I got a letter in the post yesterday. A small yellow envelope printed with a three-taka green stamp, and marked with a slogan reminding us that “it is an offence to take or give dowry” at the top.
When our guard handed me the official looking missive, the first thing that sprung to mind: it is either a notice from the taxman or the gas company for the delay in paying my bill this month (in protest, for reasons widely known). But happily for me, it was a statement from a state-owned bank, delightfully announcing the annual profit I had accumulated from a childhood savings account.
The letter was dated July 30. Yet, my local post office received it on August 31, and it took them a week to deliver it to my door, barely two blocks away. I believe it would have been faster if someone had just jogged from the bank to hand-deliver the letter, like the ‘runners’ of old days. No wonder no one uses the postal service these days.
In fact, I don’t remember the last time I stood in line at a post office. I believe my local one has been closed to the public for years. It used to collect payment for vehicle taxes, but that service has been discontinued, chiefly because the cash would mysteriously disappear after the staff stamped the receipts.
When I was in school, we would drop by the post office to collect foreign stamps, which were steamed off letters by the predecessors of the above-mentioned staff. When we sent letters abroad, we were told to make sure the postmaster put a seal on the stamp, lest it also be steamed away and resold.
And we would eagerly wait for letters around the holidays and our birthdays, with the latest news and photographs of long-distance relatives, and a greeting card or two, hopefully with dollar or pound notes hidden inside. And when we were abroad ourselves, brief telegrams on slips of paper meant either very good or bad news.
But back at home, often, the pieces of paper carrying heart-felt wishes would never get past the local sorting office. With stamps and currencies removed, they would just be dumped without a thought to the hearts and wishes involved.
So, when I was in college, we no longer sent letters through the national post. We availed of the mushrooming private courier services to guarantee delivery of our warm messages. Official correspondence, like statements from private banks or new ATM cards, went the same way.
Nowadays, even that has stopped. People hardly post greeting cards and banks rarely send stuff by mail. It’s all done hands-free, via email or SMS. It is fast, but you are left with no keepsake to keep.
I still have my 16th birthday cards (though the gift money is long gone); precious hand-written letters _ lovingly tied with a red ribbon _ from my grandma, uncles and aunts who are no longer here; colourful notes from long-lost friends; and secret valentines from first crushes. I suppose one can save emails and text messages on back-up drives for posterity. But what’s the value of things you can’t touch or feel?
It is rare, almost a novelty, to see a postman at our doorstep these days. Except, of course, when state institutions do it the old-fashioned way. And the last telegram has already been sent.
Although no longer eagerly awaited, sometimes, the postman does turn up with nice surprises.
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Editor : M. Shamsur Rahman
Published by the Editor on behalf of Independent Publications Limited at Media Printers, 446/H, Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1215.
Editorial, News & Commercial Offices : Beximco Media Complex, 149-150 Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1208, Bangladesh. GPO Box No. 934, Dhaka-1000.
Editor : M. Shamsur Rahman
Published by the Editor on behalf of Independent Publications Limited at Media Printers, 446/H, Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1215.
Editorial, News & Commercial Offices : Beximco Media Complex, 149-150 Tejgaon I/A, Dhaka-1208, Bangladesh. GPO Box No. 934, Dhaka-1000.
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