A long snaky queue outside the treasury counter vanished behind the main entrance. The queue is full of anxious, wrinkled faces, mostly aged retired post and telegraph employees. Otherwise how come they were eligible for the government pension?

On this chilling winter morning, many of them were wearing Dhoti and Chador. Only a few clad in trousers, shirt, and sweater or coat. Their murmuring voices to the fellow companions with the slight hissing sound of breathlessness caught my attention. I tried to overhear their conversation. They were talking about each other's health problems, children's education, their marriage, pension revision, DA, and what not? As if they met after a long time and there was hardly any chance left, to meet again.

They were looking jealously at the expensive tables and chairs, where their successors were doing their jobs proudly. Hardly had they any time to care for that old bunch of pensioners. Their promising young faces were either glued to the computer screens or they were talking with the customers, colleagues, or the tea boy. Dusty Fans covered with cobwebs were hanging from the ceiling. Probably they were waiting for the summer to come. Grey-haired office-in-charge arranged for a sufficient number of moulded plastic chairs for the pensioners, so they were very glad about this little comfort. Their whispering voice criticized all those degradation of work culture.

The number of male pensioners outnumbered widows or women pensioners who were mostly the wives of deceased employees or pensioners. Their anxiety lasted till they reached the counter after hearing the announcement of their names by the dealing clerk disbursing pension. Their trembling hands were almost incapable of counting money, still, they were trying to count the notes as quickly as possible and then a final glance to check the genuineness of the currency notes, especially the one hundred and five hundred rupee bills.

Sitting in a corner, I was trying to search for the face of my father, I lost three years ago but my never-ending search ever could find the face of my deceased father or his bedridden ailing wife in this queue of a perennial re-run of veteran pensioners. Suddenly, my eyes caught a very young person working at the counter in round golden specs, very akin to my once-seen black and white photograph of my father's younger days. I tried to recapitulate the remarks of my mother regarding that photograph but an announcement of my mother's name for collecting pension motioned me towards the counter.