The Postman

Our postman, Sadasivan Pillai, died last week.

He had retired 13 years ago, but we still thought of him as our postman. Many rode the postman’s bicycle after him, but we were unable to imagine anyone else occupying his seat. No wonder, then, that the desham — our village, that is — bid him adieu with great reverence. That evening, a large condolence meeting was also held by the citizens of the desham at Market Junction. The entire population of the area was present. I was at home, hanging about, reading a magazine. The postman lived 10 houses away, but I alone refrained from offering final respects to him. I had decided that I would not attend the funeral of someone whose life path had never once crossed mine. I would not show my face merely out of a sense of duty or as a mere formality.

There is a reason why I say this. I was sitting in front of my house and reading the paper when the postman’s son, Vijayakumar, came over. That in itself was unusual. Though we had been classmates in school for five years, we were not friends. That is, we did not share…