I had a stack of souvenirs and clothes, ready to ship back to the United States. Except the employee at the Mysore, India, post office wasn’t having any of it.
“No. Send.” he said, abruptly clipping each word.
“But why? Why no send?”
“No send,” he repeated.
“Please help me.”
“No send!”
After several frustrating minutes, that’s all he would say. It was infuriating.
Just then a boy tugged at my sleeve. “You want to send parcel?” he said.
“Yes, I want to send parcel,” I growled, hovering on the verge between screaming and crying. “I am here to send parcel.”
“Come with me.”
The boy held my hand as we weaved in between speeding rickshaws and honking motorcycles. He led me down into a basement, where he pulled up a plastic chair and motioned for me to sit.
A few seconds later, the boy’s father appeared. Syed was the 43-year-old owner of his own parcel packaging service. Or, as his hand-painted sign stated, “Parcle paking.”
It turns out that all packages mailed from India must be wrapped in cloth and sewn shut, with the seams covered in globs of sealing wax.
As we chatted, Syed pressed my stack of clothes in between two empty sari boxes, then tied them together with twine. He covered that with plastic and taped it together several times over. With a quick snip of some scissors and the whirr of a sewing machine, Syed fashioned a cream-colored cloth bag for the entire package. It fit as snugly as a pillowcase. He sewed the end shut by hand using mustard yellow thread.
Over a cup of tea and a hot samosa, Syed showed me the book where he keeps meticulous records of each and every package he has mailed — including gushing e-mails from thankful customers who receive their souvenirs at home, intact and on time.
He was interested in trying out my computer, so we flipped through photos together. He pointed to a shot of my sister.
“She is very beautiful,” he said.
I agreed.
“More beautiful than you,” he said.
“Yes, yes. My sister is much more beautiful than me. She always has been.”
“She is younger, yes?”
“Uh … actually, she’s 13 years older. But thanks.”
He pointed to another photo.
“Who is this?”
I told him it’s me.
“No, really? But this woman is beautiful!”
“Yeah, I can’t explain it. Maybe that picture was taken on a good day.”
“And this? This is you?” he pointed to another photo of me. Then he carefully eyed me up and down. “It is my thought that you have gained weight.”
“You are probably correct,” I said, then shrugged. “What can I say? I like samosas.”
On that note, I excused myself from Syed’s shop.
The package eventually arrived in Palm Springs with no problem, even though Syed addressed it to “CALIFORNIA GURL!” (I’m still shocked it didn’t end up on Katy Perry’s doorstep.)
And now it seems Syed has decided that I am something of a looker, after all. We’ve become friends on Facebook, and today he sent me this message: “Hello, dear maggie your all of photos most beautifuls. your face is the moon. best regurd.”
It was terribly sweet. If there’s one thing this California gurl loves more than samosas, it’s best regurds.
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Tee-hee! Your face is the moon!
(What sort of goodies were in the package, btw?)
Well, I got drunk in Goa and bought a bedspread — without considering the fact that I’d have to schlep it around India in my backpack. So there was that. Also about 10 sarongs purchased on the beach. A Bollywood bag. Incense. Sandalwood carvings. A dress from a sari shop. Earrings made out of coconuts. Plus assorted items I no longer wanted to carry. In retrospect, there were so many beautiful textiles in India, and it was cheap to ship — I should have bought more.