Package deal

The other day I got a large package in the post. I studied it cautiously. What could it contain? The latest Osama tape declaring a jehad against Jugular Vein? A pre-Christmas present from an as yet unknown benefactor? A couriered brickbat from a long-distance critic? It turned out to be an invitation to watch the revamped version of a well-known TV channel which specialises in exploring far-flung cultural, geographical and zoological realms.So far, so good. But along with the bumph on how they were upgrading the channel, the producers had also sent along — with no explanatory note for their inclusion — a pair of glass and metal beer mugs. Now, I like beer, and I like mugs from which I can drink it.
And these mugs were handsome specimens of mughood, tall and elegantly designed. Must have cost a packet. And thats what worried me. Wouldnt the money it must have cost to make and freight them to hundreds and thousands of potential viewers like me have been better spent on something more appropriate to the theme and content of the TV channel which had sent the mugs? By accepting the unsolicited gift of the mugs had I made myself an unwitting and unwilling accomplice in a diversion of much-needed funds from a cause as laudable, say, as recording for the edification of the TV channels viewers the courtship rituals of the Komodo dragon in the darkest jungles of deepest Borneo, the nuances of the tik-tik language of the Bushmen of the Kalahari desert, or the dietary preferences of the hunter-gatherer denizens of Upper East Side Manhattan? Would a posterity left lamentably uneducated on these and similarly crucial issues point a finger in silent — but all the more eloquent for that — accusation at my freebie beer mugs?
Thats the trouble with fancy packaging. Whats outside often detracts from whats inside. The sizzle on the steak, the bubbles in the champagne are fine. But not if its all sizzle and no steak, all bubbles and no bubbly. Or as Bunnys Prem Uncle used to say: Oocha dukan, phika pakwan. Which translates roughly as: Buy the product, not the packaging. Sound advice, seldom heeded. We all tend to buy — and sell — the packaging at the expense of the product. Such deceptive — or at least distracting — packaging comes in many guises: Ornate invites to Page 3 dos which turn out to be Page 30 donts; designer wear that hides creeping cellulite; political manifestos that begin by promising the moon and end by stealing your sixpence.
Take cellphone services. The service I subscribe to doesnt believe in stinting on expense. In fact, it throws money away with both hands, and a couple of feet to boot. Everywhere you look you see ads featuring BYTs (Beautiful Young Things) engaged in endurance talkathons interspersed with trilling laughter. Yet each time I try to use my cellphone a recorded voice (presumably stifling trilling laughter) tells me that the number you are trying is currently unavailable, please try a little later by sending smoke signals or carrier pigeons, whichever are slower. Why does my cellphone service not work for me? Is it because I am not a BYT? Or could it be because the cellphone people have spent so much money on BYT packaging that they havent any left over to spend on putting up more signal towers?
So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament, I mutter at my cellphone which has decided to lie doggo and has gone totally dead. Stop mangling Shakespeare, says Bunny. I know of one package deal in which the content is better than the container, she adds. I glance at the mirror. What looks like a crumpled dhobi bundle looks back at me. What the heck. I decide Ill buy that deft-handed compliment. Neatly packaged though it is.