When reciprocity was recipe for disaster

We grew up in Army cantonments where neighbours became immediate family and support system. They were there when your kitchen ran out of things. You yelled your requirements across the boundary wall or terrace and things appeared in a jiffy. The neighbour was always around to help baby-sit during a crisis… when you needed a mad dash to the infirmary or something from the market… or just for a plain chit-chat. These friendships are still strong over decades.

My best memories are of a time when we would be all packed and ready to move, with the truck being loaded and the neighbours spoiling us with tea, coffee, snacks, meals and drinking water. A packed hamper of food would be tucked into the car as well for the arduous journey ahead. We managed even with a ‘shut kitchen’ for days. Sadly, things have changed over the years and that ‘family’ feeling is missing… people appear to be busy and social niceties have taken a backseat.

The loveliest part normally for me is that while having a chat, you casually hand over an extra plate of hot, home-cooked food to the neighbour. It gives you a sense of purpose when you share your creation with a friend, sometimes just a simple dish. Doing so has opened the doors of conversation that I never thought possible. Shared food has a way of breaking down barriers.

On my many long travels for work, my husband manages alone though he can whip up a storm in the kitchen and produce a meal fit for a king. Kind neighbours in our block-of-four accommodation — characteristic of a cantonment — send him small dabbas every now and then. He reciprocates with something special.

This one time, the same dabba returned once too often with various delicacies and my husband was wondering what to do next and also how to put a stop to it. Since I was joining him in a few days, I asked him to hold on till my return. A freshly baked cake was sliced, packed and sent across with a gentle, yet firm message that the dabba exchange could stop. My husband’s sahayak was soon back with a quizzical look, blurting out that the contents had been taken but the dabba was not theirs.

Only a man can mess up a reciprocal food exchange system such as this and we stood there laughing as we realised the wrong dabbas were being sent to homes, and so it was only natural that they kept coming back. Finally, everything was put in place and things were back to normal. The art of sharing food doesn’t require a Herculean effort. It can be a few slices of cake or steaming momos on a plate. It can be a jar of soup or a few fresh tomatoes from the garden. It’s often these spur-of-the-moment gifts that create the biggest blessings.