A Journey in the World of the Indian Postal Service

Last time I wrote I mentioned that I was going to inquire at the post office about my five lost packages. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't have any tracking numbers for the packages, so I had little hope of finding anything. I went that Friday with my host dad to talk to the BHU post office post master. He, predictably, said he couldn't answer any of my questions without a number, and showed me all the international packages that had arrived recently at that post office. One was to the same address as mine, for one of my classmates Chris, who always gets packages in the mail, undamaged, and on time. My packages were not there. We asked how to get ahold of the customs office in Delhi, and they said they didn't know the phone number, suggesting that we go to the main Varanasi post office to ask for contact info.

The main post office is near my host dad's sari shop, so he checked for me the next week when he went to work. They said they couldn't help, and they also didn't know the Delhi Customs phone number. I was beginning to think they were just avoiding my complaints. How could it be possible that the Varanasi post office didn't have contact with the Delhi post offices? It couldn't. It is impossible.

A week later I received a delightful email from my grandma saying that she had found her tracking number, and discovered that, no surprise, my package was stuck in Delhi. It had been there for almost a month without any movement. I asked our program director for suggestions as to who to contact, and he called his friend who works for the Indian Postal Service. Since this was the day before Holi, his friend was at home and didn't have any phone numbers with him, but he promised that when he was back in his office he could give us the right numbers. I spent the next four days bathing in the colors of Holi and writing my rough draft. On Monday we tried again. I had Shashank ji do the talking in his native Hindi, and with his big name of "Director of UW Madison College Year in India Program," to intimidate anyone he talked to. The first man who picked up the phone said that he didn't have that information, but we should call this other guy. We called the other guy, and he said the same thing. We called the third guy, and he didn't pick up. We called the second guy back, and he said the third guy was on lunch break, so we should call in two hours. Two hours later we called, and we were told that my package had left Delhi on Saturday. Somehow I suspected that they were preparing to send it as they talked to me. I asked the customs man if he knew of any problem that would cause my four other packages not to reach me. He said that he had no suggestions for me unless I could give him a tracking number. After the phone conversation was over, I came promptly to the computer room to strangle Allison, since I couldn't strangle the Indian Postal Service at the time.

Two days ago I came to the program house in the afternoon, and Panditji told me that my package had come, but I had to sign for it so they had taken it back. He said I should stick around in the afternoon the next day to receive it.

Thursday afternoon, I finally recieved my package. Two postmen had come to deliver it, and they each had me sign a paper. It was a little package, wrapped in twine and sealed with some wierd black gooey stuff, beaten up with the empty plastic envelope where the customs slip used to be flapping off the bottom. The postmen asked me for ten rupees. I asked what for, and Pandit ji said I should just give it to them. "Delivering mail is your job, isn't it?" I asked. "Yes," they replied, "But we had to come two times." Pandit ji told me to just give them the money. I said I didn't have any change, and walked away. Pandit ji yelled after me that I could just give it to them another time, then told the post men I would give them their money later. After such difficulty getting my package, I wasn't ready to tip any postal workers for coming twice on the route they take daily. I sat down at the table to open my long-lost package, sawing at the twine with a dull knife the Didis had given me. I thought I might have to cut some tape, but was wrong, as my package had obviously already been opened. I took a gander inside.

I love care packages, and though this one was small, it didn't disappoint. Grandma jo sent me butterscotch candies and chocolate mint sauce. I think I might have a sundae party. As I looked through the goodies, I remembered back to the things Grandma jo had said were in the package that had been lost...and they weren't all there. A pair of rechargeable batteries had been removed from the package before it got to me. I don't really care about rechargeable batteries, but I did care that the one package that had finally gotten to me had arrived incomplete. I was pissed. Program staff encouraged me to write a really angry complaint letter to the postal service.

I did. I wrote the most stern and angry letter I could imagine, then asked Sanghamitra ji to read it to make sure it was good enough. She said I was giving them a hug, not yelling at them, and helped me modify the letter to say things like:

"I am prepared to go to the police, and to the US Embassy to find out why my packages havn't reached me, and who is responsible for removing my items from my packages."

I brought this letter to the post office, and they said that they would do something.

That was over a month ago. Nothing has been done. Maybe when all my requirements are over I'll keep bothering them for fun. Since then I have received one package from my mom, without having anything taken out of it, and I only had to call the customs office twice to get it to arrive within a month and a half.