If my marriage had a soundtrack, the percussion would be the sound of Tupperware lids clicking shut, and the lead melody would be my husband saying, "Hey, have you seen my lunchbox?"
Most people lose their keys or their phone. My husband? He loses lunchboxes. It is his superpower. He treats lunch containers like disposable tissues. Ever since we got married, I’ve watched a steady parade of high-quality plastic enter his office, never to be seen again. At this point, I’m convinced there is a secret underground society in his office building made entirely of his "lost" water bottles, helmets, and lunchboxes.
But last week, the universe threw us a plot twist.
The Great Pre-Lunch Heist
Usually, he loses the box after eating. This time, someone snatched it before lunch.
He called me, sounding like he’d just witnessed a heist. "It's gone! Someone took it!"
While he was panicking about his missing calories, I was actually flattered. I started laughing. My cooking is so legendary that we now have corporate spies stealing it before the noon bell? I told him, "Look on the bright side—someone finally appreciates my hard work enough to commit a crime for it!"
I told him to go buy lunch. For the first time in history, he didn't come home with a brand-new box. I think he knew that if he brought one more "mismatched set" box into my kitchen, I might lose it. My cabinets are already a chaotic museum of "The One That Got Away."
In a building with over 5,000 employees, the odds of seeing that box again were zero. We all know the drill: you assume someone took it by mistake because they have the same generic blue lid, or you quietly blame the "system."
But then, the miracle happened.
Today, the box was returned to security. Not just returned—cleaned. I have so many questions for this Mystery Eater:
Did you enjoy the spices?
Did you find the salt levels adequate?
Did it take you a full week to "muster the courage" to drop it off at security, or did it just take that long to scrub the turmeric stains out?
A Missed Bollywood Opportunity
Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. This could have been a real-life The Lunchbox movie moment. I was half-expecting a handwritten note tucked inside: "The dal was life-changing. Please send more Jeera rice on Wednesday. Sincerely, Cubicle 420"
I wouldn't even have been mad! If the Mystery Eater is reading this: I’m open to starting a private "Dabbawala" service just for you. I’ll even send an extra box with my courier (aka my husband) every day.
The only catch? It’s going to be chargeable. And for the love of all things holy, please don't make me wait a week for the box to come back next time.
P.S. To the Mystery Eater: If you’re reading this, thank you for the dishwashing services. Next time, leave a review! 4 stars? 5 stars? Or was it just "better than the cafeteria food"? My husband is already prepared to be your daily delivery driver—for a small fee, of course.
Honestly, you should probably just give me a 1-star review and be done with it. I know the complaints already:
The "Sambar" Scandal: You probably thought, "Who puts raw papaya and potatoes in sambar?!" It’s a total identity crisis, right?
The Flavor Gap: Not enough salt, zero spice, and absolutely no tamarind.
The Bean Fry Fiasco: Again with the potatoes! And without coriander powder, does a dish even legally count as "tasty"?
But here’s the thing: That wasn't your standard South Indian meal—that was authentic Odia homely food. In our kitchen, that’s exactly how we love it! Whether it stands up to your idea of "proper" sambar or not, it’s a taste of home for us. Never mind, though—I hope you enjoyed the change, even if you missed the cuisine memo entirely!
However... if you happen to be a fellow Odia who actually enjoyed the Dalma and the simple flavors—then you are more than welcome! Feel free to place your regular dabba service order with us, yet I warn you salt will be in lower side as that's my signature style.
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