The Joy of Giving

Dear dedicated reader,

Of course, even the simplest things become huge undertakings when done in Kadod.

“Our festival” Christmas, as we’ve taken to calling it here, is approaching and in preparation for said festival, we have been decorating away in attempt to make our house in Kadod feel slightly less tropical and preparing packages of Indian gifts to send to our families in our absence.

Of course, the true joy of giving these packages would not be complete without a few truly Indian obstacles to ensuring their successful transfer to their recipients.

My journey to send these packages began with determination. Having located two appropriately sized boxes in the bazaar, I began the process of bubble-wrapping, newspapering and labeling everything in the box so that my grandparents on the other side would be able to distribute my gifts appropriately. Having secured everything inside and taped the box shut, I felt confident that these packages were ready to brave Indian overseas mail processing and possibly beyond.

The logical next step in my American mind was to figure out from where to send them. Could they go by regular post? I caught Vikrambhai, one of the schools’ peons, in the hallway and showed him my package with the same large smile that a child has when showing their mother a picture their drawing. “Where can I take this to send it?” I asked him in Hindi.

He eyed the package dubiously. “You can’t send it like that,” he said definitely.

“What?” I was confused. “What do you mean?” It had an address. It was in a box. What more could it need?

“You have to get some cloth,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But, why?” I asked him. He merely repeated what he’d said, believing that I hadn’t understood him the first time. I shook my head. I didn’t understand.

He gave an exasperated sigh and that is how I found myself sitting in the principal’s office.

“You can’t send the packages like that,” the principal told me authoritatively. “You need some cloth.”

“But, what is the cloth for?”

“To cover the packages,” the principal said, eyeing me curiously. “Of course.”

“Ah,” I said, pretending to understand. “You must cover the package in cloth?”

“Yes, otherwise they won’t send it,” he said matter of factly. “You can get some in the bazaar.”

“Will paper do?” I asked, thinking I had no idea how I would cover the parcel in cloth and remembering that thick post paper people often use in the US.

“It won’t keep out the rain,” the principal warned. I said I understood but would it do? He nodded and I was off to the bazaar again. I brought the box with me to the stationary shop to show them exactly what I was up against.

They looked at me with the same confused face I had recently given to Vikrambhai. “I want to send this to the US,” I repeated in Hindi. “I need some paper or cloth or something?”

The shop assistant looked at me for a moment, and then went to the back, returning with brightly colored wrapping papers. I eyed them with irritation. “No, you have like plain paper? Or something?”

“You don’t want this?” He asked. I gave an emphatic no and he returned to the back. After rummaging around noisily he returned with some electric blue, but plain, thick paper. “That will do,” I said with a resigned sigh. I wrapped it up in the shop, rewrote the address, and took it back to triumphantly present to Vikrambhai.

On seeing the package, Vikrambhai simply laughed and shook his head. “It won’t do,” he said plainly. “You need cloth.”

Sigh. “Where do I go?”

He started off towards the gate and I followed him out into the bazaar. We walked past the stationary shop, past the General Store, and down an alley towards where Melissa and I go to the beauty parlor. To my surprise, we stopped outside the beauty parlor, whose downstairs doubles as a tailor’s workshop. Pravinaben, the woman who we go to have our eyebrows plucked, was sitting on the step.

“What’s going on?” She asked amiably, eyeing the packages in our hands. Vikrambhai explained that I needed cloth to cover the packaging. She told me to leave her some money and come back in a few hours. Thank god for Indian multi-businesses.

Around 5 pm, I picked up the packages which had now been sewn into nice looking pillow covers on which I was to write the address. The next morning, I waylaid Vikrambhai yet again and presented him with my beautiful cloth covered packages. “They’re ready now, right?” I asked.

He nodded, laughing at how happy I was. After loading the packages into some oversized plastic bags for easy carrying and giving him some money for the postage, I felt a burden lift from my heart knowing that they had been successfully sent.

However, if I’ve learned anything here, it’s don’t count your chickens before they are sent to the US, or so the saying goes. An hour or so later, there was a knock on the door.

“Sister?” I heard Vikrambhai’s voice call out from our porch.

“Coming,” I replied. When I reached the door, I was ready to put out my hand for the change from the postage. Instead, my two packages were loaded into my surprised arms.

“What happened?” I asked frantically.

“One of the packages is too big and heavy,” Vikrambhai said knowingly. “You have to make it in to two.”

“What?” The postal service was refusing to send my package because it was too big? It barely weighed five pounds!

With a sigh, I was off to the bazaar yet again to find two smaller boxes in which I could split the larger of the two packages, since, having appraised all of the boxes in my house, Vikrambhai had pronounced all of them unsuitable. Perhaps seeing the utter defeat written across my face, the stationary shop did not charge me for the new boxes and the 16 year old shop assistant even gave me a sort of “buck up” encouraging smile as I left.

Having repackaged them, I lamented that I would have to go yet again to have them sewn. “Not so,” Vikram contended, “they’ll send these small ones without cloth.” The logic of why exactly that would be escaped me but I trusted his judgement. More money in hand, he was off to the post to send the packages.

To my dismay, not even half an hour had gone by before I heard another plaintive knock on the door.

“Sister?” I heard the concerned call. I dragged my feet to the door. The two uncovered packages were in his hand. “They need to be sewn.” With a longer, more defeated sigh, I threw up my hands in the air and we trudged out into the bazaar once more to have the packages sewn by Pravinaben.

The next day, I awoke with a new feeling of success. “Today the packages will go,” I thought confidently. I collected them from Pravinaben’s early in the morning and as soon as I saw Vikrambhai, I handed them off. We exchanged assured smiles. Today would be the day.

Knock, knock. I skipped the door in anticipation of good news. “Sister,” Vikram started hesitantly.

“Oh no,” I shook my head. “What happened?”

“You see,” he began, “to send them from the post will be this certain amount of money, which is very expensive. If you send them by courier service from Bardoli, then it will be cheaper. Do you want to send them from here by post or by courier?”

The difference in cost was astounding and the post wouldn’t even guarantee their arrival. Which is how I found myself sitting once again the principal’s office, comparing my options. “So, if I want to send them more cheaply with a fully assured guarantee, I should send them from Bardoli?” I repeated, just to make sure I had it right.

“Yes, but they can be sent as you wish,” the principal replied with a smile.

“So, I have to go to Bardoli,” I said slowly. Bardoli is a half hour’s bus ride away, and I would have to wait till the weekend to go.

“No,” the principal said, “we can give the packages to one of the teachers who live in Bardoli and he can take them to the courier service for you. I will tell him as the principal and he will do it.”

Normally, I’d be embarrassed to take advantage of his authority as principal for such a personal errand, but the thought of waiting another week to send the packages was too appalling. “That would be great,” I cried enthusiastically. Thanking him profusely as I exited his office, I found myself following Vikram to the classroom where this teacher teaches the primary school. I could feel my excitement building as we walked across the schoolyard. Finally, the packages would go!

The teacher in the 3rd standard class, however, simply looked confused. “Oh, Sandipbhai is not here today,” she informed us. “He is ill – but perhaps he will come tomorrow or the next day?”

“Eh, Bhagwan,” was all I could say.

Best,
Cat