Tiffin Tots and the Price of Envy

By Parambrahma Tripathy

Scroll through your phone lately? Ads pop up like monsoon frogs, loud and everywhere. It’s that time again—new school year, fresh backpacks, shiny shoes. But this one ad stops you cold. A tiny kid, barely 4 or 5, all big eyes and pigtails, tugs at her mom’s saree. “Mummy, XXX liya kya?” she chirps. It’s about tiffin boxes and water bottles, the kind with cartoon stickers and bright lids. Cute, right? Then the jingle hits: “Dusre bacchon ko jalana hai?” Wait. What? Are we teaching toddlers to strut their stuff and make other kids squirm?

Fear of being left out

That line sticks like a burr. A little girl, still wobbly on her feet, learning to flaunt before she can even spell “envy.” It’s not her fault—those words come from a script, penned by some ad guy in a glass office. But it’s us, the grown-ups, who let it play. We nod along, swipe our cards, and pack her bag with the shiniest gear. Why? Because the neighbor’s kid has it. Because the WhatsApp group is buzzing about it. Because we’re scared she’ll feel left out.

Parenting’s tricky, no doubt. You want your kid to smile, to fit in, to not cry because her tiffin’s plain steel while Priya’s got unicorns. So, you buy. More toys, fancier bottles, anything she points at in the store. It’s easier than saying no. Easier than sitting down with her when the day’s done, asking about her friends, her dreams, her little world. Time’s the one thing we can’t order online, so we pile up the plastic instead. But here’s the catch: every toy we toss her way hides a truth. We’re not just filling her hands—we’re emptying something else.

Look around. India’s a loud, messy, beautiful chaos. We’ve got kids in Mumbai high-rises with iPads and kids in villages with slates, all chasing the same sun. Yet, somehow, we’re raising a generation that’s starting to weigh everything by the rupee. That tiffin ad? It’s not just a jingle—it’s a mirror. We’re telling them, young as they are, that worth comes from what you carry, not who you are. And that’s a heavy load for a 5-year-old.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Picture this: your kid comes home, shoes muddy, grin wide. She’s been playing with Aarav from down the lane. His dad’s a rickshaw puller, hers a bank manager. Does she care? Not yet. She shouldn’t. Let her pick friends for their laughter, their secrets, their shared pakoras at lunch—not their parents’ paycheck or caste. That’s where it starts, right there under the banyan tree, where kids swap stories instead of status. 

They’re watching. Always.

We’ve all seen it—the uncle who name-drops at weddings, the aunty who brags about her son’s US job. We roll our eyes, but are we setting our kids up to be them? Teach them early: people aren’t contacts to collect like Pokémon cards. They’re messy, real, worth knowing for the spark in their eyes, not the weight of their wallet. It’s not about lectures or big speeches. It’s the quiet stuff—how you talk to the chaiwala, how you share a rickshaw seat, how you don’t bat an eye when the new kid’s uniform is frayed. They’re watching. Always.

AI

Respect’s another thing we’re losing in the rush. Not the fake “ji huzoor” kind, but the real deal—seeing someone, anyone, as equal. Your kid doesn’t need a gold-star water bottle to feel big. She needs to know the world doesn’t spin around her, that the boy with the chipped tumbler has dreams just as bright. Tell her friendship’s a gift, not a transaction. Let her learn that a pal who shares his last biscuit beats a rich kid who won’t.
This isn’t about guilt-tripping anyone. We’re all juggling—bills, EMIs, school fees that sting like a slap. But maybe, just maybe, we can pause. Next time she asks for the shiny XXX bottle, ask her why. Not sharp, not mean—just curious. Listen. Maybe she wants it because Riya’s got one, or maybe she just likes the color. Then tell her a story—about the summer you drank from a steel glass and still had the best day. Keep it light, keep it hers.

We can fix it

The world’s already loud with ads and envy. We don’t need to crank up the volume. Let’s give them something else—roots that dig deeper than a paycheck, wings that don’t need brand names to fly. That little girl in the ad? She’s not the problem. We are. And we can fix it, one muddy shoe, one real laugh at a time.

Parambrahma Tripathy is an author and Communication for Development professional with over 18 years of experience. He has worked with organizations like BBC Media Action, Landesa, The Energy Policy Institute at the University of Chicago, IPE Global, and Coceptual Media. He has been recognized with several awards, including the prestigious Laadli Media and Gender Sensitivity Award in 2022 and 2023, Best Lyricist of the Year in 2022, Dr. Radhanath Rath Fellowship for Journalism, Kalinga Literary Youth Award, Timepass Bestseller Award, Srujan India Youth Award, Utkal Sahitya Samaj Felicitation and Odia Yuva Stambha Samman(2023)

(DISCLAIMER: This is an opinion piece. The views expressed are the author’s own and have nothing to do with OTV’s charter or views. OTV does not assume any responsibility or liability for the same.)