Hark, is that the postman?” The question may not be heard in the future thanks to courier services and e-mail. But I, for one, would fondly remember the humble postman who delivered letters promptly even on stormy days.
My first appointment letter arrived by post years ago. I was not home when the postman called. He informed my mother that the addressee should contact him at his office the next day before he left on his beat and collect the registered letter. I went early to the post office and signed on an ‘acknowledgement due form’ and got my appointment order with great joy. In those days, the postmen did not insist on identity proof or residence proof. The signature of the addressee was sufficient.
I have fond memories of the Bombay General Post Office. Years ago, I took my neatly typed articles to the GPO, affixed stamps and sealed the envelopes with the glue provided there. I believed that letters posted at the GPO would reach their destinations faster than those dropped into suburban postboxes.
My grandfather used to sit on the verandah after lunch, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the postman with letters or money orders from his sons. On Mondays, the postman used to be late, because of accumulation of mail during the weekends. My grandfather would be restless till the postman went past his house. He received at least one epistle a day from his sons, daughters, grandchildren and other relatives. In the absence of telephone and internet, grandfather had only the postal route as a means of communication.
The usage of a postcard was a common practice. Grandfather used to chide anyone who used an inland letter if there was nothing much to convey. A postcard bearing the news of a birth or other glad tidings was smeared with turmeric powder at the corners.
In many villages, illiterate men and women depended on the postman to read out letters from their kith and kin. Occasionally, the postman was requested to write a reply as dictated. He was treated like a family friend and offered cold water, buttermilk or tea as the weather demanded. There never was a fat postman, because he either walked or cycled through all the streets of a village.
Even if the name was spelt incorrectly or the door number written wrongly, the postman would deliver the letter to the recipient after enquiring with neighbours. In the good old days, the clinking of the bell of a postman’s cycle was a harbinger of good tidings.
Email: mailpsubramanian@gmail.com