For me the word postman conjured up a benignly familiar figure, deputed on the rounds of your street for years together, dressed in khakhi, going from door to door, walking up five-storied buildings without a frown in scorching summers and in monsoon deluge. All without any expectations, save during the festival of Diwali when he would be entitled to a bakhshish and a packet of sweets to suit the householder’s pocket. He was witness to our joys and sorrows written on the palm-sized postcards or inland letters that, unfortunately, no one writes any more. Occasionally, he brought envelopes with
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