Two extra pieces of Fish fry wrapped in an old newspaper, 6 pcs of homemade besan barfi in a recycled Vadilal ice cream box and meethhe chawal in the slightly cracked Amul cheese Dibba.
Growing up in middle class Delhi, it was quite a common sight to see my mother make a little extra food every Sunday to share with Neighbours. The core belief was that there is always more than enough in this world to go around.
Cut to the ‘adulting’ in the corporate world, there was little, or no time left to focus on the world while one chased deadlines and targets. I, like most of us, became very self-centered in my daily pursuits. The house-helps would make the food, pack it in BPA free tiffin boxes and we would consume it in cold glass cabins. Thanks to the inward explorations that the lockdowns initiated, coupled with the ‘forced opportunity’ to cook for myself, there was a nuanced discovery of noticing that putting a meal together is an act of love. The sound of chopping fresh vegetables, the calm colour of caramelization, the smell of roasting at the perfect temperature – a complete sensorial experience. I had just moved to Palms and with immediate family and old friends back in Delhi, I would cook enough and did not know what to do with kadhais full of love. Call it genetics or action kicked in by memory, out came old food delivery boxes that started going to new friends’ homes in the condominium as my little Dibbas. Each dibba met with the warmest of smiles even before it tasted. As time went by, the dibbas began to return as another language of care. At any point of time there would be multiple dibbas in different towers, some with sambar, some with chicken and some with experimental laddus.
Within our close-knit community here at Palms, there was never a dearth of homes that these Dibbas of love could travel to and from, there was always enough to go around.
There was always enough for everyone when we chose to live in harmony.
