There is a scene in a famous Christmas movie where Alan Rickman’s character is just trying to buy a simple gift, and Rowan Atkinson (who plays an over-enthusiastic salesman) keeps wrapping it with flowers, incense, cinnamon, clouds, and possibly divine intervention, while Rickman begs him to Please. Stop. Adding. Things.
This whole mahua episode played out exactly like that.
Karthik, my dear friend who can only be described as a maxi-minimalist, stranded in Bangalore thanks to Indigo’s flight apocalypse, asked me to deliver a couple of bottles of Six Brothers Mahura, that beautiful indigenous Adivasi drink, to birthday-boy, Shishir in the simplest way possible. Unfortunately for him, the task force consisted of me, who has no internal brake (like, at all) and Misbahji, who does gifting for a living (no, really, check out her Instagram page), a team that cannot, by design, do “simple”.
What followed is essentially that Love Actually scene remade in Pune.
THE SCENE
Karthik: “Kedar, please. One bottle. Just the bottle. Nothing else.”
Me: “Of course, of course. Pure minimalism. Like a monk’s inbox.”
Misbahji quietly places a wicker basket on the table.
Karthik: “Was that a basket? Kedar, tell me that wasn’t a basket.”
Me: “No, no, that was… background sound.”
The pineapple arrives, majestically.
Karthik: “WHY IS THERE A PINEAPPLE? WHAT POSSIBLE FUNCTION DOES A PINEAPPLE SERVE IN MAHUA DELIVERY?”
Misbahji: “It gives height.”
Karthik: “HEIGHT IS NEITHER A CATEGORY NOR A REQUIREMENT IN THIS OPERATION. DELIVERY IS.”
Marigolds enter like they’re auditioning for a photo spread for Incred!ble India.
Karthik: “NO FLOWERS. PLEASE. NO FLOWERS.”
Grapes spill over the edge like a still-life painting having a meltdown.
Karthik: “OH GOD WHAT IS THAT? WHY ARE THE GRAPES ESCAPING THE BASKET?”
Me: “It’s a flourish. Just a flourish.”
The salt shaker (filled, taped) goes in with ceremonial gravity.
Karthik: “IS THAT A SALT SHAKER? FILLED WITH SALT? WHY IS THERE SALT? WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING TO THIS SIMPLE INSTRUCTION?”
Me: “Mahua is traditionally had with salt. Cultural respect.”
Misbahji adds cinnamon sticks.
Karthik: “CINNAMON?! THIS IS NOW A SEASONAL EXPERIENCE? WHAT ARE WE MAKING HERE?”
Honeycomb paper. Strings. Paper Strips. Pomegranate. Oranges. Baby’s breath. The works.
Karthik: “WHAT IS HAPPENING? I AM IN A NIGHTMARE. PLEASE. DON’T.”
Kedar: “And now, for the final flourish.”
Karthik: “IS IT NOT FLOURISHED ENOUGH ALREADY? THIS IS NUTS.”
Misbahji: “Yes. Nuts.”
Misbahji places a bottle containing Wasabi and Masala nuts gently at the back of the arrangement.
Karthik: “STOP. I’M SERIOUS. THIS IS NOT A GIFT HAMPER. THIS IS A WHOLE HARVEST PARTY. JUST THE BOTTLE. PLEASE. JUST THE BOTTLE. I BEG YOU.”
Me: “Almost done.”
Karthik: “Almost? What more is there? I asked for minimalism. You have given me Diwali, Eid, Christmas, and the Chinese New Year, with a side dish of every Independence Day in history.”
Me: “Just the final placement, if you’ll allow me.”
Handwritten card with dried, pressed flowers on it enters. And is tucked in behind the nuts. Scene complete.
Karthik (through gritted teeth): “Okay. Fine. But for the second bottle: no basket, no fruits, no botany, no elevation. Just deliver it.”
Me: “Not even a note?”
Karthik: “OK, but it has to be just that.”
Me: “Deal. What do you want it to say? Something romantic?”
Karthik: “Yes. Ask Indigo to go pleasure itself.”
Me: “…”
Karthik: “…”
Me: “Ah! OK.”
Cut to Shishir receiving his grand, royal hamper (along with another solitary bottle that tells Indigo exactly what to do), while somewhere in Bangalore a minimalist quietly recalculates his friendships, ove a large glass of, what else, Mohua.
P.S.: Happy birthday, Shishir. Sorry about doing this to you. In Karthik’s final, parting words: “This is like the Spanish Inquisition. No one, not even the Spanish, saw it coming.” Well, what do you know. Hasta la vista…baby!
