Somewhere in the universe, there’s a parallel dimension filled with plastic lids that once belonged to your kitchen. They’re all there—every shade of blue, translucent, slightly-warped, snap-on, press-fit, branded and unbranded. Because in this world, your Tupperware has no matching lid. And no matter how many times you swear you organized it, the trauma repeats. You open the drawer with hope. You close it with rage. Welcome to the lifelong emotional saga: “Where’s the lid?”
In our home, Tupperware wasn’t just storage—it was status. The original pieces, gifted or hoarded from exhibitions, were guarded like family silver. “Don’t lose this one, it’s from Singapore,” my mother would say, while handing me a round box of leftover rajma. The lid clicked on with a sound of finality. A seal of trust. And inevitably, that same lid would vanish within a week, leaving behind an orphaned bowl that haunted the drawer for years.
The Great Plastic Mismatch
There is no betrayal quite like pulling out what you think is the matching lid—same color, same size, same vibe—only to discover that it’s just a few millimeters off. You try forcing it. You twist. You press. You curse. You consider switching careers. The lid doesn’t care. It was never meant for this container. And deep down, you know it. But you try anyway, because hope is the most renewable resource in the desi kitchen.
And then there’s the opposite situation: you find the lid, perfect fit—but the box is gone. You wonder: was it left at a friend’s house? Did it melt in the microwave? Did someone use it as a water bowl for the dog? Was it sacrificed in the Great Diwali Fridge Cleanout of 2016? No answers. Just a lonely lid and your quiet grief.
Family Feuds, Storage Wars
The lid problem has started actual arguments in my family. Aunty gave back the dabba but swapped the lid. Didi took the one box you actually liked for her hostel lunch. Dad used the best airtight box for storing nuts and never returned it to the kitchen. And somewhere, your mom still remembers who “borrowed” that yellow-lid one back in 2007. She’s never letting it go. Neither the grudge nor the hope of the lid’s return.
Because desi kitchens don’t forget. We might misplace the masala dabba lid or drop the steel cup behind the washing machine, but Tupperware trauma? That lives rent-free in our heads. Every mismatched set is a reminder of our overconfidence in “just keeping things organized this time.”
DIY Solutions and Desperate Measures
We’ve all tried it. The “lid box.” The great matching exercise on a Sunday afternoon. The “write with permanent marker” trick that rubbed off after two washes. The vow to never accept dabbas without lids ever again. And yet, the chaos persists. Somehow, Tupperware mutates, multiplies, and migrates. You start with five containers. A month later, you have 13 lids, 8 bowls, and no relationships left intact.
Eventually, we get creative. Use a plate instead. Rubber band a plastic sheet. Stack another container as a makeshift lid. At some point, you just surrender and turn the whole fridge into a live-action Jenga of slightly ajar boxes that spill curry every time you reach for milk.
The Lid Is a Metaphor
Maybe the missing lid is just life reminding us that perfection is a myth. That not everything fits. That some matches are temporary, and some boxes are meant to be covered with aluminum foil forever. That even in the most put-together homes, there’s always that one drawer that’s just… chaos. And that’s okay.
Because in the grand story of desi kitchens, the Tupperware lid isn’t just plastic. It’s memory, madness, mystery. And a little bit of masochism.
So the next time someone asks, “Where’s the lid for this?”—don’t answer. Just smile. They’ll learn, eventually.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
