We have a box in our house. Not the kind that holds heirloom jewelry or vintage photos — no velvet lining, no ornate locks. Just a plain, slightly battered, stainless steel dabba. To anyone else, it’s unremarkable. But in our family, it’s the most quietly respected object in the kitchen. Because this one steel box has passed through the hands of my grandmother, my mother, and now me — carrying food, memory, and the kind of legacy that doesn’t need gold to shine.
It began, I’m told, in Chennai sometime in the 1960s. My grandmother had just moved into a new home with my grandfather — her trousseau included saris, brass lamps, and this steel box. She used it to store dry snacks for him to take on long train rides. Murukku, ribbon pakoda, and sweet sev that crumbled just right. It wasn’t expensive, but it was hers. Chosen with care. Wrapped in brown paper at the time. Its first purpose: nourishment on the go. Its quiet function: care that travels.
The Box Becomes a Constant
Years later, it moved to Mumbai when my mother did. After my grandmother passed, my mom kept the box like a reflex. She used it for her own purposes — storing roasted peanuts for evening tea, or sometimes sugar crystals and cardamom. It was always on the second shelf in the corner cabinet, nestled between newer, shinier containers that came and went. The lid had started to stick a little by then, and the bottom bore the faint outline of a long-ago burn mark. But it stayed.
No one talked about it much. It wasn’t kept on display. But it was always reached for first. When my mom sent me off to college, she filled it with masala shakkarpare. “This box is old,” she said, “don’t lose it.” I never did. Mostly because I was too scared to face the consequences — but also because something about that dabba felt like home, sealed tight.
A Container of Continuity
By the time I moved to Austin, the box came with me. Carefully bubble-wrapped and tucked into a suitcase full of pickles, parathas, and panic. It now lives in my kitchen cabinet, a little dented from customs inspection but otherwise unchanged. I use it to store chai masala. Sometimes dried curry leaves. Sometimes jaggery. Always something that feels essential.
On Sundays, when I open it for a pinch of masala before brewing tea, I smell the blend and instantly feel the echo of three kitchens — my apartment in Texas, my mother’s flat in Mumbai, my grandmother’s old tiled kitchen in Chennai. The smell isn’t just cardamom and clove. It’s movement. Migration. Inheritance.
Steel as Story
We romanticize handwritten letters, hand-me-down books, antique clocks. But the steel dabba? It’s the real workhorse of memory. It’s the one that got used. Not just saved. It heard gossip and kitchen laughter. It sat through festivals and regular Mondays. It traveled by train, by cupboard, by cargo. It was never flashy. But it endured.
Steel carries with it a kind of practicality that’s deeply Indian. It doesn’t warp easily. It survives fire and freezer. It doesn’t absorb flavor, but it holds on to memory. The dents? Each one is a decade. Each scratch, a recipe. Each time you twist the lid and hear that soft *click*, you’re opening more than just what’s inside. You’re opening continuity.
Not All Inheritance Is Fragile
What strikes me now is that the box was never treated as precious. It was used, knocked around, cleaned with regular dish soap. And maybe that’s what made it so powerful — it didn’t live in a showcase. It lived in our hands. It aged with us. Quietly.
Some day, I’ll probably pass it on. Maybe my future child will roll their eyes when I say, “This box came from your great-grandmother’s kitchen.” But I hope they keep it anyway. I hope they reach for it when they need something real. Something that works. Something that tells them: you come from a line of people who may not have had much, but they cooked, they carried, and they endured.
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.
