Ladies and Gentlemen, let it be known—I am a proud consumer of leftovers.

And no, I don’t just mean food (though yes, I’m absolutely the sort who’ll turn yesterday’s limp sprouts into a cheela, rescue last Diwali’s dates one a day like a ritual, and combine three almost empty namkeen packets into one glorious new mix).

But my leftovers loyalty runs deeper.
Into bathroom cabinets. Into cluttered drawers. Into those mysterious, half-forgotten corners of the wardrobe.

When something new enters the house, the family does their little dance—sniff, dabble, grimace… and promptly abandon. And that’s when I swoop in.

That barely used bottle of Korean snail slime serum languishing at the back of my daughter’s cupboard? Mine.
The lemongrass shampoo my husband tried once and declared “too fancy”? Also mine.
The ergonomically perfect phone dock my son instantly decided was “too much effort”? You guessed it. Mine.

I am, unofficially, the patron saint of bits and bobs most would call remnants.
Soap scraps? Lovingly stacked and pressed into a new bar.
Hotel shampoos? Decanted into anonymous family-size bottles. (My kids once asked me what brand the shampoo was. I said, “Limited Edition.” The eyeroll I got? Predictable. But worth it.)
Partially used deodorants? Stored upside down in a wire basket, ready for one last roll!

But my pièce de résistance? The humble toothpaste tube.
It’s a full-blown ritual.

First, it’s inverted overnight like it’s in penance.
Then comes the flattening. The rolling. The masterful squeezing.
If it plays hard to get, I run it under warm water.
Still stubborn? Out come the scissors. A quick snip. A full excavation.
Because not even a whisper of minty freshness escapes me. Not on my watch.

Lately, I’ve been eyeing this contraption on Instagram—an absurdly priced roller that promises to squeeze out every last bit from the tube with elegant efficiency.
Tempting? Of course.
But really, who needs it?

I am the contraption.
I am the Finisher-in-Chief. Not because anyone appointed me—but because I volunteered.

Because nothing—and I mean nothing—sparks joy in me quite like getting the most from the least.

There’s a smug, quiet thrill in watching the last bit of bodywash drip into the decanter.
In using the patchwork soap bar I made myself, which now looks oddly artisanal.
In admiring my fridge full of neatly stacked Tupperware, with stuff that has been repurposed and relabelled into something entirely new.

Little things, yes. But each one? A victory over waste.
A tender nod to the women before me who believed that nothing was ever too little to matter.

We grew up hearing things like:
A thing saved is a thing earned.
If you look after the paisa, the rupee will look after itself.
And my personal favorite:
Wastage begins in the kitchen, and from there, marches straight to moral decline.

Back then, it was just called ‘not wasting.’
Today, it’s rebranded as zero-waste. Sustainability. Conscious consumption.

But for me, this dal to deo life is more than a habit.
It’s heritage.
It’s therapy.
It’s love—expressed quietly through thrift, imagination, and care.

And you know what?

I kind of love it.