A child opened his lunchbox at school in Bhayandar. Inside was methi, cooked at home. By the end of lunch, the food had been replaced with something from the canteen, a charge had been recorded, and the municipal education department would be asking the school to explain itself. According to Loksatta, Tapovan Vidyalaya charged the student ₹20 during Paryushan; other reports say it was a ₹50 fine. Even the price of the offence seems disputed.
Methi is a remarkable choice of villain. It has a little bitterness, which is probably why children need coaxing to eat it, and adults grow fond of it. Its leaves disappear into dal, thepla and sabzi. Its seeds sit in spice boxes across India. As an Ayurvedic physician, I have discussed fenugreek with patients for years. Yet I would hesitate to call it a medicine whenever I see it in a tiffin. Sometimes a vegetable is doing the far more useful work of being lunch.
The incident happened during Paryushan, a period of fasting, reflection and restraint for Jains. Food practices vary, and some observant families avoid leafy greens during this period as well as foods such as onions and root vegetables. Methi was therefore not singled out at random. To understand why it was unwelcome at the school, you first have to understand the observance.
That understanding makes the real question clearer. A school can mark a festival. It can prepare its own canteen food according to an observance and explain the practice to children who do not share it. But a lunchbox has travelled from somebody’s home. A parent bought those leaves, washed them, cooked them and packed them for a child who would be hungry by noon. When the school replaces that meal and charges the child, it has moved beyond explaining a belief. It has made one household answer to another household’s rule.
Adults can argue about that distinction over tea. A child encounters it in front of classmates, with lunch getting cold. He may not know why a leaf allowed at home has become unacceptable at school. He knows only that someone has opened his box and found a problem. Children learn quickly what causes trouble, even when adults intend to teach them something else.
I keep thinking about the ₹20. It is a small amount; that is precisely why it deserves attention. The charge makes an ordinary school procedure look tidy: an unsuitable meal found, an alternative supplied, a cost entered. Behind that neat sequence is a child who arrived with food and was told he needed different food. Calling it a canteen charge does not make the experience disappear.
There is an irony for those of us who spend our days urging families to pack more home-cooked vegetables. We speak earnestly about variety, taste and the patient art of helping children eat greens. Then one child actually brings methi, and the grown-ups make news of it. Its nutritional value does not settle the question, though. Even if the tiffin had contained a less admirable lunch, the school would still need to ask what authority it has over a family’s meal, and how it treats the child carrying it.
The education department has issued a show-cause notice, and the school’s explanation matters. So far, the report establishes a complaint and a request for an explanation; it should not be stretched into a judgment before the school has answered. But there is already a lesson here for every school. Rules about food land on children before they reach parents, officials or television studios. Their first effect is felt at the lunch table.
Tomorrow, the child may bring something else. Perhaps his family will leave methi out of the box to avoid another uncomfortable afternoon. What stays with me is the meal they packed that morning: a familiar green, prepared with care, carried all the way to school, and sent back by a rule the child had no part in making.
