THE LUNCHBOX I USED TO HIDE
Personal Experience
For almost a year, I tried to open my lunchbox as quietly as possible.
The problem was not the box.
It was what was inside.
Most of my classmates brought sandwiches, noodles, pasta or neatly packed snacks.
My lunch often came wrapped in foil inside a steel container.
Parathas.
Lemon rice.
Idlis.
Sometimes yesterday’s sabzi transformed into something my mother insisted was “even better today.”
At home, I loved that food.
At school, I suddenly became embarrassed by it.
The embarrassment began with one comment.
“What is that smell?”
Nobody said it cruelly.
Someone was simply curious.
But when everyone looked towards my desk, my face became hot.
“Nothing,” I said, closing the lid.
After that, I developed a strategy.
Wait until everyone else had started eating.
Open the lunchbox only halfway.
Eat quickly.
Close it before anyone asked questions.
When Mum asked whether I liked what she packed, I always said yes.
I never told her that I sometimes returned home hungry.
Then one Wednesday, everything changed because of a forgotten lunch.
My friend Kabir searched through his bag twice before announcing the disaster.
“I left it on the kitchen table.”
Our teacher would have allowed him to buy something from the canteen, but the queue was enormous.
So I did something obvious.
I pushed my lunchbox towards him.
“Take some.”
Inside were aloo parathas with pickle.
He tore off a piece.
Then another.
Then he looked at me.
“Your lunch is amazing.”
I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
Two other friends asked whether they could try some.
Within minutes, the lunch I had spent months trying to hide had become the most popular thing at the table.
The next day, Kabir brought homemade dhokla.
Someone else brought curd rice.
Another friend produced sandwiches and announced that nobody was allowed to insult sandwiches merely because they looked boring.
Without planning it, our lunch table became an exchange.
Tiny portions moved from one box to another.
We learned the names of foods eaten in different homes.
We discovered that the same ingredient could taste completely different depending on who cooked it.
A week later, Mum opened my returned lunchbox and looked surprised.
“Completely empty?”
“Yes.”
“Finally hungry?”
I hesitated.
Then I told her the truth.
Not everything.
Just enough.
I said my friends liked her parathas.
She smiled in a way that made me realise how ridiculous I had been.
Food had never been the embarrassing part.
I had been afraid that being different would make me stand out.
What I had not understood was that sometimes difference is exactly what gives people something to share.
I still like sandwiches.
But I no longer open my lunchbox quietly.
In fact, when Mum packs parathas, I usually ask for an extra one.