Who is your Postman?

I have lived in the same house for 20 years now and I don’t know who he is. All I know is that I hate the fucking Post Office. I really do. Those buggers swallowed up 4000 rupees worth of books sent by courier and why? Because I didn’t have this particular receipt that they fancied.

But sometimes, I forget to show compassion. I forget that life can be a drudgery. Making rounds everyday in the sun. And trust me, the sweltering sun in Chennai burns you. But there they are- walking around, biking around and shoving those letters into mail boxes at an age where it has become inconsequential. Then there are the men who collect garbage from homes. How are their lives? What about the men who peddle endlessly with a dozen gas cylinders, getting yelled at by mean old men and women for being late.What about them?

I wish I had an answer, I really do. My maid saves some money at the Post Office, do you know that? That is the only way she knows how to. Banks are intimidating. They don’t appreciate people with a low credit rating soiling the pretty benches in their offices. So off she goes- the post office it is!

The deadly drunk drudgery of this dangerous doomsday drums. Work, work and work. Where is rest? Where is repose? That is what Chinaski longed for in The Post Office. There is no rest there, Chinaski!

Who will offer rest? Who will satisfy the longing to fall endlessly into the arms of the Other without a second thought? No thought. Just the fall. Just the rest.

Godspeed Chinaski. I can only show compassion and love to all the Chinaskis.