The Lunchbox

Unpacking the untold story

The story of my lunchbox

Carried on for the entire week

Mondays were aloo paranthas
Energised mother, excited child
I was happy. She was happy. Friends were impressed.

Tuesdays were bread pokoras
Dilli wali mother, Dilli wali daughter
I was content. She was content. Friends were overjoyed.

Wednesdays were bhindi parantha
The greens, she said. The only greens I liked.
I was satisfied. She was satisfied. Friends joyously shared the meal.

Thursdays were tricky with potato chips
Almost a modern mother. The forever excited child.
I was happy. Maa was worried. Friends were in awe.

Fridays were the perfect days with Rajma rice
I was euphoric with my favourite dish. Maa was content with a healthy meal. Friends were happy with the popular choice.

All until I grew up and began to wonder

When did the joy of carrying a full, proper tiffin begin?
When did the fear of losing out the entire meal to friends end?
When did tiffin as a means to friendships begin?
When did lunchtime as the centre of innocent childlike bonds end?
When did the calculated “lunch-hour” at the office begin?

How much of my meal was my own desire and my mother’s choice?
Why was my mother always the one preparing my meals and never my father?
Where did the pressure of my peers play out, pushing my mother beyond our means?
How did our socio-economic background dictate our financially prudent dishes?
Where did my religious identity dictate my family’s non-vegetarian choices?
When did my internal desires begin emerging out, making the tiffin an act of self-expression ?

The story of my lunchbox
Is the story of my growing up
Understanding class, caste, gender & religion
Recognising that food is indeed political
Observing the lunchbox as a microcosm of life

I don’t know how to fully unpack what the lunchbox symbolises
I don’t know how to truly make sense of what the lunchbox says about life

Only that I vow to be mindful of these myriad factors
when I’m packing my own lunchbox,
or if and when I’m packing my child’s lunchbox.
Even when there is much to complain
about overbearing intellect and hollow humanity,
I hope I simply keep trying my best,
As a child, individual, woman and some day a mother.

The story of my lunch box
Is the story of generations
Of choices, desires and identity
Of what was palatable,
what was allowed
and what was dared

This essay was written in response to the prompt “The story of a lunchbox” in the Ochre Sky Writing Circle facilitated by Natasha Badhwar and Raju Tai