<p class="bodytext">Notwithstanding the ubiquitous mailing services of modern times, the time-honoured practice of sending letters and materials to friends and relatives, through people visiting their cities or villages, continues uninterrupted. This practice is regarded as a relatively reliable and personalised mode of delivery.</p>.<p class="bodytext">In the process of preparing for my travel to Shimla the other day, one of my long-time neighbours politely asked me whether I could hand over a packet to his son’s family living there. I accepted the packet, after ensuring that it was compact and not heavy. As I shoved the packet into my suitcase, I recalled a few experiences I have had in taking and receiving packages this way.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Once, my house owner requested me to hand over a bag of home-made eatables to his daughter in Bengaluru. I deposited the bag on the overhead luggage rack of a two-tier compartment in a mail train and slipped into a postprandial nap on the upper berth. After about an hour or so, I was awakened by an occupant of the lower berth, who frantically drew my attention to oil oozing out of the bag and dripping onto the floor. On checking the contents of the bag, I found a stainless steel container that had freshly prepared mango pickles, soaked in oil. The container was not closed tightly. I had to apologise to my co-passengers for no fault of mine.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When I was preparing to leave for Mumbai to attend an interview years ago, one of my wife’s friends requested me to hand over a small box to her daughter-in-law in Mumbai. The box brought to the station was not a small one, but measured three feet by two feet. The porter groaned under its weight and placed it with a thud under my seat. At Mumbai Dadar station, the box was seen off to its destination.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The next day the recipient of the box thanked me profusely over the phone for all the trouble and ended up saying that had I been a little more careful in handling the box, most of the clay images it contained would not have broken, necessitating her to purchase plastic dolls and trinkets for Navarathri locally.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It was my turn on another day to send a thing through someone. One of my friends gladly agreed to deliver my laptop to our branch office situated in a small town to which he was bound. After reaching home, he frantically called me to say that in a hurry, he forgot to pick up the laptop from the overhead rack. He assured me, however, that he had promptly reported the loss to the Railway police at the station and said that he was confident of getting it back soon. The package was never retrieved!</p>
<p class="bodytext">Notwithstanding the ubiquitous mailing services of modern times, the time-honoured practice of sending letters and materials to friends and relatives, through people visiting their cities or villages, continues uninterrupted. This practice is regarded as a relatively reliable and personalised mode of delivery.</p>.<p class="bodytext">In the process of preparing for my travel to Shimla the other day, one of my long-time neighbours politely asked me whether I could hand over a packet to his son’s family living there. I accepted the packet, after ensuring that it was compact and not heavy. As I shoved the packet into my suitcase, I recalled a few experiences I have had in taking and receiving packages this way.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Once, my house owner requested me to hand over a bag of home-made eatables to his daughter in Bengaluru. I deposited the bag on the overhead luggage rack of a two-tier compartment in a mail train and slipped into a postprandial nap on the upper berth. After about an hour or so, I was awakened by an occupant of the lower berth, who frantically drew my attention to oil oozing out of the bag and dripping onto the floor. On checking the contents of the bag, I found a stainless steel container that had freshly prepared mango pickles, soaked in oil. The container was not closed tightly. I had to apologise to my co-passengers for no fault of mine.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When I was preparing to leave for Mumbai to attend an interview years ago, one of my wife’s friends requested me to hand over a small box to her daughter-in-law in Mumbai. The box brought to the station was not a small one, but measured three feet by two feet. The porter groaned under its weight and placed it with a thud under my seat. At Mumbai Dadar station, the box was seen off to its destination.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The next day the recipient of the box thanked me profusely over the phone for all the trouble and ended up saying that had I been a little more careful in handling the box, most of the clay images it contained would not have broken, necessitating her to purchase plastic dolls and trinkets for Navarathri locally.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It was my turn on another day to send a thing through someone. One of my friends gladly agreed to deliver my laptop to our branch office situated in a small town to which he was bound. After reaching home, he frantically called me to say that in a hurry, he forgot to pick up the laptop from the overhead rack. He assured me, however, that he had promptly reported the loss to the Railway police at the station and said that he was confident of getting it back soon. The package was never retrieved!</p>
