I love December. It’s only 34 degrees instead of the regular 36, and it’s that time of year when a fat old man in a red suit showers you with gifts, and you look at him and say “Khaana zaroor khaaiyega,” and then introduce him to your bride. This is the season of giving and gifting, an art-form that Indians take great pleasure in. The problem is, our gifting is like Bollywood. We love it, but for the most part, it’s tacky and unoriginal. All too often, you open a gift-box expecting Lagaan but finding Jacckkyee Bhagnunny. There are some gifts that need to go away forever. In no particular order, they are:

Flowers. Flowers need to stand for something. A red flower on Valentines Day stand for love. A white flower at a cemetery stands for remembrance. And Andy Flower at a cricket ground stands for India’s worst cricket series since life. Flowers need to mean something specific, something definite. But in India, we shove bouquets of the damn things into people’s hands for no reason, at every single event. The worst is at weddings, when after three hours of intense guest-greeting, the area around the bride and groom looks like James Cameron could film a N’avi mating ritual in it.