From khoi bags to Diwali hampers, a retired civil servant reflects on the changing spirit of giving

They say a good writer takes her readers along. So fasten your seat belts, dear readers, and travel with me down memory lane this gifting season. The joy of giving a gift is only matched by the joy of receiving one. As a little girl, dolls and more dolls wrapped in colourful sheets came my way. Ah, the thrill of tearing open the wrapping paper—and saving it to use again!

Giving gifts on birthdays and other occasions always carried an invisible longing for a return gift. The khoi bag was our “do it yourself” return gift—a goodie-laden balloon hanging from the ceiling. One prick of a needle, and all hell broke loose! The mad scramble to grab pencils, erasers, toys, and sweets—anything those little hands could hold—was an experience to die for.

And age is no bar to enjoy gifts. At my Mausi’s 80th birthday celebration, my camera’s excitement matched hers as she sat surrounded by glittering packets—sarees, suits, perfumes, and “The Forever Journal”, a lifetime of memories to help her chronicle her life.

Years ago, my son and I returned home laden with gifts from my official Diwali get-together. Our Tambola jinx broken, we celebrated with ice cream at India Gate. It was never about what lay inside those beautifully wrapped boxes. The thrill was in the collection—and the grand opening ceremony later. The hundred coffee mugs, fifty sling bags, candles, diyas I may never use, and sarees I may never wear still perch on shelves at home as mementoes I cherish.

When I retired, expecting the ubiquitous wall clock, I had even reserved a wall for it. Lo and behold, when I tore open the wrapping, I found myself staring at my own face. It was a painting of my husband and me, which now proudly adorns that very wall. The thought behind the gift momentarily made me question my decision to retire voluntarily.

Going back to the 1970s, I recall how families visited one another around festivals. Dressed in our best, we clutched our gifts and tagged along with our parents to greet others. Sometimes, it was just a mithai or fruit-laden plate covered with an embroidered napkin. I remember with mirth how our plate would travel back to us after making the rounds of the neighbourhood—before we could!

Yesterday was special. Our doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of our neighbours to wish us. Unused to unannounced personal visits, I went into a tizzy. Serving dishes were dusted, and a box of mithai was opened from among the seven boxes sent by friends and colleagues. Over chai, mithai, and gupshup, we ushered in the festival season in its true spirit.

I feel the worth of a gift is directly proportional to the receiver’s expression. I end my journey with my brother’s wail echoing in my ears. He had received a steel bowl on his fifth birthday: “Yeh patila kaun laaya… le jao wapis!” There were three faces, each reflecting its own brand of horror—my brother’s, my mother’s, and the lady’s who had brought the gift. Amen.

(The writer is a retired civil servant and currently a practising advocate)