The Postal Runner of My Hamlet.

By Subramanian A

The following story won The Poiesis Award For the Excellence in Literature 2018 conducted by
www.poiesisonline.com under
The Bharat Award-for Literature-International-Short Story competition 2018.

(Note:- I have read about the Pony Express of US which operated across the wild terrains from St. Joseph, Missouri
to Sacramento, stretching over 1900 miles. But, I have not seen those mail runners who got involved with it. My
hats off to them and all those who functioned across the globe in a like manner to keep our communication system
intact and ever expansive. My closest encounter with any mail runner was more than five decades ago while my
father was serving the Indian Postal Services. Two faces stand out - M/s Kunhiraman and Ayamu. Both were
typical representatives of their breed and clan. While forming this story, I was once again thrown into those old
winds with a deep reverence not only for these particular characters, but, for the entire clan of mail runners all over
the world. I dedicate this story for them).

Like the Dodo of Mauritius and the Pony Express of US, the postal runners are also now an extinct species. Extinct
species eventually become oblivious from our horizons unless we make a record of them. Records make the past
linked to the present. Without the Past, the Present cannot evolve. So, I place on record the story of Ayamu, the
postal runner of my hamlet, who ran over four decades to my hamlet carrying mail bags, to finally get sunk in the
sands of time unknown and unsung. He represented all the postal runners of the world.

It was during my boyhood, five decades ago, that I came across with this character. Not far away from the town of
Ottapalam, my father was a Post Master serving in a village fringed by a mountain.

Daily it was a walk around seven miles up and down for Ayamu. The destination was my hamlet. Head Post Offices,
Sub Post Offices and ED Post Offices - that was the then hierarchy, the chain of the mail movement.

He suffered from a lame leg. As he walked, he swayed. A mail bag hung down the shoulders. The bag waged his
livelihood. An umbrella belonging to the nineteenth century pulled his shirt collar backward. A short, lean man
with short bristles of hair over face and head. Eyes were void of natural gloss. Life was a question mark. He
would wink frequently looking point blank. He wore a worn out footwear. It had seen many seasons. Corn
affected his free movement. His neck was improper. Over all, he presented an unkempt appearance.

His mail bag would be ready by 11O’clock. He would start off with an indifferent air. Seasons tarried him not.

It was a mile’s walk Southward along the road. Then, he took a right turn to a Panchayat lane near my school.
After a few furlongs, the lane opened to paddy fields. Towards the left stood a small temple in sylvan surroundings
– The Malolmakavu Temple.

Presently he entered a shady lane. After a few furlongs, he was once again into the field winds. The entire stretch
was paddy fields, an agrarian sector. As the ‘Brook’ of Lord Tennyson, Ayamu still had miles to go.

Finally he reaches the compound of a L P School. The clock normally struck 1O’clock. The local post office
functioned in a single room adjoining the school. The Headmaster played the dual role. Besides being a teacher,
he also functioned as the Postmaster.

The Master would be coolly waiting for the arrival of Ayamu. Local people gathered around to grab their mails.
On a bench near the door, Postman Panicker would be sitting engaged in a light conversation with the local folk.
He was tall and lean and always wore loose Khaki trousers. His round goggles, oval face and shortish hair bristles
made him very typical and brought the memories of Mahatma Gandhi.

At the sight of Ayamu, it was a joyful stir all around! Grabbing the mail bag in a flip, Panicker would disappear into
the dingy room. Soon the bang of the stamping seal could be heard. As for Kesavan Master, it was multitasking
and militant silence.

The villagers would eagerly be looking at the face of Mr. Panicker for their mails like those who waited for the break
out of election results! In a trice, Panicker became the central figure of the local gathering. Soon, he would
appear with a bunch of letters, take his seat on the bench and by holding the bunch at arm’s length, begins to call
out names. In no time the small group got disbursed with mixed emotions.

Ayamu would be waiting on the school Veranda, mute and blank. What could be his thoughts at the moment other
than chance for a square meal? What could be his dreams at that hour other than the belligerent call of hunger?
In real terms, he could not afford a lavish lunch on his own. He was such a poor man having had to support a large
family and his paltry monthly income came nowhere in the picture.
Kesavan Master very well knew about his difficulties. Master had a generous heart and thus allowed Ayamu to
have lunch from the school. In those days, CARE provided poor school children with food and milk. Ayamu had a
share of this. If the Master had denied Ayamu the liberty of having this lunch, his plight could have been grave.

After his lunch and short nap, once again it was the same wheeling all the way back with the return mail bag. The
weight of the bag could be less in comparison to what he had carried earlier in the day.

By about 3O’clock he arrived at his destination. He would be sweating. His toes would be paining due to corn.
He had practically no hope of an escape from this cycle. He could not quit. It was his bread and butter. After all,
he was better disposed than a jobless man!

Five or six children depended on him. Naturally these children grew before him as a question mark. He knew that
the family’s future was very bleak but he did not think of committing suicide. The eldest son got failed at the
school and absconded one morning. Ayamu heaved a sigh of relief. At least one boy could enjoy the freedom of
life!

Somehow, he could see his eldest daughter blessed with married life.

There is no time of retirement for a postal runner. The general fate is to get lost in the endless pathways among
the umpteen ravines. forests, valleys and secluded terrains. A Marathon runner in comparison is nowhere near a
Mail runner’s spree over decades.

Thus, our postal runner Ayamu ran along those beaten pathways of South Panamanna for over forty five years,
carrying mail bags upon his shoulders, keeping intact the dreams and aspirations of generations inside it, lumbering
and ceaseless. Seasons he complained not. About his load, he complained not. He was as silent as the distant
stars of the mid-night hour.

The toil and turmoil of four decades finally took its toll. He could no longer walk. He was not even able to stand
properly. Still, the battlefield was open. He availed a cycle advance and purchased a cycle belonging to the 18th
century! Thus, the former mail runner now became a Cycle Mail Runner and continued his job for some more time.
Later on, the job was passed on to one of his sons and Ayamu entered into a retired life.

How did he spend his retired life? Not in a marking way. He would now and then get out of his hut to meet his
friends . Financial aid was the central call of such visits. How could he sustain? Only the passing clouds over the
mountain knew the answer.

Summing up his life, it is possible that he travelled nearly four times the circumference of the equator, a feat
probable for the Guinness Book of World Records. But his name appears nowhere. He commands no memorials
in this world except in the heart of those bygone generations of my hamlet and in the passing winds of his old
alleyways.

He is now in eternal sleep somewhere on the foothills of Anangan Mala. It could be a peaceful sleep.

That single room post office has since gone with the wind. Time has stolen away that bench which bore the history
of an era. Both M/s Panicker and Kesavan Master have left this mortal world. Old alleyways which Ayamu had
once measured with his cadaverous frame leave no trace of his existence. That landscape has merged with the
modern winds.

This world is a big grave-yard. One generation develops ideologies, weaves dreams and builds mansions in one way
and the following generation demolishes them to build their own. They call it amenities, refinements, reformations
and restorations. This is an ongoing process and if we look at the scenario, generations renew and refresh their life
upon the previous cataclysmic residuals. Old alleyways disappear. Man sinks in waters. Only ripples finally
remain. Every man ultimately loses his personal identity long after he enters the crypt. Finally, he is identified
and studied as part of a bygone civilization. The same rule applies for any prince and pauper.

Thus, this postal runner of my hamlet is rightly a representative character of his times and breed.
Oh, the passersby! Pause for a moment. Take a closer look at those foot marks. They entrap whirl winds.
They embed the very drops of his sweat. Ayamu conquered not the terrains and peaks with his staggering feet but,
moved beyond them carrying the dreams and fate of my hamlet in his mail bags over decades.
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