I grew up in a community of South Indian immigrants. Every auntie I know has a kitchen drawer containing carefully1 yogurt dabbas. Dabba is an Indian word for "box", but it refers to all kinds of 2 too.
The reused dabbas 3 storing leftovers, religious offerings and pot-luck contributions. When I went away to university, my mom used to 4 food and send it to me with strict 5 to wash the dabbas and bring them home.
But just6 every auntie valued dabbas, every uncle hated them. Whenever my father7 about them, my mom would shoot him a look that would surely have killed a8 man.
Now, I found my way to Halifax, where I'm a physician and have a family of my own. Like my mother, I'm also a 9 owner of an expensive dabba collection, which I10 with great enthusiasm. No matter how many glass, microwave-and oven-safe containers I have, no matter how beautiful or 11 they may be, I cannot stop collecting yogurt containers.
When I married my husband, an American from Boston, handling cultural differences is surely a(n)12 . The other night, I heard him 13 in the kitchen, and the next morning, I found my dabbas in the recycling bin. I narrowed my eyes a little as I 14 them out, washed them up and replaced them in their drawer. I was practicing my mother's death 15 .
