The shed welcomed us at 12:30 pm everyday, gleaming brightly under the midday sun.
The shed in our school was a simple metal structure with a tin roof. Nestled between lush green trees, at the end of the garden, it was massive, dominating the entire width of the garden. Six large doors enveloped it, interspersed with large windows. Eight long ceiling fans hung from its two metal beams. The shed was used for many things. The morning assembly, badminton and throw ball championships, practice for school events, voting for captains and the year-end school fest. But it was most loved during the afternoon break when its tables and benches were laid out for lunch. Unlike other schools, our lunch break lasted for a luxurious 45 minutes.
Those who carried lunch from home, packed lovingly in plastic or steel boxes, ate under the shade of the Banyan or Peepal tree, on good days. In peak summer, they ate in their classrooms. For a select few, the shed welcomed us at 12:30 pm every day, gleaming brightly under the midday sun.
Not everyone was allowed in. It was only for those who got hot lunch from home.
Once a day, parents or staff members were allowed into the school through the back gate to serve hot food to their children. Each carried a pass in their hand, vetted by the guard at the gate. Only one family or staff member was allowed per child.
Everyone had their place in the shed. It was not a first-come-first serve situation. Once you had marked your place on the bench, it stayed till you stopped hot lunch or graduated. It was an unsaid rule that no one dared break. Naturally, the older girls got the best seats, right under the fans. The newcomers had to take whatever was left. We were not kind. We did not adjust to new kids. They had to fend for themselves.
The Hot Lunch system was our first foray into the politics of class, introducing us to the complicated world of hierarchies, the world of the rich and wealthy. There were three distinct tiers. The rich kids sat together, taking up the prime seats in the centre of the shed. They were served by staff members and were often seen throwing tantrums, not finishing their food and running away while their didis ran behind them, coaxing them to take one last bite. The food must be finished or madam will scold us, I would hear them say. The girls would just laugh and walk away.
Next were the Bengali girls. They were served by their mothers. Their food always smelled the most delicious – mutton curry with rice, fish fry with daal and roti, chicken stews and pot pies. The vegetarians did not like it. It made them nauseous. Ugly comments were made. Fights broke out. But the Bengali mothers stood firm in the belief that their children must be fed a balanced diet inclusive of protein. Eventually an agreement was made and the far end of the shed was given to them.
The rest of us fit in where ever we found space. We were neither from rich families, nor had mothers who were free to come and feed us. We were the in-betweens, fitting into the cracks in the wall. Our meals were simple but delicious. We ate quickly, avoiding eye contact with our heads down. Our tables were a mix of old and young, new to the system and those jaded by it. I belonged to this tier.
Each table had two benches, one on either side and could accommodate six people. My table was jokingly called the unreserved coach because the five girls who ate with me were never the same. Each day a new set of girls would find a seat at my table. They came there because all the other places were occupied. We had a mix of vegetarian and non-vegetarian eaters who did not mind sitting next to each other. I considered us the liberal bunch – the table with the least hang-ups.
I hated hot lunch. The walk to the shed was a long and lonely one. Saraswati didi was always on time, waiting with my food spread out. A red table mat, a glass of cold buttermilk, hot daal, rice, sabzi with salad, and if I’m lucky, then fried bhindi or aloo papad. Like the other girls at my table, I ate quickly, avoiding conversation. I never gave myself more than fifteen minutes and rushed back to my friends the minute the last morsel had vanished into my mouth.
I did not consider the effort it must have taken my mother to send lunch to school every day. We lived in a joint family and did not have a dedicated driver. I don’t know how she managed it. In the two years that she sent food to school, she never missed a day. She did not pack my tiffin saying today won’t be possible. She never gave me money so that I could buy food in school.
Eventually I convinced my mother to stop sending hot lunch. “It’s too much work for you mumma. Just give me tiffin instead, like all my other friends,” I coaxed her. “I prefer eating with them and I really don’t mind cold food.”
She gave in, sighing and making me promise to finish my meals. “Pakka promise,” I swore earnestly, pinching the soft skin in the middle of my throat. A new tiffin was bought, with a case where a spoon and fork could be tucked in. The lunch became less elaborate – pulao with dahi, cucumber and tomato sandwich with cheese, aloo cutlets or aloo parantha. My friends loved my food and I loved theirs. It was a win-win situation. My tiffin was always wiped clean, not a single scrap of food left behind.
My mother never showed affection physically. We did not grow up with warm hugs and soft kisses. She did not cuddle or stoke my hair affectionately. Her hugs had to be earned. I spent my school years trying to make her proud – a good grade in class, praise from my teacher, becoming prefect and captain. I learnt to measure success through awards and accolades. My empty tiffin always made her smile.
Today, as I pack my daughter’s lunch, heating the food and carefully stacking the containers into an insulated tiffin, hoping that the food stays hot by the time she eats it, I remember my Hot lunch days in school. I place a table mat in her bag, a spoon and fork tucked neatly in the front pouch of her school bag. It makes me smile. I have come full circle, a worried mother who wants her child to eat well.
I realise the effort my mother must have put in to curate the lunch menu every day, keeping in mind my likes and dislikes. It strikes me then, that my mother showed her love through food. Did I take that away from her when I asked her to stop sending me hot lunch? Did I rob her of the joy she derived in knowing that her daughter was eating well? I will never know.
But I do know, that she sent her love, packed daily in a hot insulated steel tiffin, with a glass of cold buttermilk on a bright red table mat. And if I was lucky, a portion of fried bhindi or aloo papad.