The post office is small, inconspicuous and at the end of an unpaved gully . The hotel and pub next to it is three storied , garishly painted , with neon signs (that flash for miles at night ) .
You have a very hiccupy drive upto the post office .
For a long time , you are alone . The counter behind the glass is unmanned . A clock ticks time 10 min slower . Talk of timelessness. Piles of letters and a defunct desktop , complete with CPU and wires sit desultorily on the roughly cemented floor . Damp from last weeks rain is evident everywhere .
A sodden doormat tells you . you're welcome .
Sudden rustling and slow emergence from beneath the wooden partition of a human face. Bald head preceding a cheerful smile framed by curly salt and pepper beard. The man must be crouching , or seated on a very low stool , to have just his face to show for the rest of him . It takes superhuman effort to stop oneself from peering over.
All jobs are done adroitly , and queries regarding post , fielded adeptly . Visibly impressed , one emerges and is met with another outstanding sight . A wiry , lanky Sardar , flowing white beard , roars in , on his Yamaha, spraying gravel . In your face . Swiftly dismounting , lugging vast stacks of what seems governmental correspondence , dumps it in , shouts a greeting to the bald-head,curly beard , and has roared off, revving with wrinkled hands .
Ageless.
Outstanding .
What takes the cake however is the humble declaration of the location on the massive hotel's hoarding . Deliciously unassuming , it declares , Next to the Post Office .
You have a very hiccupy drive upto the post office .
For a long time , you are alone . The counter behind the glass is unmanned . A clock ticks time 10 min slower . Talk of timelessness. Piles of letters and a defunct desktop , complete with CPU and wires sit desultorily on the roughly cemented floor . Damp from last weeks rain is evident everywhere .
A sodden doormat tells you . you're welcome .
Sudden rustling and slow emergence from beneath the wooden partition of a human face. Bald head preceding a cheerful smile framed by curly salt and pepper beard. The man must be crouching , or seated on a very low stool , to have just his face to show for the rest of him . It takes superhuman effort to stop oneself from peering over.
All jobs are done adroitly , and queries regarding post , fielded adeptly . Visibly impressed , one emerges and is met with another outstanding sight . A wiry , lanky Sardar , flowing white beard , roars in , on his Yamaha, spraying gravel . In your face . Swiftly dismounting , lugging vast stacks of what seems governmental correspondence , dumps it in , shouts a greeting to the bald-head,curly beard , and has roared off, revving with wrinkled hands .
Ageless.
Outstanding .
What takes the cake however is the humble declaration of the location on the massive hotel's hoarding . Deliciously unassuming , it declares , Next to the Post Office .
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