The Hindu Business Line : Romance secrets in post office

IN Tagore's The Post Office, Amal wants to be the King's postman when he grew up. "Ha! ha! Postman, indeed! Rain or shine, rich or poor, from house to house delivering letters - that's very great work!" laughs the watchman.

That was written almost a hundred years ago, but now the identity of postmen and their offices has changed. There used to be a time when postal stationery was sold at a premium, stealthily in petty shops. Now, post offices are selling what petty shops sell, rues a reader.

He is one of those very few who visit the post office. "They are doing passport work," he says, "and that's fine. Because they send it by Speedpost. Now, they are selling engineering college applications too."

What's wrong, I ask. Wouldn't it be easier for people to get these forms from the nearest post office rather than hunting around for the college's office? "All right," he grudges, "why sell milk cards?"

Well, that seems to be a new addition to work they do, and I ask a postman, "Do you sell milk cards?" His instant reaction is to slap his forehead, as if he is hitting an absent mosquito.

"At this rate, they would sell coffee, tea and snacks too," fumes the reader.

As such, I don't see anything wrong, because it appears they are trying to stay afloat. Perhaps, there is some internal memo on cost cutting and revenue generation. If one were to look at this from the lofty dignity of labour angle, a post office can have counters to sell stamps and soft drinks, book money orders and movie tickets.

Yet, it must be quite hurting for the staff in these post offices because what is getting killed in the process is their identity. If Tagore were to rewrite his play, one wonders if Amal may still like to become a postman in changed circumstances.

At a nearby post office, I find there are posters stuck on many windows, giving a list of available publications, on subjects ranging from philosophy lectures to romance secrets.

In a different era, such secrets were carefully put inside envelopes and dropped inside red boxes, and in due course the missives reached their destinations. Now, SMS, email and chat have usurped that crucial role of dakiya in linking hearts.

ONE never knows what works up women, but here is this friend of mine who is not too happy with a series of fleshy ads that show ornaments.

"Look the other way," I tease her.

"I did," she says, "but there is this hoarding in front of me."

Okay, I trudge along to see that. Well, it is about a bag, actually, great bag in genuine leather. "So?" I ask.

"What do you see?" she demands. Tricky question to put to an accountant, because if you were to show a blank sheet with a single dot in the middle, he would in all probability say, "I see the dark dot," though an expected response would be, "I see a white sheet."

There is that Tamil proverb about an artistic dog statue, where if you were to see the dog, you don't see stone, and vice versa.

I am no Arjuna to claim to see only the centre of the eye of the bird on the tree, and so I described what caught my eye. TBWA has designed the ad for Samsonite, I learn from the friendly Google, but if you have trouble identifying the bag or leather, you may not be alone. But even as you struggle to sort out matters, the lady in the ad would be dozing behind the bag. Catchy ad, yes, but the trouble is in being suggestive, and not all viewers are saints.

E&OE@thehindu.co.in

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