Ananya S Guha
In those days the newspapers we received were two, from the ‘mainland’: The Statesman & The Amrita Bazar Patrika both from Calcutta. And I am speaking of a period almost five decades back. The newspaper would trundle along to Shillong sojourning from Calcutta to Gauhati probably in an antiquated Fokker Friendship or a Viscount and then amble along to Shillong from Gauhati notwitstanding the toll gates et al. During the summer its appearance was not half as exciting as its advent in the winter season. In the summer; school, games, home-work and examinations all kept us busy so I hardly oversaw its presence or noticed when it was delivered.
During the winter season this was conspicuous and its absence did cause a flurry at home. It grew dark very early and all the cricket matches had to be completed by then, after which comfortably ensconsed in an arm chair by the crackling fire – side one could read whatever one wanted to. Being a sports aficionado especially that of cricket my eyes were instinctively glued to the Sports Page. Those days the Test Matches and the Ranji Trophy tournaments were played during the winter months from December to February / March; which merrily coincided with our long drawn winter vacations. The newspaper was an alternative to lassitude and monotony against the backdrop of Shillong’s icy cold.
He would come and deliver the newspaper by 5 in the evening. Fair skinned, he had a peculiar gait and in that bitter cold he trudged along to deliver the newspaper to its various destinations in Laitumkhrah. His face betrayed a stoic resignation to life but ostensibly bore no marks of anguish. However, my ‘prescience’ sensed it and how he had to eke out a living by delivering newspapers which he, I got to know later in my adolescent days; had to procure from a shop, somewhere in the precincts of Jail Road. He was the newspaper vendor, an archetypal R.K. Laxman’s Common Man.
His techniques however, of despatching his duties were marked with ingenuity. If the newspaper was not sent for an immaculate toss on the steps of the house, it was neatly placed in the Post Box!
One particular day I was eager to read the details of a Cricket Test Match when the ebulient West Indies Cricket Team led by the maestro Garfield Sobers, was playing in India.
The newspaper refused to make its appearance though it was well past 5 p.m. I was bemused – the Post Box was an epitome of vacuity and the stairs leading to the main entrance of our house showed no signs of it. In my frantic search I discovered a whitish thing tucked away in the middle of our well trimmed hedge just fencing the Laitumkhrah main road. It was the elusive Newspaper, where our vendor perhaps in a bit of a hurry, peremptorily consigned it!