As Naaz Miss asks us to make V-shaped crows, soaring the
light blue sky- centimetres above the triangular mountains in our drawing books-
automated growls are audible from my intestines in the pursuit of Palak Paneer,
Hakka noodles and residue of birthday cake.
None belonging to my tiffin box.
One doesn’t need pav bhaji masala advertisements on
television to prove that tiffin boxes maketh a friend.
With barely a few minutes to go for the lunch break- the
first ten minutes of which are spent in mindless banter in the queue outside
the toilet- concentration levels dip while hunger pangs continue to trip.
Triiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiing!!
Aaha! After forcefully channelling my inner Picasso in
the art period, it is finally time to turn into the dabba-stealing glutton. I rejoice,
and hypothetically rub my palms together in anticipation.
The stained napkin spread underneath the tiffin box replaces
the drawing book, a spoon and fork emerge in place of the blunt pencil and the
black crayon, and boredom-induced puffy eyes make way for exaggerated potions
of twinkle and glitter.
In no time, the girl-with-a-yummy-lunch box, who offers you morsels with hesitation soon turns into a friend, who accepts your brazenness and adapts to your gastronomic demands.
“My mum has packed two additional chappatis for you.” A statement that promises more than just a delicious meal from the humble tiffin box.
“My mum has packed two additional chappatis for you.” A statement that promises more than just a delicious meal from the humble tiffin box.
