He was among the very few
who kept khadi living
in his uniform,
and carried a jhola
brimming with emotions
and messages,
from across miles and miles.
Postman chacha,
I’ve seen him grow
since I was a baby;
his hair going from black
to a pepper spray.
I got my Tobu cycle.
Then a BSA SLR.
But he was still on foot
wherever the mails took him;
a door here, a door there,
a smile here, a tear there.
Of all the days in the year,
I waited for him in May
when he delivered my mark sheet –
my fate sealed
in the yellow envelope
neatly arranged in his khadi jhola.
Nothing lost in the miscellany of letters
and colourful pens.
But I knew he had it with him
as he’d pretend to search for it,
handing it to me
in exchange for a sweet
and a smile.
Ma would offer him a glass of water
that he happily gulped.
Then wiped off his mouth
with the back of his hand,
thanking her under his breath.
The gratitude so obvious
for a glass of water
that took him to the next door
in the sweltering heat.
But I don’t see him any more
on these very streets
where he walked every day.
Never thought there would be
a world without him,
for letters are now so few and far between.