Most of the stories I write are lived-in experiences. The Lunchbox is based on a memory from my childhood. Many tiny nuggets surface in my brain, now and then. Some are written, several recede into hiding.
THE LUNCHBOX
That night, Malavika was unable to sleep.
After a night of crumpling her sheets, tossing, and turning, she stared at the clock when daylight peeked into the room. The minutes seemed to crawl as she counted each passing second. On hearing her amma’s voice, she kept her eyes tightly shut, pretending to be asleep, waiting for the familiar footsteps of her parents to come and cuddle and kiss her.
However, this was not an everyday occurrence.
On school mornings, Amma would open the curtains, letting the harsh light rouse Malavika from her slumber. “Malu, it’s time. Get up. Brush your teeth,” she would say, her voice stern. Achan would be in the other room, quietly reading the newspaper.
On weekends, though, it was different. Not amma but achan awoke her in his unique way, calling her name in nine different variations. But the one that made Malu smile most was “Malu, my jeevankutty.” He would run his stubby fingers through her curly ringlets and wait for her to open her eyes. Then, gently drawing back the curtains to shield her from the blinding sunlight, he would scoop her up in his arms. Malu, still half-asleep, would wrap her tiny hands around his neck. Afterwards, he would place toothpaste on her toothbrush and watch her brush sleepily. Those were the mornings Malu loved the most.
But today was different. It wasn’t an ordinary day.
Today, Malu was turning seven, and for her birthday, amma and achan followed a ritual. A grand celebratory way of waking her up together, no matter whether it was a school day or a weekend. Filled with excitement, Malu woke up a little earlier than usual today, but kept her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar song. When they sang a cheerful, if slightly off-key, “Happy Birthday, dear Malu,” she fluttered her eyes open and enveloped her arms around their necks. They carried her to the living room, where the birthday presents awaited her arrival. Malu jumped up and down as she saw her new dress, a red with white polka dot frock with matching pumps and hairband.
Every year, Malu made a list of things she hoped to get for her birthday. She shared it with amma, who would discuss the list with achan. He would sit with a diary, counting the currency notes, while amma rummaged through the rice-and-dal tin in the kitchen to pull out the folded bills. Malu observed as achan unfolded the money and placed it inside the diary. He lifted her onto his lap and tickled her until her giggles filled the room.
This year, however, Malu surprised her parents with a simple request. Instead of a long list of gifts, she asked for just one thing: a new lunchbox, just like the one her friend Amudha carried to school. Amudha’s lunchbox was a tall, vertical steel container with a thin steel handle, unlike the round or square ones used by most children. Malu’s eyes sparkled, becoming round as the poori’s amma made when she described it to her parents. The words tumbled from her lips, often toppling on one another, making little sense.
Amma raised an eyebrow. “Villagers use those to carry porridge, or we can fill oil or buttermilk. Do you want that?”
Achan said, “If my molukutty wants it, then she shall have it.”
“Oh, don’t you pamper her more! She will not be comfortable eating from it.”
“No, amma, I will use a spoon.”
“So, you will eat dosa with a spoon?”
Malu folded her arms across her chest, sticking out her lower lip in a determined pout. She nodded firmly.
“No point in talking to you both. Do whatever.”
So, the weekend before her birthday, Malu walked with her parents down the street flanked by shops selling steel utensils. Amidst the shining steel pots and containers, Malu’s eyes caught sight of the cylindrical container swaying gently from a hook. The rotund, bald storekeeper dawdled closer, noticing Malu’s animation. He grabbed a long stick with a hook at the tip and carefully lowered the hanging container. He dusted it off and smiled. “This is a perfect vessel for oil or buttermilk. Top-quality steel,” he said with a grin.
“Exactly. This is for oil, silly girl. How can you take lunch in something like this?”
Achan glared at amma. “Don’t call her silly.”
“If you lose this lunchbox, I will never buy you another one,” Amma warned.
“My molukutty never loses anything.”
Malu’s eyes met her father’s, and they shared a silent understanding. The deal was sealed. The storekeeper wiped his pate with the dustcloth, pulled a pencil behind his ear, and offered achan a notepad.
“Write the name you want on the container,” he said.
With the whir of a machine, Malu’s name appeared letter by letter, her ownership emblazoned. The storekeeper chuckled, added a small flower after her name, and chucked her chin.
Now, Malu sat mesmerised in her polka frock, gazing as her achan filled a box with eclairs and Amma packed fried rice into the new lunchbox.
As they rode their TVS 50 to school, Malu hugged achan tightly as they lagged behind a walking man. She rejoiced at the adoration of her teachers and friends as she handed out chocolates. At lunchtime, she proudly displayed her new lunchbox, but Amudha’s face stiffened, her lips drawn thin, and her eyes furrowed as she scrutinised Malu’s lunch.
Precisely one month later, Malu arrived at school with her old round lunchbox, cloaked in a dispirited sense of loss. It wasn’t clear whether she had misplaced her precious lunchbox or if amma had taken it to her mother’s house with some payasam, and Granny never returned it. But now, Malu would have to wait another 11 months before she could ask for the same lunchbox again. Or, by then, she would have other pressing needs and newer wishes. Perhaps a year older and wiser, she wouldn’t set her heart upon frivolous belongings.
Pic Courtesy: Cengiz Ozarpart
