<p>Newspaper grew on me as a habit when I was a schoolboy. And that habit is still with me, easy access to news from other media notwithstanding. My late grandparents were voracious newspaper readers. Perhaps their love of newspapers had rubbed off on me, if anything like that can happen at all. But, I had at least once found myself being robbed of that pleasure by a newspaper boy, of all the people!<br /><br /></p>.<p>It happened when I was living in a small town where one of my several transfers had found me many years ago. The bank where I worked seemed to enjoyed relocating its employees too often to keep counts. I knew that bank employees were transferable, but not as frequently as they were in the bank where I had worked. So, to say that I had led a nomadic sort of life as long as I worked in that bank would not be much off the mark.<br /><br />Hardly had I ensconced myself in the new place when the very first thing I did was to arrange for the home-delivery of newspapers. The vendor was happy to have one more subscriber; the delivery boy was not. The reason could be easily inferred — it increased his workload. He had to make a detour to reach my place and, presumably, he did not get any remuneration from the newsvendor for the additional work. I could discern a glint of annoyance on his face when he came to my house with the paper on the first day.<br /><br />I got the newspaper of my choice for a week or so. Then the delivery boy suddenly turned erratic. Scanning the morning newspaper while I breakfasted soon became a far cry for me. Moreover, often the newspapers he delivered would be the one I hadn’t subscribed for. When it came to newspapers, I was like a brand-conscious smoker, but he often forced me to read newspapers of not my choice, making me ill at ease.<br /><br />He always tossed the newspaper onto the verandah from the gate with an unerring aim, without troubling himself to ring the doorbell to announce his arrival, and making it impossible for me to meet him.<br /><br />If I heard the thud of the falling paper and went out to meet him, I wouldn’t find him. He would disappear like lightning. Thus, for all my best efforts to meet him, I had no joy. If I had to meet him, I could do so only at the cost of reaching my office late. It seemed he avoided meeting the subscribers lest they should question his capricious behaviour. The newsvendor, a factory hand, wasn’t easily accessible either. But at last a time came when I was past my endurance. Unable to put up with the boy any longer, I abandoned my ‘willing-to-wound-but hesitant-to-strike’ attitude.<br /><br />Therefore, one morning, to apprehend him before he made himself scarce, I stood behind the front door of my house, keeping it ajar, so that when I heard his footsteps I could come out instantly and seize him. I waited with bated breath. Seconds ticked by. When I heard footfalls near the door, I jumped out of my hiding and grabbed the hand of the person standing before me with the air of a policeman catching a thief red-handed. But it wasn’t the newspaper boy. It was the postman who handed me a registered envelope. I opened it. Yet another transfer order!<br /><br /></p>
<p>Newspaper grew on me as a habit when I was a schoolboy. And that habit is still with me, easy access to news from other media notwithstanding. My late grandparents were voracious newspaper readers. Perhaps their love of newspapers had rubbed off on me, if anything like that can happen at all. But, I had at least once found myself being robbed of that pleasure by a newspaper boy, of all the people!<br /><br /></p>.<p>It happened when I was living in a small town where one of my several transfers had found me many years ago. The bank where I worked seemed to enjoyed relocating its employees too often to keep counts. I knew that bank employees were transferable, but not as frequently as they were in the bank where I had worked. So, to say that I had led a nomadic sort of life as long as I worked in that bank would not be much off the mark.<br /><br />Hardly had I ensconced myself in the new place when the very first thing I did was to arrange for the home-delivery of newspapers. The vendor was happy to have one more subscriber; the delivery boy was not. The reason could be easily inferred — it increased his workload. He had to make a detour to reach my place and, presumably, he did not get any remuneration from the newsvendor for the additional work. I could discern a glint of annoyance on his face when he came to my house with the paper on the first day.<br /><br />I got the newspaper of my choice for a week or so. Then the delivery boy suddenly turned erratic. Scanning the morning newspaper while I breakfasted soon became a far cry for me. Moreover, often the newspapers he delivered would be the one I hadn’t subscribed for. When it came to newspapers, I was like a brand-conscious smoker, but he often forced me to read newspapers of not my choice, making me ill at ease.<br /><br />He always tossed the newspaper onto the verandah from the gate with an unerring aim, without troubling himself to ring the doorbell to announce his arrival, and making it impossible for me to meet him.<br /><br />If I heard the thud of the falling paper and went out to meet him, I wouldn’t find him. He would disappear like lightning. Thus, for all my best efforts to meet him, I had no joy. If I had to meet him, I could do so only at the cost of reaching my office late. It seemed he avoided meeting the subscribers lest they should question his capricious behaviour. The newsvendor, a factory hand, wasn’t easily accessible either. But at last a time came when I was past my endurance. Unable to put up with the boy any longer, I abandoned my ‘willing-to-wound-but hesitant-to-strike’ attitude.<br /><br />Therefore, one morning, to apprehend him before he made himself scarce, I stood behind the front door of my house, keeping it ajar, so that when I heard his footsteps I could come out instantly and seize him. I waited with bated breath. Seconds ticked by. When I heard footfalls near the door, I jumped out of my hiding and grabbed the hand of the person standing before me with the air of a policeman catching a thief red-handed. But it wasn’t the newspaper boy. It was the postman who handed me a registered envelope. I opened it. Yet another transfer order!<br /><br /></p>
