You can run from the courier, but clearly you can’t hide. Oh, it’s maddening to the point that you wonder what are you doing in the middle of civilisation and that it’s still not too late to set off for some unlit village north of Timbuktu. The only way out, it seems, from the courier man is to set up house, a hut or a hovel, really out of reach — out of reach of these courier fellas.
The courier man rules with his inflated sense of importance and urgency, not to mention his occasional intimidation. Whatever happened to the humble, unobtrusive postman in his khaki uniform, that attire which would blend into the dusty haze of the world outside the door? I do miss the postman. He with his bulging bag, making his daily rounds quietly and slipping mail into the addressed slots. Once in a while, he would semi-apologetically hand over a registered letter only because he needed your signature on delivery.
And right at the other end of the spectrum is the forever-in-your-face courierwallah who can’t seem to get enough of you. So there you are thinking — or at least hoping — that you’ll have your quiet bed tea today after waking up and taking care of the still lingering shut-eye. That’s when the courier guy presses the doorbell as if the world is on fire and how-dare-you-haven’t-detected-the-smoke.
The maid, of course, has perfected the art of turning deaf whenever the bell blares. You are waiting for an important phone call — the sort where you have rehearsed and re-rehearsed what you will speak into the mouthpiece long before you actually do — when both bells, the phone and the door, ring in perfect sync.
If you think of ignoring the doorbell, banish the thought. You make a stumbling dash for the door. Even the shaadi invites are being couriered these days! As I said right at the start, it’s time for me to migrate somewhere north of Timbuktu.