The Post Man

Twice now we have received an item of mail delivered to our house by the Bangladeshi post. The same post man has made the delivery both times. The first time he showed up there was a knock at the door. After the obligatory scramble for an orna for Jen, we opened the door a crack and peered out. It took a few seconds to process the new face and understand the words, but the stack of letters in his hand helped. Realizing he was a post man, we opened the door and invited him in. He handed us the letter, we signed for it, and business complete right? Nope. The post man continues to stand there showing no signs of leaving. Jen and I are confused. Finally he asks for a glass of water. Oh sorry! Sorry! Jen scrambles for a glass of water, asks the man to have a seat, brings him the water. He drinks it at a stately pace. When he’s finished Jen offers more, or would you prefer a Cold Drink (meaning soda). He would prefer the Cold Drink. So Jen gets him a glass of Coke with ice in it. He finishes the Coke and then leaves.

Today he showed up a second time. This time, to Jen’s embarrassment, I opened the door before the orna had been located. Oops! Dada, the doorman from down stairs is there with another fellow that I now recognize as the post man. I invite them in. Before I can get the words out to offer, the post man asks if he can have a seat at the table. Yes. Yes. Have a seat, I say. He sits.

Then Jen shows up, modestly blanketed by the orna and offers him something to drink. No, no he won’t drink anything, he says, he has a car waiting. Then he struggles with the knot on his cloth bag for about a minute and a half, finally gets it open and removes a thoroughly battered white Priority Mail box. (Dada, meanwhile, is also sitting at the table, examining Jen’s computer, and trying to ask me questions about Tuni-didi, the much beloved former resident of our apartment. Even on a good day, I understand practically nothing Dada says and now I’m distracted. So it’s doubly hopeless.) The post man asks for our names. We give them. Jen’s name is on the box so he presents the papers for her to sign (three signatures are required), and you will give seven-hundred-forty Taka, he says, plus boksheesh (tip) for me. Oh really! We’re supposed to pay for the package that has already been handsomely paid for by the sender and then tip the mail man!? What can you do…?

I went for some money. We didn’t have the correct change. So Jen presented him with 1000 Taka and asked for 200 back. I’m thinking 60 Taka tip is more than generous. The man claims not to have change. He’ll just take the whole amount, he says. No, Jen says, if you can’t make change then give me the money back. Oh wait, actually, I have change, here take 100, he says. Now I’m pissed. I point to the package and say this is your job, is it not? The man appears offended and says something about his work that I don’t understand. (Dada laughs and says something unintelligible. I can’t tell who’s side he’s on – probably he’s just heckling both of us.) My look continues to tell the post man, I don’t give a shit, you’ve overstepped your bounds. (What’s in the box? Dada wants to know. I don’t know, I say.) The post man hands over another hundred and says well if you won’t give me a decent tip will you at least give me a Fanta, then?

Oh really, Jen says, a Fanta? You said you wouldn’t drink anything. She’s slightly offended, but mostly just amused. We don’t have Fanta, she says, you can have ice tea.

Jen fixes him a tea and the post man sits and drinks it. (Dada is now examining the Leatherman that was on the table, he takes it out of its pouch, tries to fit it back in, has difficulty, finally succeeds.) Jen begins to open the package. Don’t do that now, I say in English, it’ll cause a distraction.

I’m curious about the contents of the package too, but mostly I just want these people to leave and stop messing with our stuff. I still can’t get used to the way people just come into our house, make demands, riffle through our things, and expect that we’ll cheerfully serve them tea for their trouble. It makes me angry…