I have a theory about gifts and gifting.
Some gifts are the fruition of love, they are born. Some gifts are merely bought. And some gifts simply fly around from one unsuspecting household to another like confused flamingos who took a wrong turn over the Arabian Sea.
I am sure we all have received such migratory gifts at some point or the other.
The ceramic swan with golden eyelashes, paint peeling off.
The lavender-scented candle that smells like a mosquito coil cross pollinated with moth balls.
The photo frame that confidently declares “Live Laugh Love” in three different fonts.
These objects have no owner, they just have temporary addresses.
For me, gifting has always been the physical manifestation of a thought. It is about affection packed in the cosy wrapping paper of intimacy. It is a way of saying, “I saw this and I thought of you,” which is infinitely more valuable than saying, “I found this in my cupboard while looking for batteries.”
Unfortunately, not everyone shares this philosophy.
Recently, a very close relative presented me with a strap for handbags. Yes, you read that correctly- Only the strap. No bag. No explanation. Just a solitary strip of synthetic leather with two clips hanging at either end like an existential quest. I spent several minutes staring at it, wondering if perhaps I had reached an age where people no longer gift objects but spare parts. Maybe next year I’ll receive a pressure cooker whistle. Or a single shoelace.
Or one curtain ring. The strap now lives in a drawer with old charger cables and unidentified keys, where abandoned accessories that dwell upon one thought daily, “What exactly are we for?”
Then there is my friend, who received an expensive-looking box of cosmetics from her sister-in-law. She was delighted until she looked at the expiry dates. Every single product had expired. Imagine having such faith in another human being that you believe she deserves your expired foundation more than the garbage bin does. It takes a horrific amount of confidence to wrap waste in shiny paper and call it affection.
The funniest part is that these gifts often arrive with speeches.
“This product is in so much demand now. I found this after I walked all over London.”
I’m sure you did. Probably in the darkest corner of your wardrobe behind a broken suitcase and three Diwali gift hampers from 2019. A limited-edition, for sure!
Some gifts have so much history attached to them that they should come with ownership certificates.
This fruit bowl belonged to Meena Maasi, who got it from Manisha aunty, who won it in a housing society tambola, who probably received it from a corporate event sponsored by a company that no longer exists. By the time it reaches you, it has completed an umpteen number of social visits.
Of course, this isn’t about money.
One of my favourite presents was a handwritten recipe book from a friend. Another was a tiny bookmark painted by a five-year-old student of mine, who insisted the purple elephant looked exactly like me. I still don’t know whether to feel insulted or honoured, but I treasure it.
Thoughtfulness is priceless because it proves someone understands you.They remembered that you love books, or tea or gardening, or terrible detective shows where everyone is a suspect except the actual murderer.
A meaningful gift says, “I respect and feel you.”
A random gift conveys the thought, “I know how to dispose and discard.”
The pressure to gift has turned birthdays and festivals into marathon events of compulsory consumption. People sprint through malls collecting scented soaps, generic mugs and soapy chocolates with the enthusiasm of contestants on a game show called ‘Grab Anything and Run’.
Somewhere along the way, the gift became more important than the giving.
Perhaps we need a new tradition.
If you have nothing thoughtful to give, arrive with a cutting from your garden, homemade casserole, a favourite book with notes scribbled in the margins, or simply your time. Once when I opened a gift and found an old copy of a novel, my heart almost skipped many beats and all my unwashed tears came welling out. Within the book there was a note that said, “I remember you mentioning to me that someone had borrowed this book from you and didn’t return. I looked for a new copy to gift you, but it looks like you and I are the only ones who treasure the writer’s prize-winning novel. I gift my book to you with deep ardor!” It was not my birthday but the culmination of a conversation the two of us had a week before, that occasioned the gift.
You may even offer to help someone by just being there as an empathetic listener of woes over a cup of tea and just Marie biscuits or even offer to babysit their children. Because love is not measured in gift bags.
It is measured in attention.
And if you absolutely must give me another handbag strap, at least have the decency to include the handbag. Otherwise, I might just wrap it up and send it on its next migratory journey, where it will continue its noble quest to confuse humanity one occasion at a time.
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
