For the past four years, Dil Maam has extended a healing hand to cancer victims and families grappling with the loss of their primary breadwinner due to this devastating illness. His selfless actions have not gone unnoticed; he is celebrated and remembered as a local hero who continues to serve his community with unwavering dedication.
By Umar Hayat Hussain
In the dimly lit interiors of the narrow twisting bylanes, where the air is thick with the stench of overflowing drains tainted by human waste, one encounters mounds of discarded garbage lying haphazardly. The tightly crammed, box-like houses, their rusty tin roofs sagging with age, mirror the wretchedness of the snow-capped ridges of the Himalayas that encircle this beleaguered neighborhood. Within this landscape, nestled in a small, age-old, dilapidated house attached to an unkempt courtyard, lives a beloved postman, affectionately known by the locals as ‘Dil Maam.’
“Dil Maam, Dil Maam!” shouts a woman from the attic of her modest home, her voice echoing through the air. Below, a teenage boy is diligently repairing a damaged section of the adobe-bricked wall that surrounds their patio in the heart of the old city of Srinagar. The boy, responding swiftly, makes his way through the slightly ajar wooden gate adorned with intricate carvings. He is tall for his age, perhaps sixteen, with curly hair and dark eyelashes framing his expressive brown eyes. His trousers are tucked into his socks, and his hands are caked in mud as he eagerly awaits the arrival of ‘Dil Maam,’ who is gradually making his way toward him.
The house stands at the end of a blind alley in the neighborhood, a two-storey structure that appears to be teetering on the brink of collapse. To the right of the house’s eaves, a small garden attempts to flourish, with a lone apple tree standing sentinel in front. However, adjacent to the garden, an open drain carries sewage water, filling the air with an unbearable stench. The alley, though narrow at only six feet wide, is fully paved, while the patio of the house is situated at a lower elevation, allowing passersby to easily observe the activities taking place within.
Inside the house, a small room adorned with yellowed paper on the walls, geraniums, and muslin curtains filtering the sunlight is momentarily illuminated as the woman steps out from the dim corridor and emerges through the wooden gate. Barefoot and huffing slightly, she joins the boy outside. One of her feet is clad in a misfit slipper, while she hurriedly wraps her tattered crimson dupatta around her head, tucking the end securely under her chin to keep it in place.
Approaching them is Dil Maam, a tall, robust man of about 45 years, with a puffy, colorless, clean-shaven face and straight hair. He dons spectacles that rest on his nose and sports a large silver ring on his plump finger. His neatly pressed khaki uniform, adorned with the red and yellow logo of India Post above his shirt pocket, signifies his important role in this community. At precisely 9:30 AM, he hops onto his well-worn bicycle, ready to begin another day of deliveries.
However, rather than approaching them directly, Dil Maam turns to head in another direction. “Jamsheed, please go after him; he’s moving away!” the woman urges, urgency lacing her voice. “Don’t worry, Mother, let me see,” Jamsheed responds confidently, taking off in a sprint after the postman. His mother follows closely behind, her determination evident in her brisk steps.
“Excuse me, is there any money order in the name of Hajera?” Jamsheed calls out, catching up to Dil Maam. The postman nods, a glint of recognition in his eyes. “I was actually looking for that name. Who is this Hajera?” he inquires.
“Hajera is my mother, and it’s my father who sent it to us,” Jamsheed explains. At that moment, Hajera reaches them, her face lighting up as she realizes that the bag with the embossed floral design hanging from Dil Maam’s left shoulder contains the economic assistance sent by her husband, who is working as a salesman in Chennai.
“Sign here, and take your money order,” Dil Maam instructs her with a warm smile. The moment brings genuine happiness to their faces, a reminder of the simple joys that can brighten a person’s day. Bringing a smile to someone’s face can be a truly rewarding experience, fostering a sense of joy and fulfillment for both parties involved. However, this is not always the case for Dil Maam; sometimes, he faces moments of embarrassment, as delivering letters can be fraught with challenges, particularly when he is unaware of the contents hidden within them.
Dil Maam, the postman entrusted with delivering this important money order, has dedicated the last 33 years of his life to this noble profession. Throughout his extensive career, he has become an indispensable figure in the community, embodying the significance of his services. He is not just a postman; he is a messenger who carries with him the weight of prophetic traits, bringing hope and connection to those he serves. His bag, filled with letters and money orders, symbolizes much more than mere correspondence—it holds the hopes and dreams of the people who eagerly await his arrival.
As a postman, Dil Maam’s life is intricately woven around the delivery of letters, parcels, and messages that form the lifeblood of communication in his community. He is a dedicated and hardworking individual who takes immense pride in his work, viewing it not merely as a job but as his true passion. Each day, with unwavering enthusiasm, Dil Maam sets out on his rounds, a cheerful smile illuminating his face as he prepares to brave the elements and navigate the bustling streets of the city. Whether rain or shine, in sweltering heat or biting cold, he traverses his designated routes, making countless stops along the way. He has never once complained about the long hours or the strenuous nature of his work; instead, he takes great pride in every aspect of his role, understanding the profound impact he has on the lives of those he serves.
The package he is currently tasked with delivering originates from New Delhi and is addressed simply to ‘Shabir Ahmad, next to Jamia Masjid.’ Deliveries in Srinagar, Kashmir, are seldom straightforward, as the city, bustling with nearly one million residents, is riddled with poorly defined street names and incomplete addresses. I decided to follow him as he embarked on the challenging mission of delivering this notice. On his bicycle, he transforms into a determined detective, deftly navigating the city’s labyrinthine streets. He is familiar with the mosque, but the common name ‘Shabir Ahmad’ is shared by many in Srinagar.
Dil Maam cycles from neighborhood to neighborhood, patiently inquiring with shopkeepers if they have any information about the elusive Shabir Ahmad. Some shopkeepers offer their assistance, while others rudely insist that he cannot park his bicycle in front of their establishments. The dirt roads of Srinagar present their own set of challenges, often resembling obstacles rather than thoroughfares. As the temperature soared to a sweltering 35 degrees Celsius, Dil Maam sighed, expressing, “My biggest wish is to own a scooter bike. On these scorching days in Srinagar, pedaling through these roads can be incredibly taxing.” After an hour of tireless searching, fortune finally smiled upon him.
One shopkeeper recognized the name and, knowing Shabir’s cousin, pointed Dil Maam in the right direction. With renewed hope, he set off towards the neighborhood and began asking the local boys for guidance to Mr. Shabir’s residence. “This way,” one boy directed him. However, upon arrival, he was met with disappointment; Mr. Shabir was not home, and the front gate was locked tight. A sense of frustration washed over him as he lamented the hard work he had put into locating the address. With a heavy heart, he hastily left the area, his face betraying the sadness of unfulfilled duty.
As he continued on his route to deliver another letter to a family living in the dimly lit alleys of a street far removed from his own home in the old city of Srinagar, he came across a family primarily from Rajasthan, engaged in the construction business with a company named ‘Built Well Company.’ They had known him for nearly two years, and a postcard addressed to them awaited delivery. Their home was vibrantly decorated with multicolored lights, and he immediately inferred that a marriage ceremony was taking place, filling the atmosphere with excitement and festivity. The music reverberated loudly, creating an infectious energy as the lawn overflowed with women adorned in bright, colorful dresses, accompanied by men sporting dazzling turbans.
Neighbors from nearby homes joined in the revelry, enjoying the traditional Punjabi dance known as Bhangra from their balconies and verandas. The rhythmic beats of the music captivated the entire locality, as young men and women whistled and cheered for every graceful move made by the dancers, particularly the women performers who shone under the festive lights.
As Dil Maam entered the lively scene, he hoped that the jubilant mood might translate into a generous tip for his hard work. He began to inquire among the guests about the whereabouts of the owner. After some time, he finally encountered him, but before he could even open the proverbial Pandora’s box of conversation, the owner insisted that he should at least have a glass of water first.
After handing over the postcard, Dil Maam anticipated a small token of appreciation, especially with the festive atmosphere surrounding him. However, as the owner opened the card, a look of horror washed over his face; the postcard bore the tragic news of his mother’s passing just a few days earlier. Instantly, the vibrant atmosphere transformed into a somber one, a pall of gloom descending upon the gathering. The bridegroom stood stunned, speechless at the sudden shift from celebration to mourning. All Dil Maam could do was offer his condolences, feeling a deep sense of regret. “Postman, you could have avoided this by delivering the card a day later,” one of the gentlemen at the party lamented. Yet, Dil Maam felt helpless, as he was not familiar with the Hindi language in which the letter was written, aside from the address itself; if he had known, he might have been able to prevent this heart-wrenching situation.
Despite the challenges and heartaches that come with his profession, Dil Maam walks the extra mile every day, striving to save lives through his unwavering commitment to delivering letters in his neighborhood. A savior for many cancer patients, his work has been transformational, as his goodwill and sincere efforts have helped save the lives of countless individuals by ensuring that crucial money orders reach their destinations on time.
For the past four years, Dil Maam has extended a healing hand to cancer victims and families grappling with the loss of their primary breadwinner due to this devastating illness. His selfless actions have not gone unnoticed; he is celebrated and remembered as a local hero who continues to serve his community with unwavering dedication. The impact he has made on society is immeasurable, and we must express our gratitude for his committed service and the profound work he has accomplished throughout his remarkable career.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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