Hey, Mr. Postman

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

A vignette from five decades or so stuck in my memory. The days when my frenemy Babul and I lived in adjacent rented houses on a dead-end galli (lane) with an uneven L-shaped brick wall enclosing it from two sided. The narrow end of that "L" separated the strip from an open area us kids dared not explore. There were vague rumors of terrible horrors awaiting anyone who ventured out there. In reality, it was probably just an undeveloped plot, overgrown with thorny nettle (bichuti) shrubs and used as a dumping ground for household waste. Also, an open-air shauchaalaya for some of the neighborhood folks who enjoyed doing their morning business in fresh air.

The longer stretch of the brick wall ran vaguely parallel to the four houses. Together, the structure formed a nice little secluded strip, largely free from traffic except for the occasional sabji waala, the akhbaar waala, the raddi waala, and so on. The strip surface was uneven brick and dries mud. We used to get scabs on skinned knees on scabs upon scabs frequently, but who cared. This short end of the boundary wall stood about eight feet high, built to last without maintenance. The longer section, however, had an uneven height, following a "freehand" attempt at a straight line, averaging around seven feet. It seemed much taller back then. Or maybe we were just shorter. Over the years, some bricks had become exposed, with one or two jutting out, unintentionally forming what would be called a "rock climbing" wall now, though we had no concept of such a thing. We often climbed up to the semi-domed top of the wall using the loose bricks, pretending to ride the choo choo, defending the fort against marauders, or playing some other war game that kept us entertained without parental intervention. 

And yes, there was that one time a brick fell on my head while I was contemplating a climb to duel with Babul, who was already atop the wall (true story). He steadfastly maintained that he had nothing to do with it. I have no reason to believe (or disbelieve) him, but I sometimes wonder if being hit on the head by that brick at an early age explains certain aspects of my outlook on life as it has developed.

Along the long brick wall on the other side lay more open land, which contained a well (we lost more than a few balls that bounced over), a jackfruit tree bearing the biggest jackfruits I’ve ever seen, and some rough shanties occupied by a large, confusing joint family. Adjacent to this land was a street called Radium Road. Don’t ask me why it was named so. Perhaps a municipal councilor had recently come across an article about Madame Curie during his office hours. I find this as plausible an explanation as any. Interestingly, the street still exists today!

The lane was a perfect spot for our cricket matches. Joined by many other neighborhood kids and visiting cousins, we often used the narrow brick end-wall for stumps, drawing chalk outline for wickets. No wicketkeepers needed.

Eventually, I acquired a cricket kit, which meant we had more than just the brick wall for our games. Two key players who joined us frequently were both named Dilip (yes, really). One was known as dhani (rich) Dilip. He lived in a large house across Radium Road, part of a well-off business family. Always well-dressed, he actually owned a proper cricket kit as well. Babul would immediately claim him for his team, appointing him Vice-Captain on his team. I suspect dhani Dilip’s kit was the deciding factor in his selection and a strategic move. After all, if unresolved disputes over no-balls, LBWs, or other contentious calls led me to walk away with my kit, the game could continue with Dilip's. Babul. Frenemy, I tell ya.

The other Dilip lived nearby, known to us as gharib (poor) Dilip. He resided in one of the shanties next to the brick wall. I liked having him on my team. He was short and stocky but quite athletic, and Babul’s nemesis in cricket. His bodyline bowling left many bruises. I was just as glad to have him on my team as Babul was mad to face him. Frenemies. Yup.

Which brings me to the main story. 

gharib Dilip’s father worked in another city and only visited home for the big holidays. I am not sure what he did for a living, but many in his family worked in coalfields or in steel mills. Dilip’s parents exchanged written letters frequently using postcards, the only real means of staying in touch in that era. They were delivered by our friendly postman, whom we simply called daakiya babu. He surely had a proper name, but we never knew it.

A few years before we were born, in 1957, the country had transitioned from the remnants of the Raj, shifting from rupia, anna, pai to naya paisa. The naya was officially dropped in 1964, but I recall hearing it for many more years after.

The choice of a postcard for those letters was purely economic decision over any fancy notions of "privacy." An open two-sided postcard cost something like 10 naya paisa, while a more private inland letter cost 25. No contest. Dilip’s mother was not literate, and the postman knew it, offering to read the letters to her in an oh-so-friendly manner. She would generally retreat back in silence and later visit our house and ask my mom to read aloud her husband’s letters. She would then ask my mom to write a reply on her behalf. Babul’s mom, mashi ma, could not help much here. While she was fluent in Bengali, she had never learned Hindi formally. Babul, too, had a constant battle on his hand with Hindi homework.

As expected, the postcards did not offer much privacy, so communications and emotional exchanges were guarded. At some point, Dilip’s mother became quite uneasy, suspecting that the daakiya babu was privy to the coded but intimate exchanges with her husband and trying to become a bit too friendly. She became much more circumspect in her communications.

I know a bit about this because my mom sometimes tasked me with helping Dilip’s mother after my penmanship improved from illegible scribbles to a somewhat readable chicken scratch. If my mom was busy when she came over, it became my job to assist. What I remember most is my initial confusion when I first attempted to write a letter for her.

At school, I had mastered the formal structure for writing letters, thanks to Sr. Carmella and Sri Haram Hareram Pandit. Start with a Sir/Madam, or Sri/Smt. XYZ. End with the likes of "Respectfully Yours." Some purposeful fluff in between. Nowhere in these lessons was there any clue at all on how to compose a spousal missive! I was completely flummoxed. I asked her the husband’s name, but she wouldn't say it out loud per some quaint tradition. We finally settled on addressing the letter to babua ke bappa ji (the child's father) and closing with aapki hi, Manni (Only Yours, Manni) I never learned either side's formal given names.

One detail that bubbled up from some remote corner of my memory is the sentence baccha log aapko bahot yaad karta hai (the kids miss you very much) at least twice on that postcard. Only now do I understand the true emotional depth of that coded phrasing, something that was simply way beyond my extremely limited EQ back then.

A few years later, we moved from that rented house to the new one my father had built. We now had a different postman. We rarely received postcards anymore. Most of the mail consisted of Inland letters, Air-mail letters, or sealed envelopes. The new postman was not friendly at all. He stayed all business like, not spending any time chit-chatting with the people on his route. But he never missed turning up for bakhsheesh at each Hindu, Muslim, or Sikh festival. Even Christmas. 

Over time, I lost track of both Dilip's and their families. Recently, a cousin visited the area and sent me some pictures. Only one small section of the street looked vaguely familiar. Yet, with those pictures and this blank postcard, I was transported back to that narrow lane, and in the midst of a hotly contested cricket match, shouting in glee or frustration, waiting for one of our moms to call a break for snacks and lemonade on a summer afternoon.

From that blissful spot: "Having a good time! Wish I was there!"

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆