Welcome to the Khichdi Pot

I remember the first time I came across the word, “Khichdi”. It was in a story which went like this: A travelling Buddhist monk visits a poor couple in a village. The couple receives him warmly and offers him all they can, which is not much. The monk touched by their generosity leaves them with a clay pot. The next day, the children of the couple are hungry. The wife wearily lights the stove, mounts the pot she had received from the monk the previous day and tosses in the last remnants of rice, lentils, spices and of course a tiny, wilted potato. But something magical begins to happen as everything begins to stew together. A heavenly fragrance begins to rise from the pot. The woman’s children come running out of their hut. The neighbor’s children too. And before the woman and her husband realize, there is the fishmonger, the ironsmith, the village chef, the school headmaster and their families.

Seeing the entire village in their courtyard, the woman and her husband are overcome with apprehension. How would they be able to serve so many people? What if folks remain hungry? But taking a deep breath in, they lay out the tender banana leaves plucked from their backyard, usher everyone to take their seats and begin to serve.

And that is when the second magical moment arrives. After serving a batch of twenty folks, when the woman peeps into the dark belly of the pot, there is some more Khichdi left— Khichdi enough to feed at least another forty folks. So, the woman and her husband serve and serve, feed and feed and yet every single time the pot holds some more...and some more. And finally, when the entire village is fed, the woman and her husband sit and fill their tummies with Khichdi—a Khichdi that is still warm, still fragrant, still brimming with the promise of joy and wholeness.

Looking back, I now wonder where the magic lay in the story? Was it in the pot that held? Or the woman who cooked? Was it in the monk’s touch? Or the love that passed between the husband and wife? Was it in the moments during which the villagers paused what they were doing and sat beside each other to enjoy a meal? Was it when the woman saw hunger in her child’s eye and felt desolation wash over her? Was it when the first morsel of Khichdi was being birthed and a wisp of steam rose from the pot?

Was it here? Was it there? Was it in this? Was it in that?

At that time, I did not know.

I still don’t know.

Ever since I could remember, I had been a story gatherer; I don’t remember when the Khichdi pot happened. But it did happen, slowly, serendipitously over the years. Every Earthbeing I encounter continues to bring their own special condiment, their own special flavor to the pot and we continue to stir it through seasons, moments and life.

Dear friend, thank you for being here. Let the Khichdi-ing begin.

Who am I?

I am Sridevi Datta, a Systems Coach and Educator. My work involves combining play with healing and creativity in myriad ways. My programs are a wild mix of storytelling, play, community sharing and reflectivity.