We are struggling to survive. I am cutting down on household expenses.
For more than a century, Mumbai's dabbawalas have threaded the city's railways with home-cooked meals, their coded lunchboxes a quiet testament to human ingenuity operating beyond the reach of technology. Now, the twin forces of remote work and algorithmic food delivery have unraveled what colonial-era offices once made necessary, shrinking a workforce of 4,500 to barely 1,500 in less than a decade. What is being lost is not merely a logistics system but a living inheritance — a profession passed between generations that once made Mumbai's chaos legible and its hunger answerable.
- A 130-year-old delivery network is collapsing in real time, its workforce reduced by two-thirds since 2018 as the conditions that created it dissolve around it.
- The pandemic did not merely pause the trade — it permanently redirected office workers toward remote routines and app-based meals, and most never returned to their old habits.
- Dabbawalas who once earned steady livelihoods from 20 or more daily customers now scramble across 15-hour days working second jobs just to approach their former incomes.
- Swiggy, Zomato, and cloud kitchens have rewritten Mumbai's appetite, offering restaurant meals on demand at prices that make the dabbawala's modest monthly fee feel beside the point.
- Younger generations are refusing to enter the trade, and the association is experimenting with shift-based models to keep remaining workers afloat — but the path forward remains deeply uncertain.
Every morning before Mumbai fully wakes, men in white caps arrive at suburban railway stations with bicycles stacked high in steel lunchboxes. For over a century, these dabbawalas have run one of the world's most precise delivery systems — no GPS, no apps, just alphanumeric codes and an intimate knowledge of the city's trains and streets. Harvard Business School studied them. Prince Charles visited them. At their peak, 4,500 dabbawalas moved roughly 50,000 meals daily across the city.
The trade began in the late 1800s, when Bombay's expanding office class needed fresh, home-cooked food during the workday. A formalized system emerged by 1890, and for generations it ran with near-perfect reliability. Then the pandemic arrived, offices closed, and dabbawalas who once served 20 or 25 customers a day were left with a handful — or none. When offices reopened, hybrid work kept many people home, and the customers never fully returned. The registered workforce has fallen from 4,500 in 2018 to roughly 1,500 today.
Balu Bhagu Shinde spent 20 years in the trade, earning enough to support a family of five. By the end of 2020, only two customers remained. He eventually became a tuktuk driver, earning less than before, borrowing money to keep his children in school. "There are no customers, no money — what should we do?" he says.
Those who stayed have adapted by adding second jobs. Mauli Bachche starts at 7 a.m., completes his deliveries by early afternoon, then spends the rest of the day collecting savings deposits for a finance company, returning home around 10 p.m. after more than 100 kilometers of travel. He now serves 15 customers where he once served 25. "Everyone is doing more than one job," he says.
The older generation worries less about themselves than about what follows. Veteran dabbawala Baban Kadam, with 35 years in the trade, says plainly that younger people will not enter work that can no longer sustain a family in one of India's most expensive cities. The association is exploring shift-based arrangements to allow part-time work alongside deliveries, but even its president admits uncertainty about the future.
Each morning, Mumbai's trains still carry men weaving through platforms with stacks of steel lunchboxes. But the system that once earned global admiration now risks being left behind by the very city that made it famous.
Every morning in Mumbai, before the city fully stirs, men in white caps and shirts arrive at suburban railway stations on bicycles laden with steel lunchboxes. They load these boxes onto trains, cross the sprawling city, then fan out on foot and motorbike to deliver hot, home-cooked meals to office workers. By afternoon, they reverse the route, collecting empty containers and returning them to the kitchens they came from. For more than a century, these men—called dabbawalas—have operated one of the world's most precise delivery systems, so reliable that Harvard Business School studied it as a masterclass in low-cost logistics. Even the future King Charles visited them during a 2003 trip to Mumbai. The system became a point of pride for the city: beneath the noise and rush, some things still worked with unshakeable precision.
The trade began in the late 1800s, when Bombay was rapidly expanding under British colonial rule and office workers needed a way to eat fresh, home-cooked food during the workday. A Parsi banker is credited with the original idea, hiring someone to fetch his lunch from home each morning. By 1890, a man named Mahadeo Bachche had formalized the system with about 100 workers. Early dabbawalas used colored threads to mark boxes; these evolved into the alphanumeric codes still used today—each marking revealing the box's origin, destination, building floor, and return route. No apps, no GPS. Just generations of workers who knew Mumbai's trains and streets by instinct. At its peak, around 4,500 dabbawalas delivered roughly 50,000 lunchboxes daily across the city.
Then the pandemic arrived. Offices shut. People worked from home. Dabbawalas who once served 20 or 25 customers a day suddenly had only a handful—or none. With little savings to cushion the blow, many left the trade entirely. Offices reopened, but remote and hybrid work models never fully reversed the damage. The number of registered dabbawalas has collapsed from approximately 4,500 in 2018 to roughly 1,500 today, according to the Mumbai Tiffin Box Suppliers Association. At the same time, Mumbai's relationship with food shifted. Online delivery apps like Swiggy and Zomato, along with cloud kitchens offering restaurant meals at low prices, gave people choices the dabbawala system had never faced. Where dabbawalas once had little competition—charging just 2,000 rupees ($21) a month for home-cooked meals—they now compete with everything from biryani to burgers available at the tap of a screen.
Balu Bhagu Shinde spent 20 years as a dabbawala. At 41, he once earned about 20,000 rupees a month delivering to 15 or 20 customers daily—enough to support a family of five in one of India's most expensive cities. By the end of 2020, only two customers remained. He waited for offices to reopen, but the customers never came back in meaningful numbers. Eventually, he became a tuktuk driver, earning around 15,000 rupees a month—less than his dabbawala income, but he had few alternatives. "There are no customers, no money—what should we do?" he says. "We are struggling to survive. I am cutting down on household expenses, but I have three children whose education matters the most. At times I have had to borrow money."
For those who stayed, survival increasingly means working two jobs. Mauli Bachche, 40, has been a dabbawala for two decades. His day begins at 7 a.m. from his suburban home. By 10:30, he has collected lunchboxes from homes and small kitchens across his neighborhood and loaded them onto trains. By early afternoon, deliveries are complete. At 2 p.m., the return cycle begins. Then comes his second job: collecting small daily savings deposits from shopkeepers on behalf of a finance company. He finally returns home around 10 p.m., having spent up to 15 hours working and traveled more than 100 kilometers across the city. Before the pandemic, he delivered 25 lunchboxes. Now only 15 customers remain. "Income from dabbawala work is very low," he says. "Everyone is doing more than one job."
For the older men in the business, the deeper worry is not for themselves but for what comes after. Baban Kadam, who has worked as a dabbawala for 35 years, puts it plainly: "In our time, we managed to survive. But with today's cost of living, the younger generation will not come into this work. Everyone wants a better-paying job or business." The association is now considering shift-based work so dabbawalas can take part-time jobs alongside their morning deliveries, allowing them to earn from other work or small businesses. But even the association's president, Ramdas Baban Karvande, is uncertain. "We are continuing for now," he says. "But we cannot say what will happen in the future."
For now, each morning, Mumbai's trains still carry men weaving through crowded platforms with stacks of steel lunchboxes, preserving a tradition that was once synonymous with the city's precision and pace. But the system that fed millions and earned global admiration now risks being left behind by the very city that made it famous.
Citas Notables
After the lockdown, work-from-home started. Some people now go to the office only two or three times a week. This had a big impact on Mumbai's dabbawalas.— Kiran Gavande, secretary of the Mumbai Tiffin Box Suppliers Association
In our time, we managed to survive. But with today's cost of living, the younger generation will not come into this work. Everyone wants a better-paying job or business.— Baban Kadam, 35-year dabbawala
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What made the dabbawala system so remarkable in the first place?
It was elegant simplicity. A code on a box told you everything—where it came from, where it was going, which floor, how to get it back. No technology, just knowledge of the city and absolute reliability. For over a century, that worked.
And then what changed?
Two things happened at once. The pandemic sent people home, so suddenly there was no one in the office to deliver to. But even when offices reopened, people didn't come back the same way. They worked from home two or three days a week. And meanwhile, Swiggy and Zomato arrived. For 2,000 rupees a month, you got home-cooked food. Now you can get anything—biryani, burgers, whatever—on your phone in minutes.
So it's not just about the pandemic.
No. The pandemic was the shock, but the real problem is that the entire city's relationship with food changed. The dabbawala had no competition for a hundred years. Now they're competing with everything.
What happens to the people who leave?
They become tuktuk drivers, or they work two jobs. One man I read about went from earning 20,000 rupees a month to 15,000. He has three children. He's borrowing money for their education.
Is there any way the system survives?
The association is trying shift-based work so dabbawalas can take other jobs in the afternoon. But even the leaders don't know. They say they're continuing for now, but they can't promise the future. The younger generation won't come into this work. Why would they?
So it's really about generational replacement failing.
Exactly. The older men survived on less. But their children want better-paying jobs. And who can blame them? The system that fed a city is becoming invisible.