The Postman - Tushar Sen

The only cycle in our lane with a bell
belongs to Dinu, the postman.

Before he turns the corner
we hear him—
a bright little ring
shaking the morning from its sleep,
and every house listens.

Dinu comes in khaki,
his bicycle leaning into the sun,
his old leather jhola
hanging from his shoulder
like a magician's hat.
He draws a rabbit from it every time.

He has carried every kind of news—
good, bad, sad, ugly, urgent, important.

Flavoured as warnings, blessings
and weddings.

The town has taught him that news has no weight
until it reaches a door.

Telegrams—
When Dinu reaches for one,
the room grows quiet.

Money orders are different.
They arrive with relief in them—
enough to make a woman laugh,
to make an old man sit down before counting.

Dinu accepts thumb impressions
like an Android screen lock
and signatures too sometimes.
He acquiesces to whatever the house can spare:
sugar, jaggery, a little honey,
a bowl of curd. Or, from the richer houses,
a rupee coin pressed into his palm.

He reads letters to the old woman at Mao Lane,
and wonders who'd do that once emails take over.

He also writes letters to himself,
postmarked to his address,
and reads them to his wife
signed by his martyred son,
who was awarded the Victory Cross

posthumously a year ago.