It can often take a lifetime for certain truths to sink in as, for instance, in the case of “They also serve who only stand and wait” in Milton’s ‘On His Blindness’ ( When I Consider How My Light is Spent ), which I had to learn in my Intermediate English textbook.
I had never quite understood what it meant. In real life who actually stands and waits — other than perhaps those who are waiters by profession? Of course they also serve. But how does that apply universally?
We do stand and wait in queues but never thereby serve anyone except ourselves. There must be something wrong somewhere. There are explanations/commentaries of all kinds for that line but I, for one, had never really understood it.
All that changed in just a few hours the other day. It was almost like Buddha getting his enlightenment at Bodh Gaya. Only, in my case it was in my daughter Meera’s house in the U.K.
As she left for work that morning, Meera told me she was expecting a delivery — against an online order — sometime between eight and ten. Could I delay my morning ablutions until after taking the delivery, she asked.
“What! That early in the morning!” I said. “Deliveries are usually between 10 and 5, aren’t they?”
“During the Christmas season they can be any time during the day and often even at night. I had a text last night from the supplier to expect delivery early this morning. The packet can be heavy; don’t carry it in your hands. You can tell the delivery man to leave it in the hall. And don’t try to move it.”
I looked at the clock. It showed 7-50. I lingered on in the living room. From the nearest bookshelf I picked up His Last Bow by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I had bought that at a second-hand bookshop in the U.K. and devoured it. That was many years ago. A second look might be worthwhile.
I was halfway through its first story when the doorbell rang. It was 8-30. I hobbled to the door, and sure enough there was this delivery man. He said good morning and then rather apologetically, “Here’s one packet for next door, No.28. There is no one there. Sorry to trouble you, but can you please take this and hold it for the addressee? I shall leave a note through their mail slot that the packet is with you.”
“No problem,” I said. I had done that I don’t know how many times. It was indeed standard practice in these parts. It was a small packet.
Around 9-30 Meera called. When she learned that her packet had not arrived she seemed contrite: ‘I wasted your morning for nothing!’ she sighed. “Oh no, there was a delivery at 08:30,” I said, “but that was for Dolores next-door. In the normal course I would still be in the bath then, wouldn’t I?”
“So what? The man would have tried another neighbour!”
“Didn’t I spare him that trouble?” I asked. That didn’t impress her. She said something about it being boy-scout-ish to think like that!
As it happened, there were three more deliveries before 10, all for No. 28. Around 11, Meera called again. She said she had a text message from the supplier that the delivery had been delayed until further notice.
The wait had ended. I was then on my third story in His Last Bow . As always, Sherlock Holmes and Watson were great company. The wait had served to renew my acquaintance with the book.
Dolores’s husband John collected the four packets in the afternoon. “Thanks ever so much,” he said. “It’s Peter’s birthday today. And these are for him. Cheers!”
“Happy Birthday to Peter!” I said. I could almost see Peter, 10, beaming as he opened his birthday presents later that evening.
As I shut the door I caught myself soulfully reciting under my breath: ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Amen.
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