Dabbafull of memory

 I have nothing to do. I want to write but find no prompt to initiate the process. I pester the husband to give me a good word or picture prompt to write. He is as usual doing stuff that interests me little. Money-making. He ignores me. Yet, I continue nudging him in the rib. Some more indifference from his end. Followed by a little more prodding from me.

'What?' He looks up from his mobile.

'Give me a prompt to write.' I blink my eyes and give him my best smile. 

'Go write on those steel dabbas!' The dabbas are lying peacefully on the bed after I have finished munching their contents are now in focus.

'Who writes on steel dabbas?' I give the husband an aluminum dabba look, non-reflective and nonchalant.

'If you consider yourself a writer, then you must able to write on everything and anything. No? Or No.'

He gets back to his android and me...

I tramp down memory lane. Though not immediately but surely. I stare at the imbecile stainless steel dabbas. They are from my mother-in-law's kitty. Eighty percent of my kitchen is a gift from her mother or mother-in-law. Had it been my domain, it would be loaded with Tupperware and plastic containers. But luckily, I'm not a very kitchen-friendly person. I venture into the kitchen just to cook a one-time meal. Kitchen glorification doesn't amuse me.

 Observing the dabbas, I recollect my maternal grandmother's kitchen. Dabbas and dabbas of different metals. Copper, stainless steel, and aluminum(rare). She followed a monthly ritual of emptying the dabbas and cleaning them with tamarind water and the good old pitambari powder. 

Then, an old cotton sari used to be spread out in the sun and these scrubbed beauties would sit out to bask in the sun. A different kind of tanning and lazing. As the sun rose high in the spotless sky, the copper dabbas shone like pure gold. The stainless steel ones glittered with the gusto of silver. Only the rare species of aluminum remained stoic. No worries about that. We, the children enjoyed making funny faces at the steel dabbas and cracked up when our elongated reflections on the dabbas made even more, funnier faces. The fun continued all afternoon till the setting sun called it a day. Nani, as my grandmother is fondly called by all, would then emerge with a clean, cotton cloth, and pat dry her obedient babies who allowed her the cleaning ritual. 

Many times, our grandchildren used to wipe the lids as Nani went about with large containers. Trying to match the lids with the container's mouth used to be a daunting task. But for Nani, it was a left-hand job. Like all the red T-shirts of similar sizes, Nani knew exactly which one was mine, or which was Preeti's, Sonu's, or Babu's, the lids were also matched perfectly with their containers.

What do you think Nani did all day these dabbas sat in the sun? Well, she prepared chivda, chakli, and laddus to store in these dabbas. These crunchies were a surprise for us as unlike the plastic dabbas of this generation, the steel dabbas wouldn't reveal their secret delicacy. Opening each dabba carefully to check what was inside was a kind of delayed gratification of those days. Sitting crossed-legged on the kitchen platform, fixing the dabba between your thighs, and taking a deep breath before opening the lid, taught us patience. 

Yes, steel dabbas taught me to love the old as I welcome the new in my life. They remind me of a long-forgotten childhood ritual. The priceless anticipation of each Nani house vacation of what the steel dabbas would offer is etched in my memory forever. It's just that some morning like this of doing nothing has to wake and I scroll down in a bygone golden era.