Carrier of Words
sole: only Though we are just a click away from sending mail at present, can you imagine how it was before the internet became the way of life? The mail was dropped in the post box, then through the postal system finally it was delivered by the postman in our letter box. The areas beyond the last railhead and after the road crumbles into sand, Gramin Dak Sewaks still serve as the sole link between the oases of humanity in India’s extremes and their faraway families.
Khetaram is a Gramin Dak Sewak. His left shoulder slumped from years of carrying a mailbag, he is the sole postman of Somarad Branch Post Office. For the last 15 years, he has been a trusted link between the people attached to this Rajasthani village post office and their families. Defying all elements of the harshest desert of India, the Thar, he is the lone face of the state who reaches the far-flung hamlets, or dhaanis, of this remote area just 2.5 km short of the Indo-Pakistan border. Some 120 km beyond the last railhead at Barmer, 50 km beyond the last phone and 10 km beyond where the Barmer–Chohtan road directionlessly crumbles into sand so soft that even bicycles can’t ply, that’s where Khetaram’s footprints appear along sand beds and dunes. It is his bodily effort that ensures that the mail transferred from the mail train onto buses before being hefted onto his shoulders is delivered at the border, within 24 hours of dispatch from Jodhpur, around 330 km away. Often, the impression of his footprints reveals the weight of his mailbag. Regulations stipulate that his load cannot exceed 28 kilos. But in the summers, when the sands sizzle under his mojri-clad feet, Khetaram says, “Even a single delivery is tiring, as I have to cover 20 km for it.” He delivers even on days when his body sends blazing signals that the temperature has crossed 50 degrees celsius, but is recorded as 49.9 degrees celsius, since 50 degrees celsius would mean a state holiday. Sometimes severe heat forces him to postpone deliveries till after sundown.
On other days, his khaki turban and uniform are his only protection against the desert’s furies, the scorching summer winds and swirling sandstorms which turn him into a walking sandman. “Water is too precious to waste on washing, so I can only wipe my body. When I finish, there is a sand dune at my feet every evening,” he says.
Till 2001, Khetaram was known as a ‘delivery agent’, operating in rural areas devoid of schools and primary healthcare centres. Since then, India’s three lakh plus delivery agents like Khetaram were accepted as Gramin Dak Sewaks (GDS), who constitute more than 50 per cent of the total workforce.
The frozen desert of Ladakh, the isles of Lakshadweep, and the riverine communities of the northeast are all GDS territories. “The role of GDS is invaluable, since they deliver in interior areas that are often inaccessible by any means besides foot,” explains the Postmaster-General of Rajasthan Western Region. operating: working riverine: situated on river bank inaccessible: unreachable Unlike the British postal system set up in India to relay company dak between administrative centres, after independence, the mandate of India Post was to bring the entire population within the mailing ambit. Compared to 25,000 post offices in 1947, today we have about more than a lakh and a half post offices throughout the country. Through the GDS, India Post has also been able to reach rural depositors, who entrust their monthly savings to the post office in their area. Every post office in the country has many operational accounts of the people which reflects their trust in the postal system.
Words
If words could satisfy the heart,
The heart might find less care;
But words, like summer birds, depart,
And leave but empty air.
The heart, a pilgrim upon earth,
Finds often, when it needs,
That words are of as little worth
As just so many weeds.
A little said, and truly said,
Can deeper joy impart
Than hosts of words, which reach the head,
But never touch the heart.
The voice that wins its sunny way,
A lonely home to cheer,
Hath oft the fewest words to say;
But, oh! those few, how dear!
If words could satisfy the chest,
The world might hold a feast;
But words, when summoned to the test,
Oft satisfy the least!
Like plants that make a gaudy show,
All blossom to the root;
But whose poor nature cannot grow,
One particle of fruit!
Charles Swain