Kishore Singh looks at how the idea of gift giving and taking on Diwali has changed
If you can find last year's list of what you received -- or gave -- come Diwali (and those interminable card parties), winter weddings, Christmas, New Year's or simply because you don't go to a party empty-handed -- here's what it probably read like: iPhone 5S, iPad, case (no, it's no longer bottle) of Mouton Rothschild, 56-inch screen HD TV, silver candlesticks from Frazer & Haws, a Samsung double-door "side-by-side" fridge, Mont Blanc fragrance (really, you think they do only pens?), Lladro Ganesh figurine, Rosenthal dinner service, dozens of boxes of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, an Audemars Piguet wristwatch, a hamper from Four Seasons, a signed bottle of a limited edition Speyside single malt, an LV stroller, a flashy polka necklace or discreet diamond pendant, a box of fine teas, a few hundred candles from Dimple/Twinkle Khanna's store, and Hermes table setting.
Here's what you probably asked for, or simply took for granted: a quick three-day spa getaway to the Maldives, overnight delivery of the LandRover Adventure Sport, a black Stanley sofa, clothes (costumes?) from Sabyasachi, makeover of the townhouse ahead of those parties, a Nirav Modi diamond bracelet and Dior clutch.
Here's what you didn't receive -- or give: a box of homemade sweets, a homegrown ficus, or palm, or even moneyplant, a hand-knitted sweater, a FabIndia kurta, the latest Amitav Ghosh book or Alexander McCall Smith mystery, a favourite jar of chutney from a not-favourite aunt, a carton of Sivakasi firebombs, homemade muesli or pickles steeped in oil and matured in the kitchen in someone's apartment.
Here's what you didn't do: pay for the education of the dhobi's little girl, remember to send dry fruit candy bars to the orphanage from where you bought your Diwali candles, gift fruit to the neighbourhood slum, buy a new set of clothes for the watchman's family, or sign a cheque for a tabletop computer for a village school.
Maybe I'm just cynical, but is sentiment out of tune with these festive times? Are gifts only to be exchanged among peers instead of bringing pleasure to the less privileged? There was a time when the festive season would bind families and communities together. When Meera Mausi and Chand Chachi came over so that they could make coconut laddoos together, when you dipped your finger into a cauldron of chashni for a guilty lick of sugar syrup, or got handed the mixing bowl after the cakes had been put to bake in an assembly of borrowed ovens. When families were dragged out to be measured for new clothes (and your siblings always chose the fabric you wanted, leading to accusations and counter-accusations that have been the stuff of clan wars since) and new Bata shoes meant the height of fashion. When an HMT watch, or Agfa Click III camera had to be earned, and you showed your caring by arranging the pictures in the family album (only to have them filched by visiting relatives). When families came home to stay whether you had room or not, and everyone filled your greedy fists with crisp Rs 10 notes so you felt rich as Croesus till your mother took it away because she had to give your cousins money which didn't grow on trees...
To be mawkish about a time of hand-me-down bicycles and shared bedrooms is to be idiotic. Today, siblings don't even share televisions. And for some reason I cannot fathom why BMW's team keeps asking why I don't want them to send me a car and driver to keep the whole day (and it's okay to not buy), or when a telemarketer wonders why I'm laughing at his offer of a Porsche on easy installments. ("Only if someone else is paying," I inform him, to his displeasure.)
Still, there was something heart-warming about those handwritten notes in the scores of greeting cards that came in the post, when old friends, older colleagues, and the stretch of the family signed their names to wish you the season's best. Does anybody under 30 even know what a greeting card (yes, we had them) looks like? Why, even in offices, we signed them like an assembly line, sending fond wishes/greetings to colleagues, or adversaries, in other offices. There was something practical about the gifts as well -- offices found kitchen appliances had great traction (we're still using a rice-cooker from 20 years ago!), neighbours inevitably brought with them tablemats and tea mugs (later replaced by buffet dinner plates and wine glasses), gifts from cousins were always Raymond fabrics in shirt lengths, and yes, everyone simply re-wrapped them in an idiosyncratic version of passing-the-parcel because what you'd really appreciate is whisky tumblers (and a bottle of bootlegged scotch) instead of the 23rd set of wine glasses when you still didn't have decent wine in the country.
There's something maudlin about looking back, but how much has changed really? You can order flowers to be delivered, only it's online and you don't get to choose the "15 mixed stems", or personalise the message to accompany the "crystal vase". In Delhi at least, 20-somethings will exchange trendy tops from H&M (thankfully, its exchange policy is liberal), and if someone has bought a new apartment ahead of Diwali, you can Pepperfry them furniture (which, again, can be exchanged for something else, should their tastes and yours not match). But only an ageing middle-class thinks thriftily about such practical matters. For the vast majority of GenX shoppers, The Gift of the Magi is fortunately apocryphal. They no longer wait on gifts but demand them. Of course, there's another word that defines this and it's Kejriwal's bugbear: corruption.
For, let's face it, Diwali (and the whole festive rigmarole) legitimises the dank smell of cash-and-carry for (public, but also private) officials. Currency arrives in baskets of pomegranate, gold nuggets are slipped into barfi boxes, lorry-loads deliver washing machines and Mirzapuri carpets, the Jaguar that finds itself parked in the driveway was conveniently left behind by a departing guest "for a few days", needy companies undertake to pay the EMIs on penthouses as an "official expense", silk sarees from Nalli's and a matching strand in emeralds or rubies are handouts for "Madamji" from the wives of those currying favour while wondering 'Mera number kab aayega?' Inadequate recompense is rebuffed, leading one to wonder whether, like business contracts, intermediaries help decide what 'bhai sahib' might prefer you to carry when you drop by to wish him Diwali Mubarak.
It's not just the canker of graft that is corrosive. In the banter and hugs we exchange, in the affectionate but also calculated giving and taking, how many of us think to buy something special for the family cook and chauffeur who've served us for years (and are laggards on the loans they took, true), the maids who come to work and are handed down the spoils of leftovers, the security staff and peons in the offices who ease our lives but remain unseen in this season of giving?
In celebrating our Apple laptops and Hermes clogs, did we think of the less fortunate whose lives we could brighten with a meal in a less-affluent hospital, a half-hour gig by a comedian in a residential school, a tea-party in an orphanage?
In mattresses for dharamshalas, a TV for the widows of Vrindavan? A little something that might assuage our guilt and indifference when the doorbell rings and there's a courier delivery of Marc Jacobs boots that a thoughtful parent ordered online. Which you can add to this year's list that includes a Cartier ring, Chopard and Omega wristwear, a Burberry scarf for her, a Canali vest for him, a Gucci bag for either, Thomas Pink cardigans, a Mini Cooper for the arduous task of heading for the kitty-club, Simone upholstery, Belvedere vodka, bottles of Moet Hennessy, candles, of course, and silver platters, a Tom Ford jacket -- I'm size 42 by the way.
Photograph: Epic Fireworks/Creative Commons
