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For a home kitchen to function at full capacity, finding avenues to store excess food supplies is as important as other aspects of its utility. When we think about storage at large, granaries and pantries become important spaces that safeguard our sources of nourishment. However, on a micro level, personal kitchens hold so much more than simply putting stuff away to use for later. The humble ‘dabba’ – what is essentially used to describe containers that store small amounts of spices, to the lunches lovingly packed for a busy day – has been a constant feature in the fabric of a domestic Indian kitchen.
If we were to trace back to the origins of how these storage vessels came to be, history says that earthen pots separated by rings, tied to ropes and suspended from the ceiling were some of the first recorded methods of putting food away safely. Before refrigeration became the norm and now, a necessity, jute sacks and cloth pouches known as potlis, offered sustenance and comfort through home-cooked food to those who travelled long distances. Later on, when metals like brass, steel and aluminium were beaten into submission in order to transform into durable containers. Fast-forward to more recent times, where food cases exist for everything from slices of pizza to spoonfuls of honey, the purpose of a dabba is evident and one that cannot be ignored.
Image Credits: Ecocraft India
In my kitchen or just about any other I know of, the dabba has never been a point of wonder until it’s lost or missing. When the Tupperware Brands announced that they filed for bankruptcy earlier this week, it felt almost nostalgic to think about my school tiffin box – a round green contraption that resembled what I’d best describe resembling a fluffy Japanese pancake. Holding dosas, idlis, theplas, bread-butter sandwiches and even a smaller Tupperware filled with pickle or ketchup on a good day, my dabba represented the care my mother put into fixing up a school lunch for my sibling and I each morning. In my days as a young adult, I watched my maternal grandmother clean bunches of coriander and mint to stash away in steel boxes lined with absorbent tissues.
On festive days, when the dabba was most in need to hold leftovers of special preparations or even to pack a little extra payasam for a guest, the storage container held promises of revisiting the joy of nibbling on cold nei appams or bits of sundal at tea time. Although I never boasted of taking an interest in the arts while being schooled, my paati’s spice dabba was an evergreen colour palette I looked forward to peeking into – little bowls holding aromatic chilli, coriander and black pepper powders, mustard and cumin seeds – most fascinatingly accessorised with a little spoon to match. The dabba – when packed with extra chhole for a guest who might’ve appreciated it at dinner – held the promise of seeing them again in the near future (because God knows how important it is to get the container back! Friendships can wait).
Image Credits: Amazon India
A dabba – food-safe or otherwise – is also accounted for in an Indian kitchen by order of most to least dispensable. While steel containers inscribed with the name of the owner and date of purchase were almost as precious as heirloom jewels, practicing sustainability by washing and reusing takeout containers happened with an air of detachment. For those who crave visual uniformity, like me, having jars of similar volume and sizes mean that almost everything in the kitchen must be purchased to fit into these containers. As a childless millennial, while I may never discover the joys of waking up in the wee hours to pack a tiffin box, my dabbas are as high maintenance as the rest of my cooking space.
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Sleek glass containers with lids to match – growing up really meant watching the Tupperwares my mother had meticulously collected, diminish slowly to make space for the swanky IKEA ones. Much like what becoming an adult is! Glass jars filled with artisanal condiments were washed and sterilised to be used as little containers that hold salad dressings, homemade vinegar pickles and most perfect for holding edible gifts like garlic oil or strawberry jam that have now found a home in lucky recipients’ kitchens. How to forget dabbas that are sentimental; or dabbas that are packed and sent away to a relative who moved out of the country and craved for a slice of home! How does one differentiate between the effort it involved to silently open a steel dabba stashed with crunchy snacks as the adults in the household lost themselves in slumber, and the dabba being central to such a precious memory.
Sleek glass containers with lids to match – growing up really meant watching the Tupperwares my mother had meticulously collected, diminish slowly to make space for the swanky IKEA ones. Much like what becoming an adult is! Glass jars filled with artisanal condiments were washed and sterilised to be used as little containers that hold salad dressings, homemade vinegar pickles and most perfect for holding edible gifts like garlic oil or strawberry jam that have now found a home in lucky recipients’ kitchens. How to forget dabbas that are sentimental; or dabbas that are packed and sent away to a relative who moved out of the country and craved for a slice of home! How does one differentiate between the effort it involved to silently open a steel dabba stashed with crunchy snacks as the adults in the household lost themselves in slumber, and the dabba being central to such a precious memory.
While soulless take-out containers and elderly dabbas that have been around for generations co-exist in peace, it feels almost astounding to discover that the dabba is perhaps omnipresent in its form. Lest we forget the tin boxes in which imported chocolates arrived once upon a time and have now become handy instruments to hold trinkets and sewing props. I chuckle as I think about how as children, we were conned into believing that the plastic ice cream container that we snuck to open actually had ice cream; only to discover grains of cooked basmati or extra rotis waving back at you. It’s also intriguing in a sense that the more varieties of dabbas we boast of owning now, the less there is to give away. The abrupt, premature goodbyes that take us by surprise fosters a deeper connection than we care to confess – all within the lidded secrecy of the dabba.
