A Weekend in Mumbai and After

          On late visarjan night, the walk in the rain from railway station to home was not nice. People, going for or returning after drowning (can’t call it an ‘immersion’ after knowing how it’s done) the Ganapati idols, needed a tot of liquor to revive/relax them during/after the dancing. Dancing meant flailing limbs in all directions, dismayingly ungracefully, with un-co-ordinated pelvic thrusts. Heads that rolled/bobbed vigorously on necks made me giddy to even watch. Subsequent days, I imagined, would involve casual/sick leaves and visits to spine/neuro surgeons to get relief from cricks and sprains. And ENT specialists, too, for the drums were big and loud, the brass-clangers bigger and louder, giving aches and hearing loss, no doubt. To describe the scene in two words: Dirty, Avoidable.

          Visarjan over, the municipal workers slaved the entire morning cleaning up the streets. In spite of our cribs, these guys work. We should do our bit by reducing the quantity of garbage. But what the hell, the reduce-reuse-recycle mantra is for activists, not us, right? We’d rather live with the dirt, thanks, and complain about what the government doesn’t do.

          No government has the courage to say: keep your religion in your homes, don’t let it spill onto the streets. Majorly guilty are the Hindus and the Muslims. The Jains/Sikhs/Christians a little; Parsis and Jews are too few to make a dent in traffic/crowds. If I’ve missed some religion, please send me a mail, I’ll include it the next time.

          But Mumbai got back to normalcy immediately. Shops opened on time. Peons/clerks/drivers/maids reported to work. Local buses/trains were on schedule.

          Of the many things Goa can learn from other places, Mumbai’s public transport should be top of the list. The kali-pilis don’t mind the Ola-Uber competition. Imagine that; none has ever gone on strike for putting metres on cabs/autos either.

          One evening, I attended a classical music program in someone’s house. Of a pukka, national-level, famous singer, not the offspring of a couple dying-to-show-(our)-child’s-talent. Gracefully laid table with a few well-made snacks, a great sound system and thirty-odd persons sat quietly to enjoy a good performance. Someone took the mike and explained the raag, the poem/lyrics, the history behind the gurus of the singer and of their times, the language, the instruments accompanying them and the musicians who played them. A few weeks ago, at KA, I’d enjoyed a wonderful program like this one. But…and this But says is all…the announcer or MC or compere or presenter kind of ruined the evening. She was a Ms T. She ruined the experience by using, in her minutes-long speeches (yeah, several of them) absurd and unnecessary adjectives--- ‘majestic’, ‘wonderful’, ‘outstanding’, ‘divine’, ‘spiritual’, ‘fantastic’—without telling the audience anything about the singer or the singing.

          Dinner was in a very clean, inexpensive downtown hotel. We have many such in Goa. What made this one different was it was managed and run by an institution that looks after and trains destitute girls. The quality of the food, choice of menu and most importantly, the cheerful efficiency of the girls have won this place its customers. It doesn’t need advertisement. Word of mouth recommendation keeps it crowded. More kudos followed later: we exited from the back of the restaurant… it was as clean and tidy as the front. That Dirty-City could have spots like these was a revelation. Another lesson Goa can learn, cleanliness is doable at individual level.

          A board at Dadar station said passengers/visitors could have access to free WiFi. I tried. It was a fast connection. A million heads had bowed down to their cell-phones at this station. A tribute to technology. I wondered just what those million heads were looking at and thinking of when they were using that free-WiFi connection.

          That’s when I read the news on the little screen of my instrument: “Seventeen jawans of the Indian Army were killed at Uri in Jammu and Kashmir.” While life was going on with the office-goers, school-kids, hawkers and time-passers doing what they routinely did in their waking hours.

“More will die of the injuries caused by that devastating fire,” Shri Husband said.

Mostly in their twenties, fathers of toddlers, husbands of young women, sons of toiling farmers, these soldiers were/are the reason I am comfortable doing my thing in my home/city/state. I write the way I want, move freely, speak my mind, read the books and see the films I wish to, thanks to them.

I owe them, paid by my taxes and through my government, appropriate and the best gear, training, transport, equipment, support, intelligence and good decisions to be taken by the babus and mantris so they can do their jobs well. Selfish reasons… so I can live in secure comfort.

I asked Shri Husband, “Why do babus and mantris make decisions for them?”

“Because we have a democratically elected civilian government,” he said.

“If they make the decisions for them, they should share the terrain and the dangers, know about the profession of fighting a war, right?”

Shri Husband fell silent. He never admits it when I’m right.

One co-passenger commented: “Neither country will use the nuclear bomb.”

Another replied: “You think ‘they’ are going to shower flowers on us in war?”

I said to Bai Goanna, “I don’t like war. War breaks buildings, roads, water-pipes, electrical connections. War means no medicines when you’re ill, stinky food when you’re hungry. War means gaping wounds, fractured bones, loss of limbs, bullets in spine ---paralysis---, splinters in flesh, injuries in eyes, deafness in ears, coffins and cremations. I’m a lover of embroidery, poetry and music.”

“If,” Bai Goanna interrupted sombrely, “You must have that stuff, someone has to guard your home, your country and its borders.”

“It’s a complicated issue,” Shri Husband pointed out, “Beyond the scope of your column.” 

Perhaps. But can’t I send our soldiers, through this column, somehow, my deep salaam/namasthe/pranaam/salute? Can I? I wonder on my journey back.

 

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

         

         

A Weekend in Mumbai and After

          On late visarjan night, the walk in the rain from railway station to home was not nice. People, going for or returning after drowning (can’t call it an ‘immersion’ after knowing how it’s done) the Ganapati idols, needed a tot of liquor to revive/relax them during/after the dancing. Dancing meant flailing limbs in all directions, dismayingly ungracefully, with un-co-ordinated pelvic thrusts. Heads that rolled/bobbed vigorously on necks made me giddy to even watch. Subsequent days, I imagined, would involve casual/sick leaves and visits to spine/neuro surgeons to get relief from cricks and sprains. And ENT specialists, too, for the drums were big and loud, the brass-clangers bigger and louder, giving aches and hearing loss, no doubt. To describe the scene in two words: Dirty, Avoidable.

          Visarjan over, the municipal workers slaved the entire morning cleaning up the streets. In spite of our cribs, these guys work. We should do our bit by reducing the quantity of garbage. But what the hell, the reduce-reuse-recycle mantra is for activists, not us, right? We’d rather live with the dirt, thanks, and complain about what the government doesn’t do.

          No government has the courage to say: keep your religion in your homes, don’t let it spill onto the streets. Majorly guilty are the Hindus and the Muslims. The Jains/Sikhs/Christians a little; Parsis and Jews are too few to make a dent in traffic/crowds. If I’ve missed some religion, please send me a mail, I’ll include it the next time.

          But Mumbai got back to normalcy immediately. Shops opened on time. Peons/clerks/drivers/maids reported to work. Local buses/trains were on schedule.

          Of the many things Goa can learn from other places, Mumbai’s public transport should be top of the list. The kali-pilis don’t mind the Ola-Uber competition. Imagine that; none has ever gone on strike for putting metres on cabs/autos either.

          One evening, I attended a classical music program in someone’s house. Of a pukka, national-level, famous singer, not the offspring of a couple dying-to-show-(our)-child’s-talent. Gracefully laid table with a few well-made snacks, a great sound system and thirty-odd persons sat quietly to enjoy a good performance. Someone took the mike and explained the raag, the poem/lyrics, the history behind the gurus of the singer and of their times, the language, the instruments accompanying them and the musicians who played them. A few weeks ago, at KA, I’d enjoyed a wonderful program like this one. But…and this But says is all…the announcer or MC or compere or presenter kind of ruined the evening. She was a Ms T. She ruined the experience by using, in her minutes-long speeches (yeah, several of them) absurd and unnecessary adjectives--- ‘majestic’, ‘wonderful’, ‘outstanding’, ‘divine’, ‘spiritual’, ‘fantastic’—without telling the audience anything about the singer or the singing.

          Dinner was in a very clean, inexpensive downtown hotel. We have many such in Goa. What made this one different was it was managed and run by an institution that looks after and trains destitute girls. The quality of the food, choice of menu and most importantly, the cheerful efficiency of the girls have won this place its customers. It doesn’t need advertisement. Word of mouth recommendation keeps it crowded. More kudos followed later: we exited from the back of the restaurant… it was as clean and tidy as the front. That Dirty-City could have spots like these was a revelation. Another lesson Goa can learn, cleanliness is doable at individual level.

          A board at Dadar station said passengers/visitors could have access to free WiFi. I tried. It was a fast connection. A million heads had bowed down to their cell-phones at this station. A tribute to technology. I wondered just what those million heads were looking at and thinking of when they were using that free-WiFi connection.

          That’s when I read the news on the little screen of my instrument: “Seventeen jawans of the Indian Army were killed at Uri in Jammu and Kashmir.” While life was going on with the office-goers, school-kids, hawkers and time-passers doing what they routinely did in their waking hours.

“More will die of the injuries caused by that devastating fire,” Shri Husband said.

Mostly in their twenties, fathers of toddlers, husbands of young women, sons of toiling farmers, these soldiers were/are the reason I am comfortable doing my thing in my home/city/state. I write the way I want, move freely, speak my mind, read the books and see the films I wish to, thanks to them.

I owe them, paid by my taxes and through my government, appropriate and the best gear, training, transport, equipment, support, intelligence and good decisions to be taken by the babus and mantris so they can do their jobs well. Selfish reasons… so I can live in secure comfort.

I asked Shri Husband, “Why do babus and mantris make decisions for them?”

“Because we have a democratically elected civilian government,” he said.

“If they make the decisions for them, they should share the terrain and the dangers, know about the profession of fighting a war, right?”

Shri Husband fell silent. He never admits it when I’m right.

One co-passenger commented: “Neither country will use the nuclear bomb.”

Another replied: “You think ‘they’ are going to shower flowers on us in war?”

I said to Bai Goanna, “I don’t like war. War breaks buildings, roads, water-pipes, electrical connections. War means no medicines when you’re ill, stinky food when you’re hungry. War means gaping wounds, fractured bones, loss of limbs, bullets in spine ---paralysis---, splinters in flesh, injuries in eyes, deafness in ears, coffins and cremations. I’m a lover of embroidery, poetry and music.”

“If,” Bai Goanna interrupted sombrely, “You must have that stuff, someone has to guard your home, your country and its borders.”

“It’s a complicated issue,” Shri Husband pointed out, “Beyond the scope of your column.” 

Perhaps. But can’t I send our soldiers, through this column, somehow, my deep salaam/namasthe/pranaam/salute? Can I? I wonder on my journey back.

 

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

         

         

A Weekend in Mumbai and After

          On late visarjan night, the walk in the rain from railway station to home was not nice. People, going for or returning after drowning (can’t call it an ‘immersion’ after knowing how it’s done) the Ganapati idols, needed a tot of liquor to revive/relax them during/after the dancing. Dancing meant flailing limbs in all directions, dismayingly ungracefully, with un-co-ordinated pelvic thrusts. Heads that rolled/bobbed vigorously on necks made me giddy to even watch. Subsequent days, I imagined, would involve casual/sick leaves and visits to spine/neuro surgeons to get relief from cricks and sprains. And ENT specialists, too, for the drums were big and loud, the brass-clangers bigger and louder, giving aches and hearing loss, no doubt. To describe the scene in two words: Dirty, Avoidable.

          Visarjan over, the municipal workers slaved the entire morning cleaning up the streets. In spite of our cribs, these guys work. We should do our bit by reducing the quantity of garbage. But what the hell, the reduce-reuse-recycle mantra is for activists, not us, right? We’d rather live with the dirt, thanks, and complain about what the government doesn’t do.

          No government has the courage to say: keep your religion in your homes, don’t let it spill onto the streets. Majorly guilty are the Hindus and the Muslims. The Jains/Sikhs/Christians a little; Parsis and Jews are too few to make a dent in traffic/crowds. If I’ve missed some religion, please send me a mail, I’ll include it the next time.

          But Mumbai got back to normalcy immediately. Shops opened on time. Peons/clerks/drivers/maids reported to work. Local buses/trains were on schedule.

          Of the many things Goa can learn from other places, Mumbai’s public transport should be top of the list. The kali-pilis don’t mind the Ola-Uber competition. Imagine that; none has ever gone on strike for putting metres on cabs/autos either.

          One evening, I attended a classical music program in someone’s house. Of a pukka, national-level, famous singer, not the offspring of a couple dying-to-show-(our)-child’s-talent. Gracefully laid table with a few well-made snacks, a great sound system and thirty-odd persons sat quietly to enjoy a good performance. Someone took the mike and explained the raag, the poem/lyrics, the history behind the gurus of the singer and of their times, the language, the instruments accompanying them and the musicians who played them. A few weeks ago, at KA, I’d enjoyed a wonderful program like this one. But…and this But says is all…the announcer or MC or compere or presenter kind of ruined the evening. She was a Ms T. She ruined the experience by using, in her minutes-long speeches (yeah, several of them) absurd and unnecessary adjectives--- ‘majestic’, ‘wonderful’, ‘outstanding’, ‘divine’, ‘spiritual’, ‘fantastic’—without telling the audience anything about the singer or the singing.

          Dinner was in a very clean, inexpensive downtown hotel. We have many such in Goa. What made this one different was it was managed and run by an institution that looks after and trains destitute girls. The quality of the food, choice of menu and most importantly, the cheerful efficiency of the girls have won this place its customers. It doesn’t need advertisement. Word of mouth recommendation keeps it crowded. More kudos followed later: we exited from the back of the restaurant… it was as clean and tidy as the front. That Dirty-City could have spots like these was a revelation. Another lesson Goa can learn, cleanliness is doable at individual level.

          A board at Dadar station said passengers/visitors could have access to free WiFi. I tried. It was a fast connection. A million heads had bowed down to their cell-phones at this station. A tribute to technology. I wondered just what those million heads were looking at and thinking of when they were using that free-WiFi connection.

          That’s when I read the news on the little screen of my instrument: “Seventeen jawans of the Indian Army were killed at Uri in Jammu and Kashmir.” While life was going on with the office-goers, school-kids, hawkers and time-passers doing what they routinely did in their waking hours.

“More will die of the injuries caused by that devastating fire,” Shri Husband said.

Mostly in their twenties, fathers of toddlers, husbands of young women, sons of toiling farmers, these soldiers were/are the reason I am comfortable doing my thing in my home/city/state. I write the way I want, move freely, speak my mind, read the books and see the films I wish to, thanks to them.

I owe them, paid by my taxes and through my government, appropriate and the best gear, training, transport, equipment, support, intelligence and good decisions to be taken by the babus and mantris so they can do their jobs well. Selfish reasons… so I can live in secure comfort.

I asked Shri Husband, “Why do babus and mantris make decisions for them?”

“Because we have a democratically elected civilian government,” he said.

“If they make the decisions for them, they should share the terrain and the dangers, know about the profession of fighting a war, right?”

Shri Husband fell silent. He never admits it when I’m right.

One co-passenger commented: “Neither country will use the nuclear bomb.”

Another replied: “You think ‘they’ are going to shower flowers on us in war?”

I said to Bai Goanna, “I don’t like war. War breaks buildings, roads, water-pipes, electrical connections. War means no medicines when you’re ill, stinky food when you’re hungry. War means gaping wounds, fractured bones, loss of limbs, bullets in spine ---paralysis---, splinters in flesh, injuries in eyes, deafness in ears, coffins and cremations. I’m a lover of embroidery, poetry and music.”

“If,” Bai Goanna interrupted sombrely, “You must have that stuff, someone has to guard your home, your country and its borders.”

“It’s a complicated issue,” Shri Husband pointed out, “Beyond the scope of your column.” 

Perhaps. But can’t I send our soldiers, through this column, somehow, my deep salaam/namasthe/pranaam/salute? Can I? I wonder on my journey back.

 

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

         

         

Compulsory for Everyone

“I think Parrikar should make compulsory military tenure for persons between 18 and 24 years of age,” I said, one very wet afternoon, to no one in particular. I didn’t mean anything by it; it was a ‘just like that’ sentence, meant to go by in a flash. But in my house, things get from awful to horrid in seconds.

“You’ve started thinking,” Shri Husband growled, the usual trace of meanness detected in his voice. “Why?”

I immediately confessed, stuttering: “Not my idea at all. Countries which have compulsory military training do well economically and on most parameters like health, sports, education…”  

          Shri Husband and Bai Goanna pounced (not literally, we’re civilized like that) on me about anything compulsory other than basic education and health being a bad idea.

          “Where do you pick up such ideas?” Shri Husband wanted to know. I wondered what I’d said wrong. “How does running around with heavy boots and knapsacks and camouflage gear get reflected in good commerce or better universities?”

          “Just something she read from a magazine,” quoth Bai Goanna soothingly, kind of taking my side. Then to me she snapped: “Read the entire paragraph, please, and don’t say something out of context.”

          Shri Husband added: “Give examples and details. This sounds like t-shirt single-line philosophy.” I didn’t know what was wrong with t-shirt single-line philosophy, but didn’t want to start a side-drama.

          Bai Goanna, turning towards him, asked: “Who’s she comparing our democracy with?”

          Both looked at me expecting an answer. No matter what I’d say, there’d be a retort. I knew that, so I shut up.

          “Say, say,” Bai Goanna coaxed. “Talk, talk. You said that compulsory military training will help our country. You read it somewhere, didn’t you? Is that not true?”

          “Yes,” I said, the good ‘shut up’ sense of a few seconds ago giving way to impulse and an instinct to prove myself right.

          Bai Goanna: “How? Why is compulsory military training good for us?”

          Me: “It will inculcate some discipline in us, teach us to stand in queues, get us to be physically fit, help us catch trains and buses and cling to their windows and doors without falling out, also teach us to live with people from other states and castes without having hang-ups about eating, playing, praying, working together. It will teach us about honour, integrity, finishing a task, being properly groomed at all times, less sensitive, more professional…”

          Shri Husband’s interruption: “… and to make and handle firearms? In times like these? You are naïve. What if the government sends us to fight our own people and tell us to shoot pellets when we’re hit with stones? And do the duties of the cops and disaster management teams when there are riots and floods? Maybe there should be compulsory training for citizens in the Police academies and for dealing with natural and other calamities. There are other ways to teach how to stand in queues and pay your bills on time. Even then, wonder whether our citizens will accept the compulsion. People will object. We’re a democracy. The debates on television will go on and on.”

He took a breath, then continued: “These days, it’s the tv channels that run the country. They decide what foreign policy to follow, how to run educational institutions, and decide who’s murdered whom even before the judges get to see the evidence…no, before even the FIR is filed… or earlier, before the cops get to the scene their reporters and camerapersons are at the site, getting interviews of family-members, neighbours... This country has a long way to go. Compulsory military training you say? Naa.”

          Negative outlook, I thought.

          “But,” he said. “We could have something similar to the National Cadet Corp. Instead of the NCC, we could have an MCC.”

          “What on earth,” Bai Goanna and I said in unison, “is MCC”?

Sounded like a cricket thingy to me. As always, I was wrong.

          Loftily Shri Husband said: “Municipal Compulsory Curriculum.”

          Lecture-baazi shuru, guessing his mood, and I was correct.

          “We must think out of the box,” Shri Husband said. “Prime Minister Modi gives Monkey Baths to the country on certain Sundays. We citizens should present him with ideas that will benefit India.”

          Only Shri Husband and heaven knew what he was talking about: Bai Goanna and I raised our brows, rolled our eyes, shook our heads and did an invisible palm-forehead gesture.

          “This,” he said like he was addressing a crowd at Shivaji Park, “is my Monkey Bath. I’m going to write to NaMo about it. I have the link to the mygov website which has on it information about how citizens can participate in the governance of India.”

          “I thought that had competitions to design postage stamps on dead VIPs, write slogans to declare how smart your city is and to create posters on how tobacco/dowry is bad,” I said.

          Bai Goanna nudged me with her elbow. No point getting Shri Husband into a worse mood, she warned. I shut up again.     

“If we have a compulsory MCC from ages 18 to 24 as you said, the Swatccha Bharat campaign might really get successful.” Shri Husband goes off at a tangent sometimes.

Nil comprehendo. More silence.

Then began lecture-baazi Phase Two: “Young men and women must be forced to clean up their homes, neighbourhoods, localities, villages, talukas. They must handle garbage, the different kinds of waste and learn to manage it. They must enforce, military style, the mantra Reduce-Reuse-Recycle and be empowered to fine spit-urine law-breakers. No matter how many treatment plants are constructed, no matter how reputed the consultants or how much money the government spends, no matter how many photographs are taken on and banners put up for swatchh-events, the stink and litter piles will increase, as will disease…”

He inhaled and fidgeted. We left the room before lecture-baazi Phase Three began. His day-dreaming can be a heavy load to bear.         

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

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