The Many Lives of Dabba

My mother used recycled yoghurt containers to share food-and love. Now I do the same

- Arundhati Dhara

EVERY AUNTIE I KNOW has a kitchen drawer containing a carefully maintained collection of yoghurt dabbas. Dabba is a pan-Indian word for ‘box,’ but it refers to all manner of containers, too. Like the Hindu concept of reincarnation, dabbas live many lives; the 750-millilitre containers that hold the yoghurt we buy at the supermarket and eat every day are saved and washed, and washed again.

The reused dabbas end up storing leftovers, religious offerings and potluck contributions. They pass from house to house, living in their drawer, the fridge or the pooja room (often it’s actually a closet) where the morning prayers are recited. Sometimes they are even returned to their original owners, full of some other delicious food. This is a fairly advanced manoeuvre and one only the elder aunties manage— recognizing their dabba from their friends’ seemingly identical container is nothing short of miraculous.

I grew up in a community of South Indian immigrants, and the manufacturer’s labelling on the dabbas was a source of information about the families they came from. Rich, fatty yoghurts might indicate a still-secret pregnancy, as women are routinely encouraged to eat everything (and I mean everything) when gestating. Low fat—or worse—non-fat yoghurt meant someone’s doctor had been talking about cholesterol. And sweetened, flavoured yoghurt? That was an abomination that didn’t bear mention.