Mr. Khaki

I just saw him. The man in Khaki. With three bright yellow coloured bold strokes one below another imprinted against a red background on his khaki coloured breast pocket; a revamped version of the postal department’s identity that it underwent a few years ago. He entered the elevator when it reached the fourth floor of the twenty-two storey tower. His one minute of presence was enough for me to bring back the yesteryears in a matter of seconds.

As a child I had often seen him carrying a khaki bag. Open, most of the times; closed, rarely; since the bag was always packed with telegrams, parcels, money orders, subscribed magazines, greeting cards, and emotions penned on inland letters. He used to pass through our make-shift cricket ground at a time when someone was about to throw a ball. Shrugging his shoulders and ducking his pate, he often escaped smite of a fast ball that many times zoomed passed his earlobe.

The colony where I stayed still comprises of buildings standing face-to-face and are lookalike; unless differentiated by a colour or their number. The buildings have enough space in-between the two structures: to walk, to park, to organise a pooja, to play holi or to host a box-style cricket match competition. It is like a rectangle-shaped alley with a pathway that is connected to the building's entrance. Standing in the middle of the alley or even in the corners of any floor, one can easily guess in which house the man in Khaki will deliver a parcel.

Excitement used to soar whenever he dropped a greeting card during special occasions because with that card my cousin sisters used to insert a letter written on a full-scape paper. Those were the days when telephone was considered as luxury. The presence of which was a symbol of prosperity. In a building where I stayed, only one home out of forty had a telephone line. For a family like ours, the man in khaki was a seamless connection, whose network appeared at regular intervals. There was an assurance that a greeting mailed a week ago will reach home within seven days but certainly not on the day of the special occasion. And just because the celebratory moment took time to leave our mind, we never mind for a late delivery.

In a state of nostalgia, now I often wonder, the men in Khaki were no less than any mountaineer; resolute to reach the destination, even if they gasped for breath. Every day they had a mammoth task to ascent & descent four floors of at least fifty buildings.

At times the addressee’s door remained closed, so they had to tuck the parcel on the door, or hand it over to the neighbours, whose facial expressions, often disapproving, sometimes welcoming, disclosed the relationship they shared with the recipient. Once delivered, what they took back was a parcel of expressions, which they only knew, and they used to stamp it beneath the colour of their khaki.