The Post Office at Mori Road

The post office in my lane still looks the same since the last forty years. For years, I had not visited the post office, though I used to be a frequent visitor once upon a time, when my grand father who was an avid writer of letters used to send me to buy him his supply of stamps, inland letters or post letters written by him every week.

The intensity of this activity used to be particularly high as Pujo (as in Durga Puja – referred to as Pujo by Bengalis) approached every year as he probably wrote to everyone he knew to wish them for Pujo. He also used to eagerly wait for the postman ringing our doorbell every afternoon for the reply to his letters. Over the years the postal department knew our address well enough and I remember those delivering letters to our address, simply on the basis of my grandpa’s name being written on the address line, although the rest of the address was often incomplete or incorrect.

That said, the postmen in the area also knew that Pujo was a big occasion for us Bengalis and always expected some special tips for their service every Pujo. And my grandfather obliged willingly. One of them even knew us personally as he was from West Bengal and was a Bengali. I knew him as Harekeshtoda. From Pujo tidings to my report card, Harekeshtoda delivered the good news and the bad news respectively. In the evenings, after his official duties, Harekeshtoda used to sit outside the post office and help people who could not read and write with their letters as a service and made some more money on the side.

It had been years since I had visited the post office. I think it must be more than twenty years. And I had even stopped noticing it over the years. It almost never existed for me on the street. In the age of email and technology I guess these old institutions fade away. Besides the post office today we have a brand new ATM on Mori Road. Another intervention of technology that we take for granted today.

On this morning, I was making my way to the ATM to replenish my depleted cash position. The ATM was getting its cash changeover done and I had to wait by the post office next door. The post office was dimly lit with two tube lights hanging precariously from the ceiling. The walls had lost their paint and now their plaster over the years and the betel leaf stains were even more visible than ever before splattered generously across the wall. The wooden counter across which the post office personnel sat still had that old world teak wood polish – the only sign of the glory of the olden days. A mesh separated the customer from the attendant as usual and you had to half bend and look at the attendant through the gap to strike up a conversation if you needed to. The post office had a unique old world smell and as I took that in, it was pure nostalgia. I ventured a little inside and saw men in Khaki milling around. As my eyes got adjusted to the darkness around, I heard a voice call out in Bengali “Chinte Parcho?” meaning “Can you recognize me?” I turned around and saw an ageing man, with a white shock of hair, his face creased with the first signs of old age setting in hobbling towards me. It took me a couple of seconds, but I recognized him in an instant “Harekeshtoda! What a surprise. You are still here?”. “Well I guess it will be a couple of years before I kick the bucket, young man, but I can still recognize you. These old eyes are still good” he said, peering through his thick glasses.

‘So, what brings you here? I have never seen you in years at the post office. ” he asked. To my embarrassment I told him that I had come to buy some stationery at the post office. His face lit up instantly and he offered to fetch me my stationery from the clerk across the counter. I bought an inland letter, two post cards and some stamps in a desperate cover up attempt. ‘It still looks the same” I said. “Nothing has changed, Harekeshtoda”. He suddenly looked a little sad, perhaps crestfallen. I think I touched a raw nerve. “You are right, nothing has changed, people have forgotten the art of letter writing, and no one writes letters nowadays. It is all about email. The olden days were different. I used to enjoy delivering letters and writing letters and helping people communicate. I knew instinctively if a letter contained good news or bad news. People used to wait for my ring on the doorbell. I have shared their happiness, tears, anxiety and boredom and knew many of them personally. The world outside has changed, but here it only gets darker every day.”

I tried to cheer him up. “Maybe the good thing that has happened is that your bag has got lighter with your age” I said. He smiled. “I don’t mind the bag as long as I had to deliver to people like your grandfather. They don’t make them like that anymore. I used to especially enjoy the time during the Pujo delivering letters to your house.” Pujo was around the corner and it was the day before Mahalaya. I wished him and his face lit up once again. “I am going home to be with my family. In fact, I am retiring and going back. My son is now grown up and married and has a baby boy. I am looking forward to being with my grandson. Just like your grandfather spent time with you. I am so happy I met you before going. I suppose we were destined to meet” he said.

He handed over the postal stationery to me. I shook his hand warmly and wished him the best and a happy Pujo. “Something for the kids” and he stuffed a fifty rupee note in my hands. I protested but he would not listen. “My turn to give back” he said. He smiled and this time it spread across his wrinkled face and that smile froze in time for me, for a second. I walked back, completely oblivious of the fact that I had to withdraw money from the ATM. I reached home and my wife asked me “What’s this? What have you got? Where is the money?” I fumbled and mumbled and produced a bunch of postal stationery much to her amusement. “I bought some stationery to write some letters. Tomorrow is Mahalaya. And here is fifty bucks to buy sweets for the children” I blurted. “I think you have completely lost it. You really need a break” she said.

The next morning while hearing the Chandi Path (the chant of the goddess Durga on Mahalaya) on tape, I noticed the postal stationery on the table. I reached for my pen and my blackberry beeped. There was email to read. But I am not giving up. I intend to complete that letter. At least it feels like old times again during Pujo.

Wish you all a happy Pujo.