DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

Those were the good old days of April sunshine and humidity in Guirim, Cumbiem Morod, Bardez, Goa. The schools were closed for the summer and I was looking forward to enjoying my holidays. Sitting on a small stool in our balcão, I was using the bench as a table. I was doing what I liked to do best right after lunch - drawing before the evening coolness arrived. After that I would join other boys from the village playing football in the vast parched fields of summer stretching far north towards the hills of Mapuςa.

At times the sudden intermittent gusts of gentle breeze brought us some relief from the afternoon heat. The coconut trees gently swayed, and often dislodged the ripe mango from its stem on the nearby tree. The discernible thud from the fall of the mango on the sandy ground provided a short-lived sport for us as we raced towards the mango tree to grab and retrieve the mango.

At this time my mother usually sat in the front balcão of our house, doing one of her daily smaller chores. Some days, it meant darning my old trousers; other days it was altering the hem line of my cousin’s dress. I can still remember the flower pattern she sewed on a pillowcase, and the words “God Bless our Home” on the altar cloth. No matter what the chore, she never failed to repeatedly move her glance from her needle to the winding path that led to our house.

I remember the look in her eyes as she tried to conceal her feelings, but I knew why my mother appeared anxious. It was that time of day when Narayan the postman would bring the mail. We were waiting anxiously to hear about the news when my father would arrive from Bombaim (Bombay) where he worked. My mother was also worried because we had not heard from my uncle in Belgaum in quite a while. I could sense her concern as I continued with my drawing.

Several similar days passed until we finally saw Narayan far away in the distance, dressed in his khaki uniform – short-sleeved shirt, long trousers and sandals with a satchel slung over his shoulder as he trudged along with an envelope in his hand. How true, we thought. The crow, the harbinger of yore, of ‘Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’* fame, perched on the fence of our backyard that very morning, had already predicted the postman’s arrival!

I still remember the smile on my mother’s face as she read the letter. My father was coming home!
A  few days later, we also heard from my uncle from Belgaum that he too would be arriving for his holidays. It was so true that Narayan brought us joy in the form of letters. The amount of good news that he brought surpassed the bad. The happiest time of my childhood was Yuletide when everyone in the village received Christmas cards from relatives and friends. And Narayan would be making his rounds almost every day of the season happily delivering them to us. In retrospect, I tend to think that he could have been our very own unique Santa Claus! Conversely, he wore a solemn face when he was about to hand over a letter with a black border which meant bad news about the demise of a relative or a friend.

Some postmen delivered mail on bicycles. However, Narayan preferred to deliver mail on foot as it was difficult to ride a bicycle through the sandy paths of the villages. Tired and perspiring, he would sometimes sit on our front porch for a minute or two, taking rest from the summer heat. Wiping the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, he would always ask us how we were doing. ‘Koxim assat tumim?’ (How are you all?) he inquired. Sometimes we would offer his water to quench his thirst. He would then leave to deliver a few more letters before heading back to the main post office in town, where he would then board a bus to his home in Colvale.

Sometimes Narayan would ask me to hand over a letter whenever someone was not at home in the village. The old lady who lived behind our house often asked me to read letters to her that her son wrote from Bombay. She trusted me and expected to keep to myself whatever I read. In return, to read the letters and perhaps to remain silent she rewarded me with guavas or ‘chikoos’ that grew on the trees at the back of her house.

All postmen were generally known by the village folks as ‘postacar’. But our postman was known as ‘Naran Postakar’. He was always polite and humble. Whenever I went to the post office to purchase postage stamps in the morning I could see him inside the old postal office. He would be busy sorting out mail and getting his bag ready for the afternoon delivery. He never failed to wave instantly when he saw me.

Narayan served as a postman for many years, having seen the days of the transition from Portuguese colonial rule to Indian rule. His knowledge and fluency in Portuguese, Marathi, English and Concanim amazed me. He retired from service in the mid nineteen sixties. The world is so different now since the days of Narayan the postman. In these times of electronic mail, blogs and text messaging, I cannot help but reminisce about a a postman from a different generation - an experience of my youth.

* * *

*'Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’ : {literal meaning: Crow! Why are you crying (crowing) in front of the house}. A traditional Goan folk song in which a wife asks the crow if it has brought news from her husband in a telegram and she beckons it to better fly away if it has done so, lest it should get itself killed by a rifle shot.

This essay is dedicated to the Goan postmen of a bygone era, and especially to Naik Chikhalikar, a.k.a. Baba Postakar. Narana Forjento, Colvale, Pernem District, Goa. India.