Good day, Steemians! 

Today I share a poem inspired by a particular event from my time overseas. If you are confused and don't really know what's going on and just want it to be over already, then I have perfectly captured the experience of mailing a package from India.

Four orders of business:

1. Purchase box.
2. Package items in said box.
3. Ship package.
4. Buy postcard stamps.

I will go to the post office!

Every counter is marked All-Purpose, so I pick a line to stand in.
It isn't moving, so I pick another shortish line.
The man behind the counter hands the mustached customer
a fat stack of cash,
then more money to the next mustache,
and I like my line choice--rejoice!

Yet my joy quickly turns as the line disassembles and everyone presses to the counter,
forearms weaving around ears and necks and mustaches to shove papers and envelopes and tiny passbooks--whatever those are--at the counterman.
Throngs are constantly appearing in this country
like sharks in a feeding frenzy,
and they still make me uncomfortable,
so I move to the line for Ladies, Srs, and Phy-Handicap.

This, my third unbudging line:
All one billion Indians here,
All one billion hot and impatient,
All yelling in their 46 different languages for this counterman to kindly do his job please!
Head bobs and mustaches and madams surround me
And when I ask
the auntie next to me
she head bobs and says I
can't possibly ship my items
in the bags I'm holding, and no they do not sell boxes or packing material here.
You must go outside and have it professionally wrapped.
And I laugh inside at the word professional used in India.

So I unbudge from the line cum melee
and wander outside
Where everyone stares but no one assists me
and wonder what the deuce auntie was talking about.
I am obviously a confused foreigner looking for something but no one helps me, and the leering makes me uneasy to approach anyone and ask for assistance,
and no one seems to be packing packages anywhere anyway.

Wondering, I wander back in
and enquire at Enquiry counter where can I get this wrapped? holding up and pointing to my two reusable shopping backs stuffed with all manner of items to delight my loved ones,
plus some jeans I couldn't possibly just leave somewhere because the inseam is impossible to find but jeans are too impractical for travel and they must get out of my backpack, proud of myself for doing a tiny bit to reduce India's unspeakable pollution by reusing my reusable bags, embarrassed for being so attached to 37" inseam jeans.
Head bobs all around and with a hand sweep Enquiry Lady tells me I must go outside, there is nowhere here to package! 

I say, "but where outside?"

And she says "not here, there is nowhere!"

And I say "in all of Delhi there is nowhere to wrap a package??"

And she yells in funny high Indian accent "outside, outside!"
And I think maybe she's mad at me but I really can't take that voice seriously, so I wander back outside wondering what the hell she's thinking.

There is a man in the grass stacking boxes and I say excuse me sir can you help me please?
And bless that kind little man who stopped moving his boxes and said come with me and led me inside to the wrapping packages desk (which, by the way, faces the Enquiry counter, literally right across from it)
But alas, the package wrapping is closed for the day.

And I laugh
and sing a little song to myself because I wasted all that time,
and because what the fuck is my life anyway? And I must be a delightful foolish giant to the bothered Indians all around.

But now I still have to brave the Delhi traffic--
dear God the traffic!--
to get to my temporary home
and today is the first day in a very long time
that I am alone
because I just put my friend on a homeward bound plane,
and I wish I was going home too to my friends
and to post offices with orderly lines and efficiency, though depressing fluorescent lights seem to be a global post office phenomenon and I'm glad I don't work in one and I'm a little lonely and disappointed in myself because my errand is not done and I will have to try again tomorrow. 

And we're driving bumper to bumper at higher speeds than you'd think so many cars and bicycles and tuk tuks and buses and pedestrians should move and by no small miracle avoiding collisions left and right, frequently braking hard and I hurtle through space 

and I'm a little cranky sometimes in this mess but then I wave to a little girl on the back of her mustached father's motorcycle, and she smiles and I smile and I wave and she waves and we wave and smile at each other until she disappears in another direction.

And then I'm back to the honking crushing traffic again and dreading doing all this,
still alone,
tomorrow.

But lo! My blessed little driver with the twisted little foot pulls into a second post office
And I am thrilled at this turn of events
And I go into the post office
And there's damn near no one there
And I walk right up to the counter
And with confidence this time ask where to get my reusable bags packaged for shipping?
And he says I must go next door.

😒

So I step out of the post office
and assume he must mean that building way over there across the way...
I might as well try that.
So I hoof it aways
and step into a crowded little place
and there's a man in the corner
Sewing packages into white muslin
And thank you Jesus Buddha Allah Krishna I think I'm almost done!

And a mere hour later
My two bags are shoved in one and sewn up tight and weighed in at 4.74 kg
And addressed To: on the front and From: on the back,
And I didn't really know how to fill out From: because my return address for now is my mom's address in the State, but that's also my To: in this particular instance,
so I listed the monastery in Dehradun as my From: because even if things get all fucked in the mail--and why wouldn't they, India???--maybe just maybe it will have a chance of being returned to me there.

And my customs form is filled out with the pen I had to ask all around the room for
while all the men stared blankly, maybe because they don't speak English,
or maybe because all the men in India are always staring.
Expressionless faces if not obscene leers and once a tongue gesture that made me want to rip off dude's face and seriously what are these people thinking?!

And finally I'm elbowing my way to the counter to shit just give a lady some space, mustaches!
And shoving my 4.74 kg package into counterman's face
And thank God he speaks a little bit of English--
Just enough to ask for a photocopy of my ID.
And I hand him my unphotocopied passport and ask couldn't I please just write down the information?

And he head bobs at me, a head bob that communicates absolutely out of the question! because it's absolutely vital to have a photocopy of my ID to shove into his photocopied IDs drawer!
Or maybe it was a bob that says I have no idea what the fuck you're saying, gringa

But whatever, ok sir, where can I photocopy my ID?

The market.

The market!!! he says.

You're kidding! And where is this market?
And with a head bob and sweep of his hand he suggests it's a few blocks down that way.

And by this time my sweet twisted-foot driver must have been worried about me because he miraculously appeared in the doorway at this exact moment
Right in time for mustached package-sewing man to explain in what might or might not be Hindi that I must go to the market to photocopy my ID, because they absolutely cannot proceed with shipping my package without a photocopy of my ID tucked away in the photocopied ID drawer.

So driver and I brave the traffic again, thank God my friend has gone home
--only because she gets so nervous in cars--
but I so wish she was here because how can I ever explain this to someone who hasn't experienced it?

And we pull right up to the curb opposite the photocopy place, I see the photocopy machine right there on the sidewalk! Yes.
And I'm so grateful that at least this will be easy
and jump out of the car
and a little green truck honks to let me know he will not be slowing down even if I choose not to step out of the way,
and six more people honk
Because they seem to be constantly participating in some kind of honking symphony always,
So I dodge and dart across the street and slap my passport on the counter and triumphantly request a copy of both my US page AND Indian visa page because God knows why but they might need both
and I'm so glad to be almost done and for the help of so many people because I really don't ever know what the hell is going on in this country and I would have quit doing this a very long time ago had it not been for mostly my driver taking care of me.

And the photocopy man points to his photocopier and tells me it is broken.

And he points down the sidewalk.

So I walk over there and am surprised to see that indeed there is another photocopier!
And I get 2 copies of both pages just in case and look at the man's assortment of pens to keep me from contemplating his mustache while he photocopies my ID.

And I jump back in the car
and we avoid death and make it back to the post office
and there are at least a million men in the little space now and it's only ever men anywhere you go--seriously, India, where are the women??--and I elbow to the side counter
and shove my photocopied ID in the counterman's face
and he looks at my package and types some things for awhile
and honestly I can't tell if he's helping me now or someone else,
and finally he says he needs my mobile number.

"I don't have one," I say.

"I must have your mobile number," he says.

But I don't have one, not even in the States, so I try to give him my States landline number.

"Your friend's mobile number," and I don't really know who he's talking about because I don't have any friends here and the truth of this hurts me a little bit but I can't think about that because counterman is still demanding a number.

So I make one up and ramble off digits.

And he charges me 3,994 rupees to send my 4.74 kg package 7,984 miles,
And I throw up my arms in victory and bless everyone in the room but nobody laughs and I have no idea what these people are doing! 

And a mere four and a half hours later, I return to my room and collapse on my bed,
Secure in the knowledge that my friends may or may not ever receive the gifts I lovingly selected for them and mailed from India.

And I remember I forgot to buy stamps.

💛 Sara!