My Dabba Scares Me

Determined to not leave me in peace, one of my Tupperware dabbas (Fluorescent Green, in case you were wondering) has decided to give me the fright of my life.

I unfortunately left my dabba at work the day before Holi, with some food in it. Woe is me. I know. It’s going to smell like hell right now. You’re right. It does. But that’s not the scary bit.

Here I am, copying writing, as usual, minding my own business, working, like a good boy. And Pop! goes the dabba. I kid you not, the damn thing just popped open on its own!!!!!! JUST LIKE THAT! No catalyst, no change in air pressure, NOTHING!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! My dabbas hate me!

The Dabba Dilemmas Continue…

I think I’ve ranted about my dabbas before. And again. But are my troubles to end? Of course not! That would just be totally uncharacteristic of my life (and my blog) wouldn’t it?

Only this time, my troubles don’t involve wannabe cat-burglars. My mother seems to have decided, Enough Is Enough. It is time to Stand Up For What We Believe To Be Good And Right In This World, like a man’s (read her son’s) right to take a dabba to work and be able to bring it back home at the end of the day.

And to ensure that this right is not snatched away from me, she has started giving me dabbas of the following colours:

Bright pink
Fluorescent green
Baby blue
Sunburst yellow

Now who in their right minds would want to filch something so pigmented, right? Exactly what my mother thought. Of course, what I would look like carrying something of this colouration is an altogether different and completely irrelevant matter.

Is woe me yet? I should think not! My mother noted with no little glee, that it was the Lock & Lock dabbas that most often disappeared. So to counter that, it was mutually decided by my mother and my mom to switch to Tupperware.

Mmmmmmmm, mmm. Tupperware. That sacred brand so trusted by Mothers around the world. Beautiful. I’ve had some bad experiences with Tupperware, mostly because of my ignorance of its properties. Like, for instance, carrying (and let’s just get this out of the way; yes, I did this through college) hot coffee in one of them Tupperware glasses (go ahead, guffaw. No, no, I insist. No need for politeness amongst us, now, is there?). Result? Jeans that needed washing often.

Anyhoo, that history notwithstanding, I consented to carrying the deathtraps in my bag (provided, of course, that the food be cooled before sealing). A wise move, perhaps.

Perhaps not. Two days ago, Baby Blue decided to spew out some aloo sabji that I was carrying back home. Great. My bag took on the aromatic semblance of a masala dosa. Woo the hoo! But of course, woe hasn’t become me yet!

Yesterday, Bright Pink decided to stage a revolution, too. This time I was taking home aloo-and-some-unidentifiable-inedible-object in a tomato-ey gravy. Woo the hoo two! Now my bag smells not just like masala dosa, but also like the sambhar they had at college. Yippee.

Hang on. Hang on just a gosh-darned minute. Did I see a trend there?

Food I take home
Aloo

Great. Now I’ll have to find some way to convince people at work to finish my dabba for me every time I have anything that contains a shred of potato.

 

Meh.

Append To Dabba Chor

Remember how I'd mentioned those three metal dabbas which had vanished? Well, recently, I was at the pantry, going through the designated dabba drawer, looking for my Lock & Locks, when I found a dabba, which, at the very least, looked a lot like - if it wasn't - one of mine. I held it up against the light to examine the angles, the contours and determine whether the owner of this dabba was, indeed, yours truly.

It was at this moment that a woman from the Finance department slunk over to where I was standing and said acidly, "That's my dabba." Now, being the excessive people-pleaser that I am, instead of standing my ground and defending what looked like it was mine, I just said, "Oh, really? Sorry," and handed it over (yes, yes, get it over with, call me all those names. Done? You sure? Check again. I thought so. Now are you done? Good) to her to inspect.

I dove back into the dabba drawer for my Lock & Lock while this woman continued to tell me how there was some kind of inscription on the side of her metal dabba in Gujarati. This comment struck me, as I had noticed nothing of the sort on the dabba during my, if I may say so myself, rather thorough examination of it. It was also, by coincidence or providence, at this very instant that my fingers perchanced upon another metal dabba of dimensions similar to the one being discussed. Closer observation revealed to me a script of some form inscribed on the side.

Of course, connections start firing up in my head. Quick as electricity, I whipped the new metal dabba out and brought to her notice the aforementioned script, which looked decidedly Gujarati. When presented with all the facts and hard evidences of the case, the dear lady was left with no option but to arrive at the most logical conclusion: "No, the first dabba is mine, I can feel it."

The rest of the conversation took place as follows:

Umm... What was that?

This dabba is not mine.

But it has the Gujarati on the side...

But no, this one is not mine. Yeah, mine is the lighter one.

But they weigh the same!

No, no. This one is not mine.

Now what can one really do in the face of such arguments, especially when one is, as previously mentioned, a serial people-pleaser? That's absolutely right, nothing. Quietly, I conceded and slunk off. There are some types that you just can't argue with. Especially those that make your salary statements.



Epilogue:

At the end of a long and tiresome day that involved mindgames against the worthiest of opponents, the nimble warrior went back to the horde of treasures. And what should he see lying amongst them, but the very pearl he feared he had lost forever? Deftly, casting a wary eye in every direction, he pocketed what was rightfully his. And on silent toes, he padded niftily into the black night. The pearl was never seen again.

Dabba Chor

A completely illogical thing is happening to me right now. My office has a benevolent chor.

We have a system in our office where one can leave one's dabba to be washed by the office staff after lunch, and they'll bung it in one drawer in the pantry for you to come and pick it up at the end of the day.

Sounds neat, doesn't it? It is, except, as in all good things, there's a catch. Despite this advanced clearance system, there is one flaw. We don't label our dabbas, and as there are only so few functionally well made dabbas on the market, a lot of us have similar, if not the same products.

What this means, is that people often pick up other people's dabbas out of habit on days when they themselves haven't brought theirs (reference to my previous post and that bit about being slaves to habit). At least, that's the only rational explanation I see for this. Anyway, in that process, I lost three metal dabbas. Not that I was particularly attached to the unwieldly beasts, it's just that my mother makes sure I don't forget it.

Anyway, consequently, I start getting the plastic Lock & Lock dabbas which are less common. This, I thought was a fool-proof plan, seeing how my Lock & Locks are rather old, slightly browning and whatnot... Obviously, I was mistaken.

Because someone in my office has taken that one and left a brand new but otherwise identical dabba in its place for me. I've waited four days for this person to realise their mistake, but that doesn't seem to be happening, so I guess I'm going to have to take the new one... I have no choice! = )