A Delivery, Delayed
Photo: Adli Wahid on Unsplash
Personal essay by K. S. Subramanian: ‘For the first three months of severe lockdown everyone was getting used to the eerie silence on the roads and the breeze blowing with an inherent message—stay put where you are.’
None in their wayward wanderings would have ever imagined that an unknown virus could send the whole world into a tizzy. COVID-19 distanced families; it distanced all people from each other. Many took refuge in periodical phone calls to confess they were safe, and only wanted to be sure of the same at the other end.
There were many that suffered through unfortunate experiences that would chill the reader in its retelling. For the first three months of severe lockdown, everyone was getting used to the eerie silence on the roads and the breeze blowing with an inherent message—stay put where you are.
But life went on as it must, with people going out gingerly to buy home needs often, only to return home as early and quickly as possible. We held many apprehensions, from our hopes of getting an LPG cylinder delivered in time, to hoping that the last RT-PCR test would return negative. Amid all of this, I couldn’t help to spare a thought for the hundreds of refill deliverymen, all of different age groups, who shared many of our same fears, but had to continue their diligent work without pause.
I remember the last time when a man in his twenties delivered the cylinder at the door, letting me roll it out to my kitchen. I was annoyed that he didn’t carry out his assigned task of keeping it in the kitchen himself and testing it. “We are not supposed to come in, sir,” he said, citing the new COVID-related distancing rules. “Sorry.”
I chided myself later for being churlish towards the deliveryman, or perhaps, being apathetic, or both. For what mattered in the circumstances was the need to do your job—if you are fortunate to have one—and keep your family afloat.
I was dumbfounded, but my initial irritation gave way to a reconciled understanding. He was right.
But not every customer would have the strength to roll in the heavy cylinder themselves. “What will you do if there were only ladies at home?” I asked him. A genuine question, but he was unwilling to reply.
Those were the days when most people preferred working from home, and our lives were in contrast to the few that slogged it out with ‘field-work’, without many sparing a thought of compassion for them. I chided myself later for being churlish towards the deliveryman, or perhaps, being apathetic, or both. For what mattered in the circumstances was the need to do your job—if you are fortunate to have one—and keep your family afloat. This was especially urgent reality with so many tales nationwide of the migrant labourers having to leg it back home via vast distances, waiting for things to improve someday.
A few months later, I booked another refill. Normally it would take a week, at most, for it to arrive without any imperative need to follow it up with the agent. However, I had to wait over a fortnight for the delivery this time around.
Puzzled that the refill had not landed, even though it had been rebooked at the new rate, I was annoyed more with the delay than the cost. As many did, I stayed put at home and put off any important work for the coming week that required me to leave home. I waited for the refill, which could arrive even at unearthly hours.
It was a Sunday and I had dozed off slightly while watching a lacklustre movie on a channel. The crooning buzzer left me dazed for a minute, before I slowly came to my senses. I opened the door to see a short, dark guy, dressed in uniform of the refill delivery group. He came in and left the large cylinder with me.
With a jab of distress, I couldn’t help asking him. “Why did it take so long? Seventeen days in all.”
“Sir, there only a few delivery boys are at work. Most of them have taken leave. I have been working non-stop, taking care of this area.”
His reply was as sharp, direct as a spear thrown at me. I paid the amount and didn’t think about the balance. Neither did he bother to return my change.
What mattered to me then was balance of mind, not the balance or the tip for him. To stay safe at home or observe the rules of social distancing became an inevitable law of life at present. One can rue the fact that our kin are away, distanced from us; one can pray for their safety as they share the same conundrum as we do. But on this day, the thought that flashed in my mind was only about the man that delivered at my door, working on a Sunday, while most of us would be happy in the safety of our homes. I doffed my hat to him for it. After all, delivery men like him had no compulsion to leg it out in times of a pandemic, which has now taken its toll for over six months. Its threat had still not receded.
I rolled the cylinder into the kitchen myself, one turn after the other. A brief, heavy toil indeed, but I found no further need to complain.
***
K.S. Subramanian has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata. His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age. His poems have been featured in museindia.com, run by Central Institute of Indian Languages, Hyderabad, and also appeared in several magazines, anthologies and web sites run at home and abroad. His short stories have appeared in indianruminations.com, setumag.com, Tuck magazine, indianreview.in, museindia.com and Indianperiodicals.com. Subramanian is a retired senior assistant editor of The Hindu and lives in Chennai. You can find more of his work here.
