One of the first people I befriended after settling down in Madras—now Chennai—was our postman. Those were the days when we solely depended on postcards, inland letters and telegrams for communication. My father would send me money either through demand draft or money order; in either case I would look forward to the postman’s arrival. I drew comfort from the fact that he spoke in Hindi, was a native of Kanpur, my home town, and lived in the same street.
On one occasion, I was anxiously looking forward to a mail from an institution which had to refund a deposit placed with them. For getting a duplicate instrument, the formalities listed out were one too many, starting from a request letter to execution of an indemnity on a non-judicial stamp paper and so on. Despite repeated reminders, they didn’t dispatch it quickly. Being cash-strapped at the end of the month and running out of patience, I would call on the postman on a daily basis—for I considered him my harbinger of good news.
One morning, the familiar bicycle bell sound drew me to the front gate of my house. The postman had a cover in his hand and wanted to know if it was the one I was looking for. The cover had my name sans initials and a couple of lines scribbled after that—an apology for address. Some Good Samaritan in the postal department had in red ink marked on it ‘Try Chennai–600044’. The relief on my face was all too obvious and my friend pedaled away with a smile.
Soon I joined the services of a public sector bank. There was this CAIIB exam, the passing of which would fetch me three increments besides seniority in service. During exam time, two places I would frequent were the temple and the post office. As usual I started frequenting the post office when results started to trickle in for some of my colleagues. The postman told me in strict confidence, “Relax, all is for good if the communication is getting delayed. From what I see over the last few days, all those who have received the envelope have either failed or managed to clear just one or two of the papers.”
One fine morning he was at my doorstep demanding a treat. Seeing the familiar envelope, I knew my result was in his hands and wondered how he knew the contents. “It’s a professional secret, but as you are my friend, I’ll risk sharing it with you. One big advantage the window envelopes have is that you can steal a glance,” he said giving a ‘Priya Varrier’ wink!
Email: maharajapuram.s.vaidyanathan@gmail.com