You've got mail: J&K's first postwoman clocks 25 letters a day, 30 years on foot

SRINAGAR: Ulfat Bano collects around 25 letters from the district post office in south Kashmir's Shopian every morning and sets out on foot. There is no postal van to hop onto or a bicycle she can use if weariness strikes.

The 55-year-old trudges through her native village of Hirapora, past stone walls and wooden barns with corrugated tin roofs – and when winter arrives, through knee-deep snow — to put each envelope in the right hands.

Ulfat's routine hasn't changed in over three decades, yet she treats the job with the enthusiasm and energy of a recent recruit. For Hirapora, Kashmir's first postwoman remains the lone postal link with the outside world.

The terrain Ulfat negotiates in the line of duty does not make allowances. Hirapora sits at an altitude where snowfall buries walking tracks for weeks.

Whenever it snows, which is often during winter in these parts, Hirapora goes to sleep in more ways than one. But the postal department can count on Ulfat to be out on her route, as usual, with an umbrella in one hand and a bundle of mail in the other, her pheran the only spot of colour against the white hillside.

She refuses to take a break. Sun, rain or snow, the mail goes out.

In a profession dominated by men, Ulfat earns Rs 22,000 a month, working the same hours and covering equal ground as her male counterparts elsewhere in J&K. She doesn't see a distinction. Neither does she seek any concession.

At her age, with barely five years to go for retirement, the work takes a toll Ulfat didn't feel at 25. "It gets difficult at times," she tells TOI. "But my passion for this job does not allow me to quit."

What keeps her going are the intangible rewards of her profession. Over the past 30 years, Ulfat has witnessed hundreds of families break into celebration whenever she has been the bearer of good news – a long-awaited letter, a job offer or a parcel from someone far away.

"I see my work as a good deed," says Ulfat. "It connects people across geographies."

Outside the Hirapora post office, a small brick building with the familiar India Post sign above a green curtain, Ulfat sits on the wooden steps, hands folded on her lap. It's a typically bright spring morning, which should make the grind less taxing than it is when the weather isn't her ally.

Inside the building, the next batch of letters and parcels is getting packed.

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