Love, Stored In Steel Dabbas

In our fridge at home, there was always something quietly waiting to be remembered—a container of last night’s methi bhaji folded into itself, a dabba of dal whose smell softened as it reheated, or the final piece of roti my mother would wrap in a napkin and tuck away for whoever came home late. Growing up, I never thought of these things as leftovers. They were simply a part of our rhythm—dishes that didn’t end when dinner did, meals that stretched into the next day, sometimes out of frugality, but more often out of care.

My mother’s way of saving food was never rushed. She moved through the kitchen after everyone had eaten, almost instinctively, putting lids on dabbas, scraping sabzi into smaller bowls, and wiping down the stove as she went. She didn’t speak much during these moments, but somehow, the act itself felt like a form of conversation. One where the words were replaced by ladles, folded foil, and the soft clink of steel against steel. As a child, I didn’t understand it, but looking back, I think that’s when she was her most tender, not when she served the food fresh, but when she made sure it would still be there, warm and ready, when we needed it again.

In Indian households, leftovers are often spoken of in practical terms—something to stretch the week’s groceries, something not to waste. But in my experience, they also carry a kind of quiet emotional weight. They’re a second helping of love, served without ceremony. This piece gathers stories from people who, like me, have come to associate care with whatever waited for them in the fridge. It’s about the steel dabbas we opened late at night, the sabzis that somehow tasted better the next day, and the people who packed those containers without expecting a thank you.

A Working Mother’s Kitchen, Warmed the Next Morning

— Sheeba Chadha

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For actor Sheeba Chadha, the memory of food that stayed is wrapped in the aroma of mutton curry, cooked once and eaten again the next morning with palatas, soft tawa-cooked breads that soaked up every last bit. “That’s a very, very warm leftover memory,” she says, letting the feeling linger. In her childhood home, certain dishes were made to last, and their return to the table felt more like a ritual than a routine—a quiet extension of care.

The kitchen she grew up in belonged to a working mother. Meals were prepared in the morning and left behind like edible instructions, trusting the children to find their way around. There was no hierarchy or restriction around the stove—just access and the freedom to try, fail, and snack in between. “There were no rules whatsoever in the kitchen,” she says. “And even if there were, I think we knew how to disregard them.” It was a space where leftovers didn’t feel like scraps; they felt like invitations.

But Sheeba doesn’t romanticise the domestic space either. “There is joy and love, yes,” she says, “but also duty, especially when it becomes one person’s sole responsibility, which often falls on women.” Today, she finds herself acutely aware of wastage, often thinking of food not just in terms of taste or comfort, but also responsibility. “If something is cooked, someone should consume it,” she says. “It shouldn’t just sit in the fridge, rotting into guilt.”

Wrapped in Foil, Sent With Love

— Srishti Garg

For Srishti Garg, home always smelled faintly of ghee—of her mother’s famous white veg pulao, cooked in massive quantities and served with pudina chutney and bathua raita that was somehow always sourced when she visited from Mumbai. Made with matar, paneer, kaju, and lots of leafy vegetables, the pulao would stretch across lunch, dinner, and multiple dabbas, slipping easily into her day scholar tiffins and late-night cravings. “It’s the most delicious thing in the world,” she says. “Even now, it tops my list of last meals.” What started as a routine meal became ritual, something that travelled with her, not just on flights from Jodhpur to Bombay, but across phases of life. When her mother couldn’t pack food for an early flight, it was her father who stepped into the kitchen to make paneer rolls, wrapping them in foil the way she liked, turning small gestures into something resembling her mother’s presence.

The culture of leftovers in Srishti’s home grew out of gratitude, discipline, and care. Food was never to be wasted, not out of fear, but out of belief. “My mom would say, ‘Anya devta naraz ho jayenge’ if we wasted food,” she laughs. “We were genuinely scared.” It wasn’t just about food but water, servings, and even social judgment—weddings were observed silently for who left full plates behind. Over time, what began as instruction turned into habit, and eventually became her own quiet rulebook. Even now, she can’t resist yesterday’s butter chicken for breakfast or leftover pizza from the night before. Her ultimate dabba, she says, would have aloo puri from her nani, a spoon of her mother’s pulao, and a square of kaju katli—“that’s exactly what love tastes like to me.”

The Sweetest Thing Made from Leftovers

— Amol Parashar

Growing up, actor Amol Parashar remembers a homemade treat that turned dry rotis into magic. His mother would crumble them, mix in jaggery, and roll the mixture into little churma balls—mildly sweet, unexpectedly soft, and devoured like a surprise snack. “More than comfort,” he says, “it was a yummy way to consume rotis that had otherwise gone dry.” In a house where wasting food was considered near-blasphemy, these improvisations were more than thrifty — they were clever, creative acts of love.

His mother, he recalls, ran the kitchen like a quietly efficient logistics system, always finding new ways to reuse, repurpose, and rotate what they had. “It was as stunning as a magic trick at times,” he says. That sense of care-through structure, where steel dabbas carried not just food but a sense of planning and presence, shaped how he grew up thinking about nourishment. Every school tiffin carried the chance of surprise. Sometimes, the mood of his day depended entirely on what waited inside.

Today, Amol admits he’s not as frugal as his parents, though; he’s inherited some of their kitchen instincts. His fridge isn’t quite as efficiently run, but his mother still peeks in and points out what could be reused. “There’s still some inventiveness that’s been passed on,” he says. And while his ideal dabba has evolved — “some protein, some greens, something balanced”—the feeling behind it remains the same. A good dabba still means someone thought about you. That someone remembered.

She Didn’t Carry a Dabba, But She Never Went Hungry

— Kubbra Sait

Kubbra Sait didn’t grow up carrying a dabba to school or college, but that didn’t mean she missed out on its magic. “I loved stealing food from my friends,” she laughs, remembering the khichdi and daal-rice packed with just the right consistency, better than anything she ever brought from home. It wasn’t just about hunger—it was about the comfort of other people’s kitchens, the small joys of trading bites during lunch breaks. Now, years later, the roles have reversed. She brings her own dabba to set — with flowing daal, soft rice, papad, and pickle, and makes sure it tastes exactly the way she used to crave.

At home, her mother was the one who packed food and portioned leftovers with care, a role now lovingly shared by Rati, her home help. “When green mutton lands in my dabba unexpectedly, I know I’m loved,” she says. Food in her world has always carried intention—it’s how comfort is communicated and care made visible. Gratitude was stitched into every meal growing up. “We weren’t allowed to waste a single grain,” she says. “We began every meal with thanks and ended it the same way.” Her grandfather would remind them: food is first eaten with the eyes, and then the mouth, a ritual that makes every plate a little sacred.

Even today, there’s little room for waste in Kubbra’s home. Meals are cooked in small portions, and anything extra is shared with security guards, with friends, with whoever might need a little nourishment. “No wastage is the best way,” she says simply. If someone really wanted to show they cared, they’d know what to pack: crispy jalebi—the small, crunchy kind she rarely admits she likes—and kurkuri bhindi. “That’s the real dabba of love,” she says, with a grin that already tastes it.

Parathas from What Was Left

— Ida Ali

In Ida Ali’s home, the leftovers were often her favourites—rajma, kadhi, mutton—made in generous quantities with the knowledge that she’d happily eat them again the next day. Her school tiffins, packed by her didi and gently supervised by her mother, came with their own comforts: a banana or apple for nutrition, and on most days, a surprise Chocopie. “I was so content eating it in school,” she recalls. Her first tiffin box, a shiny Hannah Montana one, made her easy to spot in the sea of dabbawalas and made lunch feel a little cooler. At home, food was rarely wasted. If there was leftover dal or bhindi, a fresh bowl of anda curry might be made to accompany it. And often, whatever sabzi remained was rolled into parathas the next morning—piping hot, eaten with dahi and achaar.

That quiet habit of care extended beyond her own plate. Her mother made sure no food went unused, sending extras to neighbours, the building watchman, or packing it off with house staff. “It felt like a sin to waste food,” Ida says, a value that followed her through to college when she began cooking for herself. She portioned every meal with intention, knowing it had to last two or three days. “Food is best fresh,” she admits, “but the leftovers at home have always felt like a treat.” A ritual born of practicality, yes—but also of thoughtful nourishment, and the kind of love that lingers even after the first serving is done.

A Sindhi Sunday and the Art of Sharing

— Rohan Gurbaxani

Every Sunday growing up, the house would fill with the unmistakable smell of Sindhi dal pakwan — a crispy, spicy, comforting dish that quickly became Rohan Gurbaxani’s favourite. “It would almost always be leftover in the fridge,” he recalls, “and it’s still the dish that immediately takes me back to childhood.” In his family, food wasn’t just nourishment — it was memory. It was a ritual. The sight of that Sunday dal, quietly waiting behind the fridge light, was its own kind of love letter.

The lessons around food in Rohan’s house went beyond flavour. “My parents always taught us to never waste food,” he says. “To remember that being able to eat three times a day is a privilege.” Leftovers were not to be scraped into the bin but shared, offered, repurposed. “If I can’t finish something now,” he adds, “I always keep it for someone else—our building security, staff, or anyone who might need it more than me.”

His earliest memory of a dabba isn’t from home but from a school lunch circle on the grounds of National Public School, Indiranagar. “There was this kid with a Spider-Man tiffin. I was obsessed,” he laughs. “We’d all sit with our napkins spread out, open our lunch boxes like they were treasure chests.” Years later, if someone packed him a dabba just to say “I love you,” he says he’d want nothing fancy. Just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the same one he used to carry to school, soft with memory, sticky with love.

Rotis Reborn and Notes That Say ‘I Love You’

— Rithvikk Dhanjani

In Rithvikk Dhanjani’s Sindhi home, no roti was ever wasted—it was simply reborn. “We make something called Sel Phulka,” he says, “a dish made from leftover rotis, cooked again with masala until it becomes something new and delicious.” Even leftover pav found a second life this way, transformed into Sel Bread. These weren’t meals of lack, but ones made richer by memory, instinct, and improvisation. “It was so tasty,” he says. “It was always in the fridge. I never got tired of it.”

His sister is the one who now packs his dabba—portioning meals, counting calories, deciding what he should eat. “She does everything for me,” he says. It’s a quiet care that mirrors what his Badi Mummy once did—packing school tiffins with sandwiches, parathas, achar, and two pieces of chocolate flown in from Dubai. That early memory of the steel tiffin, of food arriving with sweetness and effort, is still tucked into his sense of what love tastes like.

Leftovers in his home weren’t just practical, they were sacred. “We were raised to believe wasting food is a sin,” he says. “People are starving, and if you’re blessed with a plate full of food, the least you can do is not throw it away.” To this day, leftovers are a quiet source of comfort. “It means Maa Annapurna has blessed your home,” he adds. “There’s always something in the fridge to keep you going.”

The Chawal Roti and Other Little Lessons

— Rida Tharana

Rida Tharana grew up in a kitchen where practicality and affection danced between rotis and reused dabbas. One of her most vivid memories is of the humble chawal ki roti—rice-flour flatbreads her mother always made a little extra of. By evening, they’d turn stiff, slightly dry, but still waited loyally in the kitchen when Rida returned from school. “Honestly, we didn’t love them,” she laughs, “but we still ended up munching on them. It was a weird mix of mild annoyance and strange comfort.”

Her mother was the original “dabba queen,” but the responsibility slowly became a family affair. Morning madness in their home meant everyone chipping in—rotis counted, rice rationed, laughter and yelling all in sync. “Now, when I look back, I realise how special that chaos was,” she reflects. Through every packed tiffin and carefully saved portion, her mother showed love in the smallest acts: remembering favourites, making extra for lunch the next day, or ensuring no grain went to waste.

Rida’s relationship with leftovers hasn’t changed much. She still eats everything she cooks, saves food from restaurants, and urges guests to serve themselves mindfully. “Food is a privilege,” she says, with quiet conviction.