Lesson

Lesson



‘Everyone has something to teach us.’ This maxim seemed so true to me after a small petty issue turned into an ego strand between my postman, Bhupinder, and me.

It happened like this:

One afternoon I was enjoying my favourite “Kadi Chawaal (Rice)” in the December’s winter sunshine, sitting in my balcony. My doorbell rang. And I dread the doorbell at this time the most as anyone arriving at my doorstep while I am eating spoils my mood and makes me irate. I decided not to answer the door and concentrate only on my food turning a deaf ear to the doorbell.

However, I think that day Bhupinder had made up his mind to deliver the post at any cost.

I lost my patience when the fourth time the bell rang. I enraged at this, placed the spoon back into the plate and in an agitated condition, I opened the door.

“What took you so long to open the door,” asked an infuriated Bhupinder.

And his tone further added fuel to the fire.

“I was doing something more important than this mundane activity of opening the door for you.”

Bhupinder was stupefied at my straightforward answer. However, he said nothing, clenching all of his anger in his heart.

“Okay! Is Atul here?” asked Bhupinder reading the name from the envelope.

“I am.”

“Sign here then,” said Bhupinder placing a clipboard in front of me on which his receipt paper was clipped.

“Give me your pen.”

“Use yours,” answered Bhupinder pointing to the pen placed in my breast pocket.

I signed the receipt paper. Bhupinder handed me the letter and while leaving he said:

“Beta!(Son). I know it is not unusual in your age to lose your cool easily. This western culture and mushroomed growth of Chandigarh has thrown us in these tiny cramped apartments where even we do not know who lives adjacent to us. Still do not forget our ancient culture of respecting the elders. I may be a petty postman to you and not worthy of your respect. But I am elder to you and you should always respect your elders. This parcel contains your graduation degree, as is clearly scribed on the envelope. I could have returned by pushing a chit beneath your door, asking you to collect your post from the post office where the chances of its retrieval were slim. I understand its importance for you as I have a son of your age. That is why I kept on ringing the bell so that you did not have to face unnecessary harassment.”

Bhupinder said all of it in one breath. His face showing a deep hurt, not at my bad behaviour, but at the general erosion of Indian values in youth that were imbibed in the blood of Bhupinder.

And saying this Bhupinder climbed down the stairs swiftly leaving me ashamed and remorseful. Till this day, I am waiting for a mail to arrive so that I can ask for his forgiveness.



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