Post office

I grew up waiting for the postman - he brought post cards for small occasions, inland letters from grandmother in Bombay asking mother about life in Bangalore, uncles, aunts, my sisters, my brother, whether we were faring well in school, about Navaratri around the corner, March final examinations, and the ensuing railway trip to Bombay. The postman - he brought marriages to us, births and deaths, moneyorders from father from faraway Jorhat, Assam - he also brought greetings for various festivals, important dates and yes always the "Happy New Year ". The postman was always a welcome visitor - because he was born before the newspaper was. The first English gift to the Indian is his postman - no wonder the English lived around for 350 years with us. They left behind the English language, which every Indian is unashamedly proud of and ashamedly fighting against alongside their individual mother tongues which today in some cities in india are alsorans.

The Indian postman today is very old, though his news are not - in most urban centres - the
larger the towncentre, the lesser the postman adored - we still live in our villages and our villages are still served by the postman. The postman still a personal messenger - a man whom we can trust for what he is and what he conveys - he is part of our life - nevertheless - no matter what his age is the older Indians still love to see him - because the Indian postman has been around for time immemorial, his khaki, his bag, his cycle, his story for each household is still not the same for the next household - he is there because he was always there.

Life wasn't what it is today. I live in Bangalore. I live here still. We have roads now and I started walking on mud paths. We had lakes then. We have none now. We have trees though. They've grown around us inspite of our growing under them. We need the shade, but we go for the sun. The sun scorches and the trees heal us. Life wasnt what it is today. Life was more easier then!