Dear Postmen and Courierwalas

         I was expecting a speed-posted letter. What with Chovoth, the weekend and Eid following each other, I had a clue it wouldn’t reach me within the stipulated three days. (Once upon a time it was meant to be express-delivered within 24 hours within cities, but things change.)

A neighbour kindly enquired on my behalf at the one-chair sub-post-office in our village panchayat building whether it had arrived. Any such query becomes the property of the locality. Every Tome, Babush and Hari wanted to know more about it. Who sent it, from where, when, why do you get letters at all, and more.

Multiple queries later, Dear Neighbour fetched it for me and told me that the postman had no intention of delivering it at home.

“I think,” declared Shri Husband, “There’s a disconnect between what our neighbour has understood and what the postman told him. The postman cannot not deliver.”

I don’t interrupt Shri Husband in his “I think” mood, but I guessed my benefactor believed the postman wouldn’t deliver it in the expected time. Besides thinking, we do a lot of guessing between the three of us, Shri Husband, Bai Goanna and I.

After our old postman died and his replacement got transferred out, we began to share this new youngster with folks in surrounding vaadaas, bhaats and colonies. The distances and condition of the roads made it inconvenient for him to walk/cycle so he made his rounds on a motorized two-wheeler. Still, ‘vaaz yeta’, the postman confessed to my neighbour, to deliver to all homes, specially those at the end of narrow lanes. The density of population where I stay, by postal and gas-cylinder delivery standards, is low. The gas-guys come in a gang, atop a truck, shouting in chorus, enjoying themselves somewhat. The postman comes alone, departs unsung, because he meets not his customer but the little pipe tied to the gate.

Once upon a time, the postman was a phantom who slipped envelopes, cards or letters under our door or in the box outside and turned up at the time of every festival for tips which we daren’t refuse for fear that some of our subsequent mail might mysteriously disappear.

In my short stay near Avantipur, Kashmir, immediately after the Paki PM Bhutto died (1979), we were camping just above the small hamlet which had the nearest post office - a ramshackle tin-hut.

The elderly, solitary postman there was, like the school master in Goldsmith’s poem, a respected man. He knew everyone’s name and address, could read Hindi, Urdu and English. He knew, the villagers thought, was all there was to know about the unfamiliar cities and towns beyond the scenic mountains that surrounded them. Those were innocent times.

A majority of the villagers were illiterate (unlike in Goa). The postman read and wrote all their letters, knew about their personal lives. Few could keep a secret from him. He therefore supposed that it was his right to know what I, a city-girl with temporary domicile, was reading. He’d politely hold his burning curiosity back till I’d finished my letter. Then he’d demand: “Whose?”

In the well-modulated tones that one saves for elders/superiors I’d tell him.

He could count in rupees, coins and stamps (!) he told me. His old khakhi uniform was never dirty or crumpled and worn with pride. His shoes had a millimeter of sole left, for wheels were useless on those steep slopes.

I used to perch myself on a rock, eagerly awaiting him.  Whenever he had letter for me, he’d hold it in his hand and wave to me before commencing the tiring climb to the tent. I offered to go down and collect my mail, but he brusquely waved that suggestion aside, saying that the slopes were nothing, that he was used to it, that it was his job, etc.

Our postmen and courier-walas need to be told these ‘inspirational’ stories.

He’d plant himself beside the flapping canvass, light a bidi and watch me as I ripped the envelope and rushed through its contents, silently scrutinizing the changing expressions on my face. He could not digest the fact that letters could be written without including the news of a marriage/death, birth or job or scandal. To entertain him and myself, imaginary cousins, grandparents and aunts have been married, killed and ruined respectively. That gave him an opportunity to rejoice with or comfort me.

On the day of our departure, I went down to the tin-hut that housed his office with the intention of handing him a well-deserved tip. His wrinkled face showed wounded pride.

“I was doing my job. The sarkar pays me for it,” he said. Rare chap.

Our postman here/today is a busier man. His load is heavier—magazines, annual reports of companies weigh more these days, their thicker, glossier paper wrapped in garbage-increasing plastic. More people to deliver to and no-one invites him for a chat or offers him the respect his predecessors got. With the advent of the internet, many have forgotten that he exists.

The courier-wala, who connects with customers via cellular-phone, is better known.

The postman has to come home whether or not he wants/likes to because the Government that we love to hate makes sure duty is done. No matter which Party rules, the Postal Service works. Mostly well.

The courier-wala, on the other hand, takes a different route. Metaphorically. My parcels get accepted at distant places with the promise of point-to-point delivery. When they arrive in Goa, the courier-company’s office discovers that the address is located in a rural area. That the location is a few metres from the edge of town doesn’t matter. That it’s a crowded, well-connected locality also doesn’t matter. It’s rural, therefore out of bounds.

A phone-call tells me I have to collect it from the office. Point-to-point shown on a globe (in the advertisement) with a graphic arrow covering the page/screen isn’t the whole truth.

Even in 2016 viva postman, I say.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in