Thinking out of the dabba

The dabba (boxed lunch) is back in my life after more than two decades and brought many memories of school. For the last 12 years, I cooked my own breakfast and lunch and dinner every day. I ate cold lunch at my desk or microwaved food made the previous day. I continued the tradition here because I love cooking my meals and have major control issues with anyone taking over my house or kitchen.

And then, the knight in shining armor aka the dabba-waala showed up with his contact number and rang the doorbell. I still ignored him for a month. But the day I missed lunch because of deadlines and ended up chewing on raw bell peppers, I decided, enough is enough. I called the dabba-walla.

Sure enough, he was right on time with my lunch, freshly cooked and piping hot. Rice. Ruti. Dal. Curry. I had forgotten what it feels like to have a freshly cooked, piping hot meal delivered at work or home in a proper stainless steel dabba, sans cheap plastic. The food was heavenly. I had tears in my eyes.

Later that evening, when the dabba-waala came to pick up his box, he started gossiping in true Indian style. This must be his idea of bonding with the customers to make lifelong business connections. I didn't even ask him to sit, but he never took the cue. He stood in my office and gossiped away. I learned more about my colleagues through him than I would have cared to. I now know whose husband emigrated to Canada, what does the Dean like to eat every day, whose parents are visiting this summer, and where are so-and-so currently road-tripping. He tempered privacy in smoking hot oil and threw it out of the window.

No one who comes in contact with you in India will leave without telling you something about someone you did not need to know. Every time the driver picks me up from the airport, I learn which of my colleagues are currently traveling and what airline. This is so India! 

Lunch: 80 INR/$1.14

Gossip: FREE

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Car-Ma

I was recently invited to speak at Princeton University. The organizers there treated me really well. I have been invited at other places too, but Princeton clearly stands out as classy. They put me up at one of the best hotels, the food was excellent, and the invitation letter and all was once again, a class above the rest. But the icing on the cake was my mom's response to something they did. Yes, a mommy post again!

Princeton got me a chauffeur-driven limousine for the 50-mile, hour-long drive from the Newark Liberty International Airport to the university/hotel (I was planning to take the train/dinky). My jaws dropped open when I read the letter. I, for one, have never been in a limo before. Forget the limo, I am used to taking the public transport, and for a good part of my life, I have lived in hostels and crashed at people's living rooms to save money during travel. The world of upscale hotels is very new to me, but the limo ride was something I did not see coming.

I was very excited, and when I told my ma, she was excited too! I do not know how much she understands cars, but based on my response, she could sense that it is a big deal. Very sincerely, she said, "This is so exciting. Is a limo as comfortable as the Toyota Innova? Innova'r thekeo bhalo gaadi?"

It reminded me of my first year in the US. G drove a Honda Pilot then, so the Honda Pilot became my standard of excellence, "my" first car in the US. As our friendship grew, my emotional connection with the car grew too. A year or two later, I got onto a friend's SUV during a road trip to San Diego and sincerely told her husband, whom I was meeting for the first time, "Very nice car. Love the Honda Pilot!" To which, I got a very dirty look and a clipped response, "It is a Lexus!"

Oh, well!

sunshine