The unseen logics: Why India’s lunchbox delivery is a feat of human greatness
In an era dominated by AI and complex algorithms, there is a manual system in Mumbai that achieves what tech giants still struggle with: a 0.000001% error rate. This is the story of the Dabbawalas, and how their logic changed my perspective on craftsmanship. Mumbai’s Dabba system and Japanese craftsmanship share a secret: The Human Factor.
Did you know that the biggest film production country is Bollywood in India, not Hollywood in the US? (In 2016, India produced 1,986 films, compared to Hollywood’s 660.) If you haven’t watched any Bollywood movies yet, I highly recommend you try one. To be honest, I only recently gained access to Bollywood movies thanks to streaming services. Today, I want to introduce my favorite, “Dabba” (The Lunchbox).
In Hindi, Dabba means lunch box. In Mumbai, millions of office workers rely on a lunch box delivery service run by people called “Dabbawalas.” The service is completely manual yet super-organized. Dabbawalas pick up the lunch boxes from each home by bicycle, consolidate them, transport them by train to the office district, and pass them on to other Dabbawalas for the final desk-to-desk delivery. The movie showed no slips or digital tracking.
My curiosity was piqued after watching the film, so I did some research. I discovered several factors that allow this system to function with such surgical precision. Among them, I believe the most crucial is the profound level of trust fostered by a simple rule: the Dabbawalas at the beginning and the end of the chain—the ones picking up from home and delivering to the desk—are always the same people.
While people might think I only enjoy indulging in cold logic on this blog, the truth is, I have a deep affection for these emotional, rawly human elements.
Miniature garden vs. sandwich: The art of the Japanese Bento
I was also surprised by the contents of the lunch boxes in the film—they looked decent and substantial, much like Japanese Bento. Lunch boxes I’ve seen in many Hollywood movies often appear humbler, consisting of a simple sandwich, chips, and an apple. (I say this without malice, but every time I see such a lunch, I’m secretly glad I was born in Japan!)
The contents of the Japanese Bento are always characterized by great variety. Like a miniature garden (a traditional art form replicating a Japanese landscape in a small box), set menu meals are neatly arranged. They are carefully placed together, considering taste combinations and visual qualities, but they are not meant to be mixed up. If you go to the food section of a Japanese supermarket or department store, you will be mesmerized by the sheer variety of Bento on display.
The structural difference: Separate tiffins vs. curved wooden Bento
On the other hand, the biggest difference between the Indian Dabba and the Japanese Bento is in the packaging itself.
The Dabba typically consists of multiple small, circular containers (Tiffin tins) made of silver-colored stainless steel, separating different meals entirely. In the Japanese Bento, all meals are placed together in a single container. While modern Bento boxes are mostly made of plastic (microwave-safe polypropylene), the traditional wooden lunch boxes still survive in some areas.
These traditional Japanese wooden lunch boxes, known as magewappa (bent wood box), have a unique structure: they are made without any steel nails (using only bamboo nails) and feature an oval shape with side walls made of bent wood.
From lunchbox bending to chair bending: The legacy of cypress and cedar
The traditional wooden Bento box requires a little extra care: you should dip it in water for a second before use and dry it completely afterward. This effort is absolutely worth it. The material—often Japanese cypress or cedar—maintains appropriate moisture levels, helping the rice stay fresh, and adds a natural, pleasant aroma to the meal.
The traditional wood-bending technology used to create the side walls of magewappa has been directly handed down to our furniture-making process. We use this intricate technique to bend wood to create beautiful, strong parts for our chairs.
Because wood is a natural material, no two pieces are ever the same. A craftsman must carefully observe the grain and feel the texture of each piece, applying just the right amount of pressure to bend it gradually. It is a process that absolutely demands deep human experience.
So, after that fascinating cultural journey comparing the analog genius of Mumbai with the intuitive wood-bending craftsmanship of Japan, where have we landed? This is a somewhat idealistic anthem to humanity: the idea that humans are essential to keeping human society turning. Even if the lunch prep is a little late, the Dabba is still delivered because of the human connection. Even a stubborn piece of wood can be bent without breaking, thanks to a craftsman’s intuition. For now, it seems only humans can navigate the fluidity and variability of living things—including ourselves.
Another humble destination is, of course, the fact that we can bend wood, just like they did for your traditional lunchbox. When you come to Japan next time, I encourage you to buy a traditional magewappa box, fill it with a beautiful Japanese Bento, and then drop by our factory. You can see how the technology that perfected your lunchbox now perfects our furniture. (I apologize for the sudden commercial break!)
I confess that I am the kind of man who derives a small, petty sense of superiority from watching a Hollywood protagonist eat a lonely sandwich, while I imagine the miniature garden of a Japanese Bento. It is a wonderfully human trait to find pride in the most literal of boxes. But my obsession with “bent wood” didn’t stop at perfecting the humidity of your rice. I took that same ancestral technology—the very same “magewappa” technique that makes our lunchboxes a marvel of analog engineering—and used it to build a sanctuary for a virtual goddess.
Behold the Hatsune Miku Art Chair. It is the most expensive and least edible “Bento box” you will ever own. A fusion of Mumbai’s logistical soul, Japan’s miniature aesthetics, and a digital icon who, unlike me, never needs to worry about her lunch. Click the banner below to visit our Special Exhibition Site. I apologize for the blatant commercialism, but when you’ve mastered the art of bending trees, every chair begins to look like a masterpiece of structural logic. Grab a seat, and try not to spill your miso soup on the craftsmanship. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.
Shungo Ijima
Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker
After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.
Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.
He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.
Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!