In a world of emails, this man still writes letters for others outside Kolkata GPO — Meet Shyam Narayan Shaw

A Legacy in Ink and Brick

Long before emails and text messages became the norm, India Post was the country’s only means of long-distance communication. Established 150 years ago, it connected millions—linking villages and cities alike.

The GPO building in BBD Bagh, Kolkata, now 250 years old, was once the beating heart of this vast system. Back then, pigeons were used as messengers—clever and reliable carriers of heartfelt words. As time passed, human runners took over, traveling from door to door with handwritten messages. With increasing literacy, the demand for letters boomed. Trains and cars entered the picture, but the post office remained constant—a silent witness to India’s evolution.

“I’ve been writing letters for 30 years,” says Shaw, now 59, his fingers stained with ink and memory.

“You come to me—whether it’s to send a book, a package, or a letter to Delhi, Bombay, or Madras—I help you say what you feel,” Shaw says.

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Shaw began working as a young boy in his father’s shop but found his calling at the GPO. “Back then, this place used to be full. You couldn’t even find a place to stand. People came to send money to their families, write emotional letters—and there used to be just one destination, the post office.”

Then and Now

Shaw said the letters he once wrote carried the emotions of factory workers, labourers, and migrant families.

Reminiscing about the letters he had written for others, Shaw said, “One man came to send money to his mother. For him I had written: ‘Ma, mere bete ki shaadi tay ho gayi hai. Sab log aayenge. Agle mahine ki itni tareekh hai, zaroor aana.’ (Dear mother, my son is getting married. Everyone will come. You too should come).” These weren’t just lines on paper—they were lives, paused and packed in envelopes, says Shaw.

Shaw adapted to each customer, switching between Hindi, Bengali, and English. But times have changed.

“Now people say, ‘Bhaiya, email kar diya. Online bhej diya.’ They transfer money and emotions both digitally. This work won’t survive the next 10 years,” he says, glancing around the near-empty GPO hall.

A Bond Beyond Words

Among the countless letters he has penned, one remains closest to his heart—a yearly letter written for a woman from Badaghat.

“She brings rakhi and gifts for her brother in America. Every year, she comes to me. Even though she can write, she still wants me to write the letter,” he says, eyes twinkling.

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“Over time, we became family. Now she ties rakhi to me too. I go to her house every year. That’s a relationship built not just on words, but on trust and love.”

He pauses and adds softly, “If there’s no love, there’s no meaning to life.”

The Vanishing Tribe

Letter writers like Shaw belong to a dying generation. Once essential, now nearly forgotten, they continue their work out of habit, hope, and heart.

“Old people still come. They don’t trust apps. They trust people like me,” he says.

For the seniors in this profession, their table at the post office is not just a workspace—it’s a witness stand for a lifetime of stories. But with the digital wave rising higher each day, their benches are growing colder and their voices quieter.

In a world rushing toward AI, automation, and algorithms, Shyam Narayan Shaw remains a relic of a gentler age—one where emotions were sealed in envelopes and carried across cities by hand. As he sits under the ancient clock of the GPO, writing one more letter with practiced grace, he reminds us that while technology may have made communication faster, it hasn’t necessarily made it deeper. His words may fade with time, but the warmth they carried will linger—like old letters tucked safely in a drawer.