08 May,2011 09:10 AM IST | | SMD Team
For 57 year-old Shakeel Ahmed, the wandering fraternity of pigeons who make noisy neighbours in the adjacent chabutara, often landing in a flurry, and always in droves, on the wobbly tarpaulin canopy balancing on the embracing branches of a banyan tree, are the only constant.
Fifty seven year-old Shakeel Ahmed (seated behind desk) , a
letter writer, can't remember the last time he was asked to
write a personal letter.
Other than that, the scene is fairly different from what it was a decade ago. A veteran member of a group of letter writers who set up table and chair every morning, sometimes even on Sundays, right opposite the imposing General Post Office building at Victoria Terminus, the Kurla resident is witness to a 37 year-old metamorphosis.
"Even the telegraph and telephone didn't manage to dislodge us. The Internet, of course, was the beginning of the end, but what really slit our throats was the mobile phone," says Ahmed, picking out a red tub of Joker glue from a metal box that holds other essentials.
Ahmed and six others who make a living by writing letters and filling out postal forms for customers, are now the last surviving lot of Mumbai's public letter writers.u00a0 "There were 18 of us who used to sit here together. The technology revolution forced many to switch jobs," says Ahmed, who had managed to feed a family of seven thanks to his acquired art of communication.
Monthly earnings have reduced to half, he admits, sipping on a glass of chai while an awkwardly large parcel waits for a note to be attached. "But I am not quitting because I have little competition. Nobody wants to take up a letter writing job anymore. People continue to send couriers to their homes, and most of them do it through the post office because most private courier firms don't run operations in India's villages. And they never will because it's far from profitable."
What Ahmed misses though, is the personal letter. He can't remember the last time he was approached to write one. "Usually, when men in the city sent money orders to families back home, they would attach letters. Now, a Re 1 phone call does the job."
Ahmed's colleague, 63 year-old PM Chauhan is the senior-most 'writer' in the group. He doesn't really need to make his way to VT anymore. Two of his three sons have a job in the merchant navy, and the third is a doctor, but Chauhan marks attendance every day, even on weekends. For him, the canopy where he has spent 40 years, is home. He can't get enough of interacting with strangers, watching millions of unknown faces pour out of the Terminus, reminding him of his first day in the city.
"I arrived here in 1970 from Mhow in Madhya Pradesh after my uncle sent me an offer letter. Unfortunately, that job didn't materialise. I walked past this place and watched some men write letters for migrants for a small fee. I decided to join them."u00a0 Chauhan and Ahmed will fill up a postal form for you for Rs 10 a sheet. They sit under a canopy opposite the GPO, VT.
