Scene 1 (Taj Connemara, Chennai)

Khichdi is my preferred choice for dinner, specially if I am having my dinner alone in my hotel room. It started at the Taj Connemara, Chennai, years ago. The room service card had a line tucked at the end, “Home-style food on request”. I call room service for khichdi.
“May I put you on to the Chef, please?”
“Sure.”
“Chef Gomez here”, there goes my khichdi plan, Gomez and khichdi, no way!
“Can you serve me some khichdi please?”
“Masala khichdi or plain?” There is hope still!
“Masala please.”
“Bharta?”

Chef Gomez actually wants to know if I want bharta! Bharta is my favourite side dish to khichdi in Bihar. (And of course the rest of the accompaniments like the ditty goes, “Khichdi ke chaar yaar, dahi, papad, ghee, achaar”.) Pleased no end I start telling him the precise way I love my khichdi.

Chef Gomez politely cuts me short. “Sir, we shall send this to you in the next twenty minutes.”
 The khichdi had just the right mix of daals, lots of ghee, seasoned with perfectly fried jeera and tej-patta. And the heavenly bharta. Chef Gomez had wrought magic!

Even as I was placing the food tray outside the room, the phone rang.
It was Chef Gomez, “Hello, sir, how was your dinner?”

“Wonderful”.
“Glad you liked it. Please feel free to order khichdi anytime.”
“How did you manage to get the Bihari flavour just right? I’m sure you are not a Bihari, probably from Bombay or Goa.”

“You are right, sir, I am from Goa. I have two sous chefs from Bihar, creative young lads! They made the khichdi for you! Good night, sir, and do not forget to ask for whatever, whenever! Bye!”

PS: Minutes later. Phone rings. Wife. After the usual how-was-the-day, how-are-the-kids, was an equally perfunctory how-was-your-dinner, what-did-you-eat? What was not perfunctory was my response.

“This was the best home-made food I have ever had”.

Her silence, over the next few seconds, was excruciatingly uncomfortable.

“Ah, I am glad you get the best home-made food on your travels. Nice!” Quick click of the phone being disconnected.

The better part of the night was spent trying to figure out damage-control and an hour next afternoon buying a Kanjeevaram.

Excellent khichdi can be really expensive!

Scene Two (Taj Bengal, Kolkata):

“Khichdi, please.”
Seductive voice, “Sorry sir, khichdi not available.”

“Khichdi, just khichdi. Nothing else.”

Firm voice (scarcely seductive now), “Sorry sir, not possible now.”
“Why not”, I am now belligerent.

“You see, sir, this is a special dish. No orders for special dishes after 10.30 pm.”
I am desperate by now. “Look! Khichdi is very simple, some rice and daal. Cook. Add seasoning. That’s khichdi!” I am giving her a free cookery lesson.

“Wait a moment, sir, let me see.”

“Mr Ojha. Khichdi is possible.”

“Good!”
“Some curd?”
“Perfect. Some pickles?”
“Anything else?”
“Some bharta?”
“I am afraid that will not be possible now, sir.”
“Come on, if you can get me some khichdi, bharta is easy.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Look”, it seems I am talking to someone mentally challenged. “Boil potatoes, cool, peel, mash. Add salt, mustard oil and some whole chilli (burnt, if possible) and there it is, a bharta.”
“Sorry sir.”
“OK, send whatever you can.”
Khichdi arrives and it is good! But I am seething with rage. I escalate matters with the Duty Manager and narrate my tale of woe.
Minutes later, a male voice (Ms Seductive sacked by now?), “Sorry about the bharta, sir. You see, after 10.30 pm boiled potatoes are kept in the cold storage and you know sir, cold, boiled potatoes cannot be mashed well. Hence we do not make bharta out of them. You will agree with me, sir, we serve only quality dishes. And, sir, please do call us before 10.pm or we can take your order for tomorrow now.
“Thank you. Good night.”
That was my last stay at Taj Bengal, Kolkata.


Scene Three (Taj Ummed Bhawan, Ahmedabad):

“A portion of khichdi please.”
“Sure Mr Ojha. Anything else?” Mr Room Service at the other end.
“Some sliced onions, roasted papad, a bowl of dahi.”
“Of course.”
“Excuse me, sir, where are you from?”
“Bihar.”
“Where from in Bihar?”

Not used to intimate chats in hotels, I ask. “Why?”
“Just curious, sir. My apologies.”
I feel sorry for him. A whole evening of taking quirky dinner orders from quirkier customers he does need a break.
“I’m from Jamshedpur.”
“Jamshedpur? Where?”
“Sonari.”
“Where, sir, in Sonari?”
“Sonari West.” I am flabbergasted. “Why do you ask all these details?”
“Sorry sir, I am an Ojha too!”
“So?” I am sarcastic now. There are tons of Ozas in Gujarat.
“I am from Sonari, Jamshedpur.” Not a Gujarati Oza, but a Bihari Ojha!!
My turn to ask, “So where from in Sonari?”
“Sonari North, sir.”
I do not know any Ojha from Sonari North,
“Your father’s name? School? Graduation year?”
Now I remember only that I had never heard of his father, or his school and that he was at least 18-20 years junior to me.
“Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Phone rings again, “Dinner OK, sir?”
“Nice, thank you!”
“Some dessert, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
“Something please!”
I do not have the heart to disappoint him. Within moments arrives rasmalai! And then his call, “Sir, enjoyed the rasmalai?”
“Very nice, thanks! You sure I need not sign for this?”
“Of course not, sir! Do call me the next time you are here. I will ensure you are served, whatever.”
On my trip the following year, I discovered Ojha was no more working there.
Thank you Sonari North Ojha, that was a memorable evening!

 Scene Four (Most Five Star Hotels):

“Hello, Mr Ojha, what can I do for you”, Ms Seductive from room service.
I do wish to know what all she can do for me right now, but refrain from naughty enquiries.
“Some khichdi please?”
“Sure.”
I hear her slow intone, “Khichdi. One... portion... khichdi, ... room... 435. Plain khichdi, right?”
I feel the concern in her voice, she is sure that I have a stomach upset and that this is about the only stuff I can have for dinner.
“Not really, make it a masala khichdi, lots of ghee and spices. Don’t forget some dahi and roasted papad. And sliced onions with lemon would be great. Mango pickle too.”
She is probably having a cardiac thinking of the poor gastro-stricken Mr Ojha making this foolish request. Actually, if she would have her way, I ought to go to bed with a cup of barley water with a dash of lemon and a hot water bottle for company.
She regains her composure. “Sure, sir! Papad, pickles and onion slices are complimentary. Anything else, sir?”
“No, please.”
“Give us twenty minutes please.”
“Thank you.”