Today I wrote and sent my Christmas cards. Was this an exercise in futility, as the cards are unlikely to ever reach their destinations, or a reaffirmation of the "glass half full" optimist in me? I suppose time will tell!
Writing the cards wasn't difficult. I admit to not putting too much blood, sweat and tears into the messages inside, after all, there's no guarantee they'll ever get to someone who can read English, let alone the person named on the envelope! I had a dozen to do, and Rod six. He barely manages to write cards to more than his immediate family each year, and getting him to complete this task always feels like drawing blood to me. He asked if I needed him to write a little letter to go in the cards. I want to post them today, I replied, which was the answer he wanted, and within an hour we were done. This was really good going, I mean, it was still December 11th. I don't think getting the cards done had ever been so quick, or pain free. Then Raju and I drove to the post office. Things went downhill here...
We've used the post office in Sarojini Nagar before. It looked like a relic from the 1960's, which, on previous visits, was when it last appeared to have been painted. But it was a relatively efficient and straightforward post office, much more orderly than the one I used in Gurgaon once. Some of the cards I sent last year even reached their destinations. But this year...well...someone had taken a big pot of paint to the building and spruced it up. It was white and shiny, with red trim and a white, gleaming floor. Unfortunately, the improvement in the surroundings was matched by a decrease in the service provided...
When they painted the hoardings above the counters they forgot to paint in which counter did what. In the past there was a counter for stamps, one for parcels and international mail, one for postal orders and railway ticket bookings. Every post office has a counter for railway ticket bookings. No idea why, they just do. There were still three counters, but no indication which counter was the right one. The tellers behind the counters weren't very interested in explaining which queue was the right one. Actually the tellers behind the counters weren't interested in doing very much at all. The soldier, the uni student, the three wideboys (one wearing pinstripe trousers), the man trying to get a postal order filled, a couple of regular guys, Raju and me were left trying to get served at a post office which looked like it was trying to shut up shop for the night, even though there were still four and a half hours of trading time left, if the newly painted sign on the wall was anything to go by. We queued at one counter for a while, then the teller packed up her bags and left. So we all shuffled to the next counter and waited. The teller here was working, but not really working. He certainly wasn't serving anyone. Then he sold a stamp to the soldier, I suppose it's important to get him out of the post office and back on the streets. If he's in the post office he can't pick up Pakistani terrorists, which according to Raju are everywhere.
Now that the soldier has gone, Raju, not really one for authority figures, has managed to get to the front of the queue, if it could be called one. The queue doesn't form in an orderly fashion, single file, back from the counter. It sprawls along the counter, a barrier to keep the masses away from the stamps the post office isn't trying very hard to sell. But Raju is dead centre, and waving my 18 envelopes. Raju asks how much to post to Britain and Australia. The teller hears, clocks he might have to do a little bit of work to determine the correct answer, and decides to serve the uni student. Raju persists, and the teller takes my card and weighs it. Rather than finish with my transaction, he begins to serve the wideboy with the pinstripe trousers. Money, Ma'am, Raju says, in the hope that flashing some notes will help the teller work out what price the stamps need to be. He needs to tell me what it costs, Raju, I say. I can't get the money for him until he tells me how much it will be. Wideboy laughs. It is decided, I am not sure how, that postage will be 25 rupees for each of my cards. I have 18. If any of this discussion had been in English I could have done the sum for the teller far faster than he. Raju and the man trying to get the postal order filled tell the teller the stamps cost 450 rupees. He takes my money, serves one of the regular guys and gives me my change. I still don't have any stamps.
Raju turns to me and asks do I want to put stamps on every envelope. He hasn't posted many letters in his life. He'd never been inside a post office before I needed to send last year's Christmas cards. Then another discussion takes place, between Raju, the postal order guy and the teller. The only bit I understand is "panch" - five. "Panch panch", the good guys on my side of the counter keep repeating. Eventually teller guy either decides they do know what they're talking about, or decides he doesn't care if they're wrong, and gets out his sheet of stamps. It's a big sheet, 100 stamps, 10 rows of 10. With his finger he counts the rows across, and then the rows down. He carefully detaches the row at the bottom. I think, that's 10 stamps, I need another eight. But he counts the stamps across the sheet again (it's still 10) and counts the stamps down one side (now it's 9). He counts the stamps down the other side, just in case it's a different number. Is anyone shocked to know it isn't, it's 9 too? Then he keeps the strip of 10 and gives me the sheet of 90 stamps. It turns out he only has 5 rupee stamps, and I need five for each card, hence the "panch panch".
So Raju and I retire to a bench and I try to separate these poorly serrated stamps into strips of five for Raju to stick to the envelopes. I get the glue stick out of my bag. Indian stamps aren't very gummy, and UHU glue stick makes a much better bond. It makes it harder for the postal workers to peel the stamps off your letters once you've handed them over and left the post office, to be resold to the next customer. We both take turns making sure the stamps are well stuck to the envelopes. Then we take our nearly posted cards to the "delivery area" around the back. We get directed to the desk of the man who has the cancelling stamp. Once the stamps are cancelled they cannot be reused. This reduces their resale value somewhat, thus increasing the chances of the cards getting out of the post office. The man tells us to just leave them on the table, he's busy now and will cancel them later. He does not realise I've been in India for 18 months now, and I know this scam. We'll wait until they're done, I say loudly and clearly. Amazingly he gets less busy rather quickly, and cancels the stamps. Raju and I both counted each card, him in Hindi and me English, as they were cancelled to make sure each one was done. This is not our first experience of the Indian postal service...and we know at least some of their tricks!
So Christmas is coming. Maybe cards are coming too. Who knows!
It looks even more upmarket in this picture, because you can't see the broken manhole covers... The waiter recognised us when we got there, and had to make a table of six for us. Weren't we glad we'd booked ahead! But the food was lovely, and plentiful, as was the wine. And we didn't have to cook or wash up afterwards! Result!
I did take one of my Christmas CDs with me, just in case they had Boney M on a loop, but thankfully it wasn't needed.
