Chapter 1
The Sun. The Sand. The Sea.
There was a time when Puri meant only the sea.
I remember the first sight of it still.
The road had been dusty, the afternoon bright and unforgiving. The air shimmered above the asphalt, and the wind through the open windows carried the smell of salt long before we caught our first glimpse of the water.
Then, quite suddenly, at the end of everything familiar, there it was.
The sea.
A vast, heaving expanse of grey-blue, stretching beyond sight, beyond comprehension, towards a horizon so distant that it seemed to belong to another world. Sunlight trembled upon its surface in a thousand broken shards. Far away, the sky had lowered itself gently upon the water, and the two met in a thin, quivering line—so seamless, so infinite, that a child could not tell where one ended and the other began.
For a few moments, we simply stood and stared.
And suddenly, the world felt immeasurably larger than we had ever imagined.
A heartbeat later, we were running towards it.
The sand was hot underfoot, loose and grainy, sinking beneath every step.
Then came the first wave, rushing in with a force we had not expected, curling around our ankles before dragging the sand away from beneath our feet.
We squealed and stumbled, only to run straight back towards the next wave.
The sea seemed alive.
Restless.
Wilful.
Wave after wave hurled itself upon the shore, breaking into white foam, retreating, gathering strength and returning. There was no pause. No fatigue. Only that relentless lashing, the roar filling the air until conversation became impossible and one had to shout merely to be heard.
Salt gathered on our lips.
Our hair stiffened in the wind.
Wet sand clung stubbornly to our legs, no matter how often we tried to brush it away.
Above us, seagulls wheeled in unruly circles, noisy and quarrelsome, gliding effortlessly one moment and swooping low over the crowds the next.
The beach itself was a fairground.
Holidayers stood with their trousers awkwardly rolled above their knees.
Children built elaborate sandcastles only to watch them disappear beneath the next advancing wave.
Photographers appeared from nowhere, coaxing entire families into impossibly stiff poses against the sea.
Hawkers wandered tirelessly through the crowds with shell necklaces, conches, straw hats, coloured beads and toys that seemed irresistible for precisely the duration of a holiday.
And everywhere, there was food.
Fish crackled furiously in deep iron kadhais.
Papad blistered over glowing charcoal.
Jhalmuri was tossed briskly in battered tin containers, its sharp perfume of mustard oil and green chillies carried on the sea breeze.
Green coconuts were hacked open with swift, practised blows, their sweet water offering momentary relief from the afternoon heat.
The air smelt of salt, fried fish, damp sand and smoke.
Puri was noise then.
Puri was appetite.
Puri was salt upon our lips, sand in our shoes, and the sea quietly finding its way into our hearts long before we knew it had.
Chapter 2
The Temple. The Lord. The Offering.
Somewhere along the way, the sea stopped being the whole story.
The temple had quietly entered it.
As the years passed and our vacations to Puri became a cherished family ritual, the excitement of the beach slowly found itself sharing space with another anticipation—the first glimpse of the towering spire of the Jagannath Temple.I remember craning my neck through the crowded lanes, searching for it.
The approach was bewildering.
Cycle rickshaws rang their bells through impossible gaps.
Pandas called out to passing families.
Flower sellers sat beside fragrant mounds of marigold, lotus and tulsi leaves.
Tiny shops overflowed with khaja, conch shells, sandalwood paste, brass lamps and vermilion.
Somewhere, a conch sounded.
Somewhere else, temple bells rang without pause.
Cows stood serenely in the middle of the confusion, untouched by the urgency swirling around them.
Pilgrims moved in dense currents—some barefoot, some carrying sleepy children, others softly chanting the Lord’s name with every step.
The closer we came, the louder the world seemed to become.
And then, almost without realising it, we crossed the threshold.
The bustle of the streets gave way to another kind of intensity.
Bells rang without rhythm.
Conches echoed through the ancient stone corridors.
The fragrance of incense mingled with sandalwood, flowers, clarified butter and centuries of devotion that seemed to have seeped into the very walls of the temple.
We were pushed forward.
Stopped.
Pushed again.
For a few anxious moments, it seemed as though we might never reach the sanctum at all.
Then the darkness opened before us.
And suddenly…
There He was.
Those vast, unblinking eyes.
Watching everyone.
Judging no one.
For one impossibly brief moment, the world narrowed to that gaze alone.
But before I could even begin to understand what I had experienced, the crowd had gathered me into its tide once more, carrying me away from the sanctum as effortlessly as the sea had once carried away the sand beneath my feet.
What childhood understood more readily, of course, was Mahaprasad.
We sat cross-legged upon the floor of the temple’s dining hall, leaf plates spread before us, waiting eagerly as steaming rice, dal, vegetables and khichdi were ladled out from earthen pots blackened by wood fires. Around us, strangers sat shoulder to shoulder, distinctions of wealth and status dissolving before food that had first been offered to the Lord. Clay pots travelled from hand to hand.
Fingers mixed rice with dal.
Conversations rose and faded.
There was little ceremony, and yet everything about it felt profoundly sacred.
Among those memories is Ada Hengu Khichdi.
Soft rice surrendered to creamy lentils. The gentle warmth of freshly grated ginger arrived first, followed by the unmistakable fragrance of hing. No onion. No garlic. No elaborate tempering. Nothing clamoured for attention. Yet every mouthful felt astonishingly complete—simple enough to nourish the body, soulful enough to linger in the memory.
Perhaps it was because the food had first belonged to the Lord.
Back then, I believed I returned to Puri for the sea … and for Mahaprasad.
It would take many more years to realise that neither had ever been the true reason.
Chapter 3
The Silence. The Infinite.
The journeys to Puri are different now.
The beach is still noisy.
The waves still arrive with their ancient fury.
The gulls still quarrel in the wind.
The temple lanes remain crowded with rickshaws, holidayers, pilgrims and persistent hawkers.
Nothing seems to have changed.
And yet everything has.
I no longer come merely to see the sea.
I come to listen.
The chaos no longer feels separate from the pilgrimage. The bells, the bargaining, the calls of the pandas, the cries of vendors, the weary pilgrim leaning against a wall, the child asleep on his father’s shoulder—they all seem to belong to the same great current, carrying countless souls towards the Lord.
And when I finally stand before Him, I no longer ask for much.
There is no list of desires.
No carefully rehearsed prayer.
Only a silent conversation.
For a fleeting moment, the clamour recedes—not because it has grown quieter, but because something within has.
The bells continue to ring. Devotees continue to press forward. Priests continue to call out.
Yet before those immense, unblinking eyes, the mind slowly lets go of its careful accounting of life—its anxieties, ambitions, disappointments, griefs and fears.
The self suddenly feels very small.
And strangely, that smallness is liberating.
I return quieter than I arrived.
And perhaps that is why Ada Hengu Khichdi belongs so naturally to this memory.
It is humble, restrained, almost austere.
Yet within that restraint, lies abundance.
Within its warmth, consolation.
Within its simplicity, grace.
Like Puri itself.
Ada Hengu Khichdi
Ingredients
Method
- Heat ½ tbsp ghee in a heavy-bottomed pan over low to medium heat.
- Add the hing and bay leaves. As soon as they become aromatic, add the drained rice and soaked green moong.
- Sauté gently for 4–5 minutes, stirring continuously to coat everything well with the ghee.
- Add the grated ginger and freshly grated coconut, and cook for another minute.
- Season with salt, then pour in the warm water. Stir once, cover, and let the khichudi cook gently over low heat until the rice and moong are tender and the water is absorbed.
- Drizzle the remaining ½ tbsp ghee over the khichudi and sprinkle with a little extra freshly grated coconut.
- Serve hot as a comforting bhog, accompanied by your favourite bhaja or side dishes.
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