The Missing Mail

After many months rather a gap of few years my door bell rang up and to my surprise a postman was at my door step. It was a surprise to my younger son too when he shouted that papa see this man; looks like a postman but not in uniform as it is shown in my book.
Decades ago when I was away to my home town while pursuing my higher study; the only way to connect my parent was a postcard and a postman. My mother kept weeping for many days until she received my first letter.
Those were the days when I used to write postcard for my parent and a postman hand it over to my family. Slowly I started writing letter every day with an idea that my family must feel my presence through letter. This was true as every one in my family did talk about me and my letter.
The postcard/letters which used to be hand written carries all sorts of emotions unlike e-mail, mother used to keep it with her until she received my next letter other day.
Everyday he used to deliver my postcard at my home. He used to care and listening villager’s story of their near and dear that was far away from village, writing letters for them. My mother too was venting her loneliness by sharing with him about me, my study and my college. He carries my feeling to my family and in those days in our villages, the postmen were highly respected as they carry all types of news for relatives of one’s family. Everyone there in my village keeps waiting for the postman.
Postman was the matter of discussion for every one in the village when he was absent/or had no visit to our village. People feel restless and keep enquiring each other about the postman whether he came today?
Modernisation in India too was at higher pace by the end of 20th century, an arrival of mobile phone and accessibility of STD and ISD through land line became the reality for common people. We preferred making call to our distant relatives than writing letters to them. An invisible bond which was there between our family and relatives through letters and a postman started becoming weak.
Writing letter was an art, we used to put all our emotions in few lines in the letter, many a times the person at the other end cry out of emotion while reading the letters and this was the very reason whereby we were so closely attached with each other.
The workload of postman has reduced to minimum; our kids have hardly seen a postman. They are acquainted with courier people. Mobile phone and e-mail are the fastest mode of communication. Like many other species getting extinction on the earth, a postman is on the verge of extinction.
A postman clad in uniform with a Gandhian cap on his head with bicycle and bag full of letters are a rare appearance even in village.
My 92 years old mother in village now sits around a landline to pick up my call. Often people around and relatives avoid having conversation with old person like my mother. She alone in a corner of her living room, waiting for telephone bell to rang up, sometimes shouting on kids; who play around my home to keep silence so that she should not miss the sound of telephone bell; I decided to call her every night.
Earlier my letter was her lifeline now it is my call on the landline.
No postman or his call to my doorstep is there to break silence and no one is there to have a conversation with her. With the each passing days in life, each one of us are so alone within in the huge crowd around.