily penances of bowel and urethra, of back and knee, the milkiness climbing in his eyes, the breathing troubles, the nightmares, the slow failing of the soft machine.”

Senior is erudite. He taught scriptures, maths, and much else besides post-retirement, and enjoyed the lively discussions on politics, chess, poetry, and music at a local coffeehouse with his ten friends in the park. But all were gone now. He is lonely.

Senior’s wife with a wooden leg, his second after the demise of his first wife, is Aarthi; “but he never used it [her name] …To him she was always ‘Woman’ or ‘Wife.’” She retaliates Senior’s lack of love and courtesy by totally ignoring him, refusing even to get him a glass of water when asked. She invites her cacophonous clan who invade the premises forcing Senior to flee to Junior’s home for quiet and peace.

Rushdie layers domestic disquiet atop existential loneliness. Senior is now friendless, but for Junior’s argumentative company. But their quarrel is feigned sparring, not unlike the playful teasing in Carnatic musical duets. Life won’t be worth living but for the daily quarrel, exchange of insults and repartees from their adjacent verandas.

Senior had scholarly, thoughtful views about life after death, soul, and similar stuff. Junior’s views were mundane and laughable. He wasn’t a well-read man, nor did he think deeply about such matters.  

“Junior’s life had been a disappointment to him … The discovery of his affliction by the incurable disease of mediocrity might have cowed a less ebullient spirit, but he remained bright-eyed, with a ready smile for the world.”

When they are on their way to the post office to collect their weekly pension, the sun is at their back, and their shadows fall in front — ‘like lovers’ — the thought occurs to both of them, but neither one voices it. At the crossing, Junior stumbles, falls, and dies instantly; Senior regrets not saying what he could have said.

What was the special bond between the old men?
Both were shadows.
“The old move through the world of the young like shades, unseen, of no concern. But the shadows see each other and know who they are. So it was with us.”

After Junior’s death, Senior reminisces mournfully about the dear departed.
“He who knew me knows nothing now and therefore I am not known. What else, woman, is death?”

Regardless of Senior’s scripture-supported views on life after death, Junior’s ghost appears on the adjacent veranda when Senior feels lonely.

Is the story about the meaninglessness of existence, the banality of life—the routine progression from adulthood, marriage, family, friends, work, and thereafter, decline, decrepitude, and death—the inevitable fate of all who live?
Or, is it about the loneliness of the old who pass like shadows in the world of the young?

Rushdie wrote this story in 2009, long before the near fatal knife attack on him in 2022; but under the shadow of the fatwa calling for his death issued in 1989. Not surprising that mortality is a brooding presence in this story.

Is this story a swan song—depressing, melancholic, and mournful? The looming spectre of shape-shifting death—sometimes visiting quietly in sleep, sometimes as a small fall and a little bump on a sidewalk, sometimes as a giant wave of tsunami which the author calls Death. The ultimate indignity of an ordinary, uneventful, inconsequential death; regardless of the life lived—ordinary or extraordinary, meaningful or not so meaningful.

When life-breath leaves Junior’s body, Senior unhesitatingly picks up the pension slip from Junior’s pocket and proceeds to the post office to collect the modest sum. There is enough time to mourn for the dead during the thirteen-days long ritual; why forego the weekly pension?

Each morning, Senior regrets that he had not died during the night; yet he dons his formal attire for the weekly sojourn to the post office to collect the meagre sum, pleased to note respect and deference in the postal clerk’s conduct.

Ultimately, the story is less about death itself than about the duet between life and death—two verandas, two shadows, inseparable.

***

 

Dilli’s Janata Mahal

Not long ago, upon ascending Dilli’s throne, the shining new monarch addressed his praja:
“From this day, I inaugurate a New Era to be remembered in history as AK’s Golden Era.”

“What’s AK?” whispered a clueless citizen.
“Abhutpurv King, na bhuto na bhavisyati – there hasn’t ever been a Glorious King like him nor will there ever be again,” the royal priest-cum-hagiographer elucidated with undisguised scorn for the unwashed, sweat-stinking querist – a denizen of a JJ (Jhuggi Jhopri) colony.

For a more powerful neighbouring king who was determined to soon subjugate AK, ‘A’ stood for Arrogant, Airy, Arbitrary, Affected, and other disparaging synonyms.

But AK was unfazed, and continued his Monarch ki Baat - Address to the People:
“I have decreed my era to be the golden era of progress and prosperity, and so it will be. Beware, any dissent or disputation regarding this will invite swift and severe punishment.
My Rule has just one mantra – the welfare of the poor and the marginalised.”

He was a visionary, and in a rush. He knew Dilli gaddi was slippery as an eel, notorious for the high turnover of Rulers. Determined to be remembered, he resolved to create splendid monuments.

He summoned the Chief Builder.
“Can you build a Mahal fit for your New Monarch?”
“Sure, I can. Your wish is my command. Please tell me what YOU want.”
“Build a Stately Pleasure-Dome.”
“An Amusement Park – a fusion of Disneyland, Mughal Gardens, and Taj Mahal?”
“No, like the Pleasure-Dome in Xanadu that Kubla Khan had built.”
“Sorry, My Lord. I haven’t been to Xanadu. Was that the ancient name for Tamil Nadu? Do you have a photo or painting of that Dome?”

“No, it’s MY VISION. It’s in my mind. But this poem may help. Here is the link: Samuel Taylor Coleridge You must read it.”

The Chief Builder read the poem, marvelled at the mythical mansion, and returned to the king.
“Yes, My Lord. I can render your VISION to reality. The poem is most inspiring, but please provide a few basic details.
Size of plot, building. Living rooms, bedrooms – numbers, size? Kitchens – size? Baths, jacuzzi, sauna, steam room, gym, massage room. Visitors’ Room.
Flooring? Makrana marble?”
“No, Vietnam.”
“Cooling? Voltas, Blue Star, or Godrej?”
“Daikin.”
“Music? Hindustani, Carnatic, or Haryanvi folk?”
“Digital streaming, BOSS.”
“Entertainment?”
“For Your Monarch, a king-size LG TV – 88-inch 8K OLED, and ten additional 4K Sony OLED TVs for other residents and staff.”
“Furniture?”
“Plush Italian leather, China-made.
How soon can you construct the Mahal?”
“Very soon, My Lord. Just order the Treasury not to raise silly objections. Taj Mahal couldn’t have been built if Shah Jehan hadn’t given a free hand to the Chief Builder.”
“Okay, go and build the Janata Mahal – the Stately Pleasure-Dome – the soonest you can.”
“Sure, I will. But there’s a minor problem. Covid is here. Migrant construction workers are in panic, running away to their villages.”
“Don’t be dumb. Every challenge is an opportunity. Quickly gather the labour force. The work site will be declared a quarantine camp. Workers will be permitted to leave only after the Mahal is completed.”

And so, the super-structure was ready before schedule. Interior designing was handled by the best consultants, except for the Public Relations (PR) Room, which was done by His Highness AK himself.

PR Room Decor

Motif: Gandhian. Simple Living, High Thinking!

Décor: Spartan, frugal, minimal.

A small table and a simple chair.
No TV, no music system. Not even an AC; manage the cooling with a discrete chill draft from elsewhere.

On the wall behind My Chair, a huge photo of Mahatma Gandhi with his famous Talisman Quote under it in bold letters:

I will give you a talisman. Whenever you are in doubt … apply the following test. Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man whom you may have seen, and ask yourself, if the step you contemplate is going to be of any use to him. Will he gain anything by it?

“But, Sir. This chair seems odd, not in sync with the deluxe furniture elsewhere. And why is the upholstery in tatters?”

“That is a thoughtfully selected chair – cheap, second-hand, procured from Amar Market. The slits were made by myself.
AK, your Monarch, is a humble servant of the people. He doesn’t need a Mayur Simhasan to govern. A torn, tattered chair will suffice. In any case, your Monarch is always on the move; when does he have the time to sit and stare?”
“How about house-cleaning, Your Lord?”
“Outsource. House Cleaning Partners in spotless white livery and gloves, vacuum cleaners, electric scrubbers.
Only the PR Room will have a tall jhadu standing in a corner, visible in video clips and photos.”

Museum: A Mahal for the Masses?

Delhi Chief Minister’s official residence at 6, Flagstaff Road, Civil Lines, was completed in 2022. 

Sadly, it remains unoccupied, resenting the unwanted visits of nosy auditors, inquisitive investigators, sleuths – all with dusty footwear and little respect for Persian carpets or the shining marble floor.

CAG’s report has been referred by the Delhi Assembly to the Public Accounts Committee which will question concerned officials regarding the irregularities in sanction and execution mentioned in the audit report.
AK has been dumped by Dilli. The current Chief Minister lives in her own home, with no plans to occupy this villa.

So, what should be done?
Make it a museum? Name it Marvellous Mahal of Dilli for Aam Aadmi? Or, Dilli Janata Mahal? Converting it to a museum may require further expenditure – hiring of museologists, consultants, contractors.

A Dream-Stay in a Palace

In the interim, the Mahal can be offered for use by the poorest in Delhi – the homeless, residents of illegal colonies, JJ colonies, and so on.

Scheme: Be a Guest of Dilli Sarkar for a Day

• 365-Day Calendar. One day for each colony, with Lucky Draws offering “Dream-Stay for a Day.”
• Tariff – Re 1/- per head.
• Jacuzzi, steam, sauna – additional Re 1/- per head.
• Bring Your Own Food – allowed. LPG is on the House.
• Protocol: Keep it Clean. Jhadus provided.
• Check-in at 12 noon, check-out at 10 AM next day.
• Capacity: ~800 per day.
• Annual reach: 365 × 800 = 292,000 people.

Basis of Estimate
The 1,905 sq m (20,505 sq ft) building equals four to five luxury bungalows. In JJ clusters, a family of five often lives in 12 sq m (125 sq ft). By that benchmark, nearly 800 people per day could be accommodated.

***

#GoodGovernance #Ethics  #Accountability

***

Appendix

CAG (Comptroller and Auditor General) Report

The Audited Expenditure

According to the CAG report for 2022 (tabled in the Delhi Assembly in March 2026), the official expenditure for the residence renovation and associated works was significantly higher than the initial estimates.

• Final Cost: The renovation was completed at a cost of ₹33.66 crore.
• Initial Estimate: The project was originally awarded for approximately ₹8.62 crore.
• Cost Escalation: This represents a 342% increase over the initial estimated cost.
• "Luxury" Spending: The audit flagged that ₹18.88 crore (more than half the total cost) was spent on "superior specifications," which included artistic, antique, and ornamental items.

Key Audit Findings & Irregularities

The CAG highlighted several procedural lapses and "unnecessary" expenditures in the project execution by the Public Works Department (PWD):

• Area Expansion: During execution, the built-up area was increased from 1,397 sq m to 1,905 sq m (a 36% increase) without sufficient justification in the initial plans.
• Bidding Irregularities: The PWD reportedly avoided fresh tendering for additional works. Instead, work worth ₹25.80 crore was executed by the same contractor, limiting competitive pricing.
• Post-facto Approvals: Administrative approvals for expenses worth ₹9.34 crore were granted two months after the work was already completed, which is a violation of standard financial protocols.
• Fund Diversion: Out of ₹19.87 crore sanctioned for a "Staff Block and Camp Office," funds were diverted. The staff block was never built; instead, servant quarters were constructed at a different, unrelated location.

 ***

 Postscript

After reading the blog, a colleague recalled Lord Acton's famous quote: “Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

 

Farewell to a Friend

Neela no longer worked with the effortless strength of his younger days, but he still did every task entrusted to him.
Hardworking and steadfast, he never complained about the many tasks, some rather demanding.

His co-worker was young, and a bit of a show-off, he had noticed. Why are you groaning and sweating so much? Look, how effortlessly I handle the task! He seemed to rub it in.

Neela remembered his youth. He, too, was strong then—working long hours with only brief rests, faster and more efficient than his older colleagues. But he never showed off. Age takes its toll. Hadn’t he watched his mother grow weak with age, begin to limp, and then rest in final sleep? Youth and power, too, pass, he knew. Why scorn the elders? Don’t they deserve a little understanding and respect for the hard work they did in their prime?

Neela was born here, raced the village streets as a kid, never afraid of getting lost. If he went too far, he knew mother would call. Mothers will be mothers, getting worried once the boy is out of sight. Neela respected that, and bounded back to tell, ‘I was just round the bend with a few friends.’

He was a good listener, could identify the unseen speaker from voice, and decipher their mood. Is he angry? Is she agitated? Aren’t they happy when the house is filled with laughter?

He recognised all voices, but cocked his ears for one who was his dearest friend. Ever since he could remember, the owner of that voice filled him with happiness. He played with him, fondled him, and never forgot to share a piece of gud or a mudhi laddoo. He had a sweet tooth, and Neela, too, got it from him.

Sometimes when that voice would be absent for a few days, Neela took notice, for before his own dinner, that voice came near and checked if Neela had eaten and eaten well. He never came empty-handed, but always with a favourite delicacy. Upon return from his brief sojourn, when the voice was heard from the street, Neela would enthusiastically call to welcome him. He knew the voice would first come to greet him, and only thereafter the other members of the family. For they were buddies, and soulmates.

Both of them grew together, sharing many moments of joy and sorrow. Very strong, hardworking, and diligent. There was a lot of manual work to do, but that was never a burden if a friend and soulmate was around.

The years went by, and then Neela began to feel the weight of years. No illness, only the inevitable wear of age. Long work hours tired him. Tough tasks began to look tougher.

Neela stayed as long as he could. He didn’t want to be away from his dearest friend. But he knew he must. The evening before he bid adieu to his home and friend, Neela peered through his eyes hazy with cataract. He sensed his friend’s presence, heard his voice as though coming from a long distance, managed to munch a little of the delicacy he had brought, and wept a tear. Maybe we’ll meet again in next life, he muttered. The voice understood. He, too, wept a tear.

That night, the voice heard Neela who had bade a hushed farewell lest he awoke other members of the family.

Neela was a bullock.
He had a coat of grey with specks of blue. He passed away at 18. Jogindra, more friend than master, did not eat that day. Nor the next.

***

 

Radha's Diet Therapy: Part I

Radha’s Soul Food

Radha is sick, but it is no ordinary malady. She feels a strange chill at dawn, but without any fever. Kabiraj has felt her nadi and said, ‘You got viraha jvara – fever of separation. There’s no jadibuti – medication - for that.’

Radha is hungry, but racked with nausea she can’t eat. She bares her heart, and shares her agony with Dooti, her trusted companion. The song is Radha’s anguished plea to Dooti to fetch the only remedy that comes to her mind – pathi, a diet for her tormented soul and body. Radha needs soul food, and suggests a detailed menu, each of which resonates with the colour and fragrance and touch and feel of her love of life – Krishna Kanhaiya.

The cuisine she lists is fascinating in its variety, spread, texture, aroma, flavour, taste, colour, touch, feel, and its palliative power.

O Dooti, fetch me this special Krishna pathi, pleads Radha –

1.   Krishna khichdi with diced dumplings of ginger fried in ghee while recalling Krishna’s name, and seasoned with jeera, methi, hing, and salt

2.   Green banana rounds fried on a tawa

3.   Fresh pakhala (rice in water)

4.   Kanji ambila, a sour and soupy vegetable dish for which the necessary ingredients are – saru, kakharu, baigan, bhendi, and kardi

5.   Black moong dal curry

6.   Soft, supple arua rice

7.   A bitter curry (bitter gourd or neem flower with baigan and badi, maybe)

8.   Tender cucumber with curd, chili and salt

9.   Mildly seasoned leutia (a delicious green leaf) saag

How would this pathi restore Radha and save her life? Because each dish, ingredient, and flavour remind her of Krishna, and the entire cuisine is Krishnamrut for her. Radha is no longer separate or separable from Krishna. She has merged with her loved one. She has found the remedy for her strange malady.

There may be other prayers where the devotee serves chappan bhog or a preferred dish to God; but this may be the only bhajan where the devotee plans a menu for herself, but can see nothing except her Krishna in every kernel of her pathi. This is prem bhakti – simple, unpretentious, soulful. A prayer like none other.

Danda Nacha

This Sambalpuri song was possibly composed by the lyricist for a Danda nacha performance where two male actors play Radha and Dooti and perform on the village street. Decades ago, these popular street plays enacted select stories and episodes from the puranas and were much enjoyed in the villages of Odisha. Alas, this folk-theatre tradition is nearly dead now.

Fakir Pattanaik’s rendition in rustic, racy rhythm produced a hit song for which the link is:

Radha is Sambalpurian

In this song, Radha is not from Gopa but very much a Sambalpurian for her dietary preference is unmistakably local. Only in western Odisha, ambila is made with kardi! Thus, the song is a prayer, and a celebration of the unique Sambalpuri cuisine with local ingredients.

Thus Sang Radha

(Sambalpuri Song: Lyricist – Govinda (?). Translation by Prasanna Dash)

Listen, O Dooti, listen;

At dawn, I got a strange chill, a shiver,

But without any fever;

Tortured am I with a splitting headache,

Vaid came, felt my pulse, and diagnosed –

It’s viraha jvara,

There’s no medicine for it, he said.

O Dooti, I’m hungry, but can’t eat a morsel,

Racked by nausea, I can’t taste a thing.

Only you know how to heal me,

Don’t you, O Dooti?

Hurry, fetch me the special Krishna pathi,

Prepare Krishna khichdi,

Remember to add ginger slices

Fried in ghee while remembering Ghanshyam’s name,

Season it with jeera, methi, hing,

While adding salt remember Nilamani,

In Kanhu’s name, fry raw banana rounds,

O, how I savour that;

Bring also a serving of fresh pakhala

In the name of Gopala,

Paired with

Kanji ambila in the name of Kunja Binodia

To which do not forget to add all necessary ingredients –

Saru, kakharu, baigan, bhendi, and kardi;

Also bring a black lentil curry,

Shining like my dark Lord;

I have resolved to sing for ever

My Ghanashyam’s leela, O Dutika,

Please bring a serving of soft, supple arua rice,

Rai’s heart is now pledged to Rasa Binodia;

In Pitambara’s name,

Make a bitter curry, too;

Bring a few tender cucumbers

Looking like Krishna with his garlands,

Crush it in a mix of curd, chili and salt,

Serve a dish of dark green leutia leaves

In the name of Krishna;

For my ailment,

That is the sure cure,

Says Govinda;

Krishna pathi will dissipate my distaste for food and life;

Fetch the dishes,

O Dooti,

Make haste,

Revive my taste,

Kindle my appetite,

Save my life;

Let us surrender,

 O Dootika,

To the lotus feet of Krishna.

***

An Ode to Pakhala: Soul of Odia Cuisine!

 

“O Dooti,

Please fetch forthwith

Kunja Binodia kanji …”

— Radha's Diet Therapy

An Ode to Pakhala: Soul of Odia Cuisine!

An Ode to Pakhala

O Pakhala,
Pour into my heart precious phrases;
Prompt me to pen
A poem befitting your pre-eminent place among cuisines.

Patient nourisher of Odia body and soul,
Provider of rustic vigour and poetic inspiration,
Producer of peerless Konark, pulsating Odissi dance, and
Proud Paika warriors 
who conquered the plains between 
the Ganga and the Godavari,
Precocious voyagers 
who braved perilous seas for prosperous trade.

Probiotic super-food,
Protector against the punishing perils of pitiless summer,
Preserver and promoter of Odia culture,
Proud flag-bearer of Odia cuisine,
Privileged to be on Lord Jagannatha's platter.

Pure, plentiful, pleasing,
Prepared in poor huts and prosperous homes alike,
Partaken with passion by peasants and princes.

Priceless gift of Nature,
Preserve,
Promote,
Perpetuate
Pakhala —
Pride of Odia cuisine and culture.

Pakhala: Soul Food

Pakhala is for Odias what Pizza is for the Italians, Doner Kebab for the Turkish, Hamburger for the Americans, Falafel and Hummus for the Middle Easterners, Beluga Caviar for the Russians, Wagyu Beef for the Japanese, and Peking Duck for the Chinese. To take examples from closer home, Pakhala is to Odisha what Butter Chicken Masala is to Punjab, Hilsa Curry to Bengal, Sattu Paratha with Chokha to Bihar, Dal Bati with Churma to Rajasthan, and Dosa and Idli to the South. Each region has its most favoured food; and Pakhala is that dish for Odisha, the eastern State with a population of about 4.75 crore.

Pakhala Dibasa

Odias are passionate and proud Pakhala eaters. This author is an Odia, and has been nourished by this simple but nutritious meal during his early years, but had not heard of a Pakhala Day, since every day was a pakhala day at home. Social media now tells us that March 20 is designated (by Odisha Culture or Tourism department?) as Pakhala Dibasa, and some have gone a little over the top to name it Vishwa Pakhala Dibasa. No matter if non-Odias are unfamiliar with pakhala; it is hoped that prabasi Odias all over the country and the world would be overcome with nostalgia for their unforgettable love affair with pakhala, and improvise to cook and serve a pakhala meal to their family, at least on this special day.

A friend forwarded an image of Lord Jagannatha savouring pakhala: 

Jagannatha, of course, has no hands or feet — a metaphoric imagining of the formless Supreme Divinity — but in the image above, an artist has taken the liberty of adding hands so that her favourite God may enjoy His favourite dish: pakhala!

Another friend sent a video of his mouth-watering Pakhala meal — a bowl of pakhala with several accompanying dishes of saag, fish-fry, chingudi besar, badi, and fritters. Pakhala Dibasa is a good occasion to promote Odisha tourism, culture and cuisine.

What is Pakhala?

Simply put, Pakhala is ‘rice in water,’ but far from a humdrum serving of savourless starch; it is a culinary delight with excellent nutrition; a wholesome meal with several mouth-watering accompaniments and seasonings. A pakhala meal is a simple yet elaborate affair where the ingredients must be right and the seasoning perfect. While the meal is partaken round the year by many, it is best enjoyed in summer. A soul-satisfying meal for a scorching summer, and a welcome defence against dehydration and fatigue.

Pakhala derives from the Sanskrit word ‘prakshyalana’ and means cooked rice washed with water after draining the thick gruel, and thereafter allowed to sit in water till it is served. It is best cooked in an earthen handi over a slow fire to allow each grain to turn over for even cooking. Alas, the village potters are now out of business, and modern Odia households cook rice in a pressure cooker or an aluminium cooking pot; the old-world taste of pakhala from an earthen handi is perhaps lost forever.

Did you know?

·       Pakhala is made by LAB? The Bacteria Squad responsible for turning rice-in-water into Pakhala are Lactic Acid Bacteria (LAB)!

·       Fermenting rice overnight in water can increase its iron content by up to 20 times compared to freshly cooked rice, thanks to these specific bacteria breaking down "anti-nutrients" like phytic acid.

Pakhala and Poetry

I think pakhala is somehow responsible for poetry and creative writing. Why else does Odisha have more poets and writers per square km (including this humble author) than other parts of India or the world?

An old Odia semi-classical song, Asa Jibana Dhana Mora Pakhala Kansa (“Come, my Love, alluring and irresistible as a bowl of rice in water”), sung by Late Bala Krushna Das, likens the beloved to a pakhala kansa, a delectable meal. The lyric extols pakhala as a life-saving meal, and in a little hyperbole, asserts that the life of a person who has never savoured this heavenly meal is thoroughly wasted. Odias may listen to this song, uploaded on YouTube by Sujit Madhual; for non-Odia readers, I may someday translate the cute song.

Pakhala and Bhakti

Pakhala and associated Odia cuisine appear evocatively in devotional and folk songs where Radha remembers Krishna through simple dishes such as pakhala, kanji, khechedi, saag, and ambila. Readers interested in these remarkable songs may read the author’s earlier blogs - Radha’s Diet Therapy: Part I & II.*

International Day of Happiness

Since 2013, the UN has celebrated March 20 as the International Day of Happiness. The 11th World Happiness Report, 2025 was released on 20 March 2025. Sadly, India ranked 116^th among 147 countries of the world. But that is another story.

It may not be a mere coincidence that Odias have chosen to celebrate March 20 as Pakhala Dibasa. A pakhala meal is guaranteed to make an Odia very, very HAPPY. So, the choice of date is most apt.

Pakhala: Cuisine Fit for God

Of the Chhappan Bhog (56 dishes) served to Lord Jagannatha daily, nine are rice preparations of which four are pakhalas — Dahi pakhala (curd rice and water), Mitha pakhala (rice, sugar, and water), Ada pakhala (rice, grated ginger and water), and Arua pakhala (sun-dried and de-husked white rice, ghee, lemon, and salt).

The nine varieties of rice are served to the Lord with an accompaniment of fourteen different curries. Odias are not only rice eaters, they also consume prodigious amounts of dal, green vegetables and saag. Man has made God in his own image, and serves those dishes which he finds most delicious, not unlike Shabari who tasted each fruit before offering it to Rama.

Odisha Tourism’s Twitter handle mentions Subasa Pakhala (Fragrant Rice in Water), which gets its aroma and unique taste from grated ginger and roasted cumin seeds, and claims that this dish is part of the Chhappan Bhog recipes for Jagannatha. Possibly, it is another name for Ada Pakhala.

A happy diner at Bhubaneswar tweeted his immense satisfaction when served a whole Pakhala meal for lunch in his office.

Odia Chhappan Bhog Eateries

I wonder why no Odia entrepreneur has taken Odia cuisine to the rest of India and the world. How about a chain of Odia Chhappan Bhog Eateries, different from the sweetmeat shops of that name, offering the dishes served daily to Lord Jagannatha? Of course, the cooking method in the Lord’s own kitchen at Puri is so unique, no replication would taste as divine. But those who have never visited Puri could get an idea of the variety of dishes served to Jagannatha.

Even before that, Odias who host for their friends, including non-Odias, prasad sevan at Jagannath Temple, Hauz Khas, New Delhi, could include at least one pakhala dish with accompaniments, maybe as the first course.

Pakhala Protocol

Over the centuries, Odias have evolved a detailed Pakhala Protocol, never written down but preserved in the oral heritage of the people. Which variety of paddy makes the tastiest pakhala? How long should the grain be aged for the best result? How should rice be cooked in an earthen handi over a slow fire? How many hours should the rice-in-water rest and ferment? All this and much more form part of the unwritten wisdom surrounding pakhala.

Here are two quick tips. Pakhala is best partaken seated on the floor, and best savoured with your bare fingers. Cutlery can be a spoiler.

India's Most Underrated Cuisine

Vikas Khanna, celebrity chef, says that Odia cuisine is India's most underrated. Pakhala is the first of the five must-try Odia dishes he recommends.#

A Typical Pakhala Meal

A typical pakhala meal comprises:

• Rice in water
• Fish — fried or curried, big or small
• Sour dish — tomato khata or similar
• Saag
• Tawa-fried pointed gourd (potala/parwal), potato or brinjal slices, drumsticks, badi, chickpea
• Curd
• A few pods of fresh tamarind or sun-dried mango slice (ambula), with salt, green chillies, spring onions, a few cloves of garlic; may be embellished with lightly roasted, pickled, and diced bamboo shoots
• In summer, a few drops of the juice from the stem of a freshly plucked raw mango to season the pakhala for an amazing aroma

Pakhala Varieties: Fresh or Fermented

Jagannatha is served only fresh or Garama pakhala, and only very fine arua (also called alua) rice (sun-dried and de-husked) is used; but many of his devotees are partial to ushuna (par-boiled rice lightly de-husked), which is tastier and healthier. Many also prefer basi, which is fermented rice, with the degree of fermentation being an individual choice.

In the past, joint families in the villages cooked only one major meal a day — a big handi of rice — to serve at least two meals to the entire family, and yet another serving the next day. Rice cooked in the morning is mildly fermented in summer by the evening, decently fermented by the next noon, and strongly fermented thereafter. Some also eat tiasi, which is the third day of fermentation.

In summer, every house in the village is a micro-brewery, and the torani, the starchy rice gruel of the pakhala serving, is indeed a naturally fermented rice drink; a perfect antidote to the harsh summer. Basi is sour, and tastes better with dollops of salt, much needed to restore the electrolyte balance after profuse sweating.

Summer is Here

For sweltering summer, lightly fermented probiotic Pakhala is a super cool remedy. 

Where in Delhi to savour Pakhala? Rastrapati Bhawan, if you are family or friends of India's Citizen Number One, or can somehow wangle an invitation to those hallowed premises. Home of two powerful bureaucrats in the PMO, or of any Odia - in heart, soul, and palate.

Even though we are prabasi Odias, we often have pakhala for lunch in summer. Our cook is very confused when my spouse pours water on top of cooked rice! Spouse prefers fresh pakhala with curd; my preference is for the mildly fermented; both of us are guaranteed satisfaction and a relaxing siesta.

Should you visit our home in summer at lunch, we would be happy to give you a taste of Pakhala and the unique Taste of Odisha!

***

#Odisha #Odia #Pakhala

Links:

*Radha’s Diet Therapy - Part I:

https://www.pkdash.in/2026/05/radhas-diet-therapy-part-i.html

*Radha’s Diet Therapy - Part II:

https://www.pkdash.in/2023/10/radhas-soul-food-part-ii.html

# https://www.msn.com/en-in/foodanddrink/other/chef-vikas-khanna-on-how-odia-cuisine-is-india-s-most-underrated/ar-AA22zMZs?ocid=socialshare

 Postscript

Pakhala’s cousins

After reading my blog, several readers have shared their memories of enjoying rice-in-water. Pakhala has several cousins in most parts of India.

Eastern & North-Eastern India

In these states, the dish is a cultural staple, often celebrated with dedicated festivals.

• Poita Bhaat (Assam): Similar to Pakhala, but typically served with Alu Pitika (mashed potatoes with mustard oil) and raw onions.
• Panta Bhat (West Bengal): The Bengali version, often paired with fried fish (especially Hilsa), Bhortas (mashed vegetables), or pickles.
• Basi Bhaat (Bihar & Jharkhand): Basi literally translates to "stale" or "old." It is commonly eaten with green chilies, onions, and Aloo Chokha.
• Bore Basi (Chhattisgarh): A traditional breakfast for farmers, often consumed with Badi (sun-dried lentil dumplings) and leafy greens.

Southern India

In the south, the dish is often enriched with curd or buttermilk before or after fermentation.

• Pazhamkanji (Kerala): Literally "old gruel." It is traditionally relished with small onions (shallots), green chilies (kanthari), fish curry, or mango chutney.
• Chaddannam / Saddi Annam (Andhra Pradesh & Telangana): Chaddi means "cold" or "old." It is often mixed with curd and salt, served with mango or gongura pickles.
• Pazhaya Sadam (Tamil Nadu): Along with the name you mentioned (Pazhaya Soru), this version is widely known for being a natural coolant during the harsh summers.
• Ambali (Karnataka): While Ambali can also refer to a finger millet (ragi) porridge, the fermented rice version is a popular hydrating summer meal in rural areas.

Other Regional Variations

• Geel Bhat (Madhya Pradesh): A common term used for rice soaked in water, often eaten for its cooling properties.
• Kanji (General/North): While Kanji usually refers to a fermented carrot drink in Punjab, in many other parts of India, the word is used generically for the fermented starch water drained from the rice.

Panta Bhat in Australia

A Bengali friend, after reading my blog, recalled his childhood memories of savouring Panta Bhat in rural Bengal decades ago. He also mentioned that Panta Bhat had feature in the grand finale of MasterChef Australia.

In MasterChef Australia Season 13, which aired in 2021, Kishwar Chowdhury, a Bangladeshi-Australian became a global sensation for bringing "peasant food" to the fine-dining stage.

The Dish that Made History

In the grand finale, Kishwar served Panta Bhat—a humble, traditional Bengali dish of fermented leftover rice soaked in water. In the context of the high-stakes competition, she elevated it with:

Smoked Rice Water:  She gave the traditional soaking liquid a sophisticated, smoky profile.

Sardines & Salsa: Instead of the usual simple sides, she paired it with fried sardines and a spicy onion-chilli salsa.

 Aloo Bhorta: She included the classic mashed potato side, seasoned with mustard oil and chillies.

Why It Was a Big Deal

 Breaking Stigma: Panta Bhat was historically viewed as "poor man's food" or a simple rural breakfast. Kishwar’s decision to serve it in a finale was a bold statement on cultural identity and the value of heritage cooking.

 The Reaction: The judges (Jock Zonfrillo, Melissa Leong, and Andy Allen) were blown away by the depth of flavor. Melissa Leong famously noted that it was "food that tells a story."

 Cultural Pride: The moment went viral across Bangladesh and India (specifically West Bengal), sparking a massive wave of nostalgia and pride among Bengalis worldwide.

Death and Sorrow — Of Mustard Seeds, Snake‑skin, and a Dead Ox

Through metaphors of mustard seeds, snakeskin, and a dead ox, Buddhist stories illuminate grief, mortality, and release. From Therigatha’s verses to the wisdom of the Dhammapada, the journey moves from sorrow to serenity, from suffering to peace.

Understanding Death — Mustard Seeds

The parable of Kisagotami, grief transformed into insight.

When her only child died, Kisagotami was distraught, disconsolate, and disoriented. She refused to believe that her child was no more. He was very ill, exhausted, and in deep sleep, she insisted. With the dead child in her arms, she searched for the person with a magic potion to awaken her child. Hearing that Buddha had miraculous powers, she appeared before the Enlightened One.

‘O Divine One, please cure my child. Awaken him, for he has not suckled for several days. He must be very hungry.’

Buddha, the Compassionate One, gently caressed the child’s forehead. He did not say the child was dead or chide her for being mad with grief but said, ‘I can cure him. For the medicine, fetch a few grains of mustard seed from a home where no one has ever died.’

She went from house to house and soon returned to place her son’s corpse at the Buddha’s feet. She realised that Buddha had gently led her to find the truth about life and death. Kisagotami became a bhikkhuni.

Therigatha has five poems celebrating Kisagotami's joy upon enlightenment.

Cast off Sorrow — Snakeskin

A metaphor for release from suffering: shed sorrow like a serpent’s skin.

There is another nuanced story about death and grief in the Buddhist tradition. No distraught wandering, no desperate plea for a cure. A man sits with his grief—heavy, unmoving. The loss is not denied; it is endured.

The Bodhisatta does not ask him to seek proof from the world. Instead, He offers a metaphor:

“As a serpent sheds its worn-out skin, so must one cast off sorrow.”

Not by argument, not by consolation, but by insight does the mind come to terms with sorrow. Death is inevitable. Death is final. What is gone cannot be summoned back; attachment to what is gone is the source of suffering.

Kisagotami learnt by going from door to door. Here, the gaze turns inward. The truth is the same: all that lives must pass away. To understand this truth, and to let go—this is the end of suffering and the beginning of peace.

Sujata Jataka — The Dead Ox

Another parable of grief, where folly reveals wisdom.

In the Jataka tales, the Bodhisatta appears in earlier births to teach lessons. One such story tells of a man so devastated by his father’s death that he abandoned food, neglected his work, and spent his days weeping for the dear departed. His son, Sujata—the Bodhisatta—resolved to cure him of this grief.

On the roadside lay a dead ox. Sujata began bringing it fresh grass and water, crying out, “Eat! Drink! Wake up!” People thought he had gone mad. His father rushed to him and exclaimed, “My son, have you lost your mind? No amount of grass will bring a dead ox back to life!”

Sujata replied calmly, “This ox still has its head, tail, and legs. If you think me foolish for trying to feed him, why do you weep for your father, whose body has already been cremated and turned to ash?”

The father instantly saw the futility of his grief. Like a fire quenched, his sorrow was extinguished, and peace returned to him.

Therigatha — Voices of Enlightenment

The first Buddhist bhikkhunis sang of the joy of enlightenment, of Nibbana, and of release from the fear of death.

Therigatha: Poems of the First Buddhist Women* contains a poem in which Kisagotami sings about her enlightenment:

“One should know suffering,
The origin of suffering and its cessation,
The eightfold path…
I followed the noble eightfold path
That goes to that which is without death,
Nibbana is known at first hand.
I have seen myself in the mirror of dhamma.”

Interpretation of a Dream — The White Elephant

An omen of destiny, shielding the prince from sorrow until truth breaks through.

When Siddhartha Gautama was conceived, his mother Queen Mahamaya had seen in her dream a luminous white elephant. The omen indicated that the prince would either become a Chakravarti Emperor or renounce the world, said the royal astrologers. The king was advised to shelter Siddhartha from awareness of human sufferings—disease, decrepitude of old age, and death. The gated life of the prince in the palace hid the reality of the human situation only for some time.

Buddha Sculpture- 9th to 10th Century AD

Source: WikiCommons; ASI Museum, Bodh Gaya

Humans, uniquely conscious of mortality, are tormented by thoughts of death. All religions endeavour to provide solace against the inevitability and finality of death.

Dhammapada — Verses on Life and Death

city built of bones, plastered with flesh....

Dhammapada, a revered collection of 423 verses in the Khuddaka Nikāya of the Sutta Piṭaka, contains many of the Buddha’s best-known sayings.

A few verses from the book, relating to life and death, are given below (Source: The Dhammapada: The Buddha's Path of Wisdom, translated by Acharya Buddharakkhita):

“There are those who do not realise that one day we all must die. But those who do realise this settle their quarrels.” (1.6)
“Better it is to live one day virtuous and meditative than to live a hundred years immoral and uncontrolled.” (8.110)
“Better it is to live one day wise and meditative than to live a hundred years foolish and uncontrolled.” (8.111)
“Better it is to live one day strenuous and resolute than to live a hundred years sluggish and dissipated.” (8.112)
“Better it is to live one day seeing the rise and fall of things than to live a hundred years without seeing the rise and fall of things.” (8.113)
“Better it is to live one day seeing the Deathless than to live a hundred years without ever seeing the Deathless.” (8.114)
“Better it is to live one day seeing the Supreme Truth than to live a hundred years without ever seeing the Supreme Truth.” (8.115)
“This city (body) is built of bones, plastered with flesh and blood; within are decay and death, pride and jealousy.” (11.150)
“You yourselves must strive; the Buddhas only point the way….” (20.276)

Buddha pointed the way; Kisagotami gained enlightenment.

Sorrow to Serenity

From mustard seeds to snake-skin to a dead ox, the stories remind us: sorrow can be shed, death accepted, and peace found in the truth of impermanence.

***

 * Translated by Charles Hallisey, Murty Classical Library of India

 

 

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