<p>I was standing in a queue at our local post office when a postman walked in and informed the staff about the death of Periasami, a retired postman. The name Periasami rang a bell, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same person who had delivered letters in our street back in the late seventies.</p>.<p>When I spoke to the postmaster, my worst fears were confirmed – it was indeed my old postman friend Periasami who had passed away.</p>.<p>Those were tough days when I would anxiously wait for test, interview, or appointment letters from banks, the Railways, and other government institutions to which I had applied for jobs. Periasami, with his khaki uniform and kind demeanour, would often deliver those letters with words of consolation and encouragement.</p>.<p>No one else knew as much as he did about the agonising period of unemployment I endured in the late 1970s. I wrote numerous exams and attended countless interviews. Whenever he brought me a rejection letter, he never left without offering some words of consolation and exhortation.</p>.<p>He was unlike other men in his profession. Sincere to the core, he made sure that however inadequate the address on the letters might be, it reached the right person. “Every letter is a child, and it should be united with its parent, the addressee. No letter from me will ever go to the orphanage called DLO,” he used to say.</p>.<p>He was always punctual -- one could set a clock by his appearance at the street corner, riding his Hercules cycle laden with khaki bags stuffed with bundles of mail. Even ordinary letters entrusted to him for delivery were as safe as registered post.</p>.<p>Many a time, unable to contain my anxiety, I visited the delivery office where the mail received were sorted beat-wise, hoping to check for letters before he arrived at our street. Whenever he caught me there, he would scold me for coming all the way to the post office in search of a letter that might not even have arrived. It was through his well-wishing hands that I finally received the appointment letter which ended my pain and suffering. When he handed the letter over, he somehow guessed its contents and waited until I opened it in his presence and confirmed the good news. </p>.<p>I hardly saw him after that. Over the last 40 years, we shifted our residence to different parts of the city. That I happened to be at the post office just as the news of his passing arrived was no coincidence; I believed it was an act of Providence. As I walked back home after completing my errand, I prayed for the safe delivery of the soul of Periasami, the postman, at the lotus feet of Krishna, the Purushothaman.</p> <p>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</p>
<p>I was standing in a queue at our local post office when a postman walked in and informed the staff about the death of Periasami, a retired postman. The name Periasami rang a bell, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same person who had delivered letters in our street back in the late seventies.</p>.<p>When I spoke to the postmaster, my worst fears were confirmed – it was indeed my old postman friend Periasami who had passed away.</p>.<p>Those were tough days when I would anxiously wait for test, interview, or appointment letters from banks, the Railways, and other government institutions to which I had applied for jobs. Periasami, with his khaki uniform and kind demeanour, would often deliver those letters with words of consolation and encouragement.</p>.<p>No one else knew as much as he did about the agonising period of unemployment I endured in the late 1970s. I wrote numerous exams and attended countless interviews. Whenever he brought me a rejection letter, he never left without offering some words of consolation and exhortation.</p>.<p>He was unlike other men in his profession. Sincere to the core, he made sure that however inadequate the address on the letters might be, it reached the right person. “Every letter is a child, and it should be united with its parent, the addressee. No letter from me will ever go to the orphanage called DLO,” he used to say.</p>.<p>He was always punctual -- one could set a clock by his appearance at the street corner, riding his Hercules cycle laden with khaki bags stuffed with bundles of mail. Even ordinary letters entrusted to him for delivery were as safe as registered post.</p>.<p>Many a time, unable to contain my anxiety, I visited the delivery office where the mail received were sorted beat-wise, hoping to check for letters before he arrived at our street. Whenever he caught me there, he would scold me for coming all the way to the post office in search of a letter that might not even have arrived. It was through his well-wishing hands that I finally received the appointment letter which ended my pain and suffering. When he handed the letter over, he somehow guessed its contents and waited until I opened it in his presence and confirmed the good news. </p>.<p>I hardly saw him after that. Over the last 40 years, we shifted our residence to different parts of the city. That I happened to be at the post office just as the news of his passing arrived was no coincidence; I believed it was an act of Providence. As I walked back home after completing my errand, I prayed for the safe delivery of the soul of Periasami, the postman, at the lotus feet of Krishna, the Purushothaman.</p> <p>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</p>
