Biography of a Letter – Social Short Story
Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com
I was lying on the familiar wooden desk with a load of files and a pen holder, waiting for the postman to come and take me to my destination. This time my receiver will welcome me with tears and exaggerating anxiety. I can say this because the sender this time had a hard look on his face while he wrote me with his antique fountain pen. He mentioned it once that his late grandpa gave him that black coloured pen as his souvenir. I am sure of the fact that he rarely remembered that man while using that pen. His existence was now confined to the white wall where his picture was hanging conventionally.
I was connected deeply with my sender. I was acquainted with him first when he was a teenager and wrote me with utmost excitement. The memory is sort of faded due to the ambush of time but probably he sent me first to his aunt who lived in a far off town. It was beautiful, the way he wrote me with that juvenile handwriting consisting of a hap hazarded form of alphabets. Now, however he wrote with an intense beauty but that beauty only seems to be skin deep. Those first alphabets were not at all beautiful in physical appearance but they made me feel good, satisfied and mostly happy because of the feelings behind them. Sometimes I wonder how diverse and fast human life is. A person who was once an ever smiling angel was now a hard faced monster. I don’t blame him. It’s the fate of human life- happiness and sadness, fear and satisfaction, love and hatred. Monotony is the thing which their life lacks the most.
I still remember the era when he greeted me with a huge smile whenever I returned from my journey. I miss that now. Now whenever I return he rarely receive me. A man with small physique who is as helpless as I am gave me to him saying that line which now became a phrase- ‘Sahab there’s a letter for you’. I assumed him to be a servant of my sender as he was treated with a substantial ignorance from him as well as his family. Anyway, I personally hate this man called Bahadur. Reason? Even I’m surprised with the reason. Perhaps a long human company made me such. The reason for this was his rough behaviour towards me; sometimes it even turned to hatred. It was strange for me to feel this way. Only humans judge things according to their behaviour towards them, no matter what that entity really is.
The sudden screeching sound of the old wooden chair dragged me from my thoughts. The stamp above me was looking pale today. May be he also realized the possible wrongness about this time. The clerk sat thudding the chair, and tossed me along with entities of my own species to the postman. He took all of us with a sense of duty, as he always does, and settled us in his khaki bag.
Now, all I could see was darkness which paved a way for me to venture into the past. The time changed him and me simultaneously. Sometimes I try to venture in my own, searching for my existence and find myself entangled in situations. What really my life is? Moving here and there for the sake of people’s correspondence! When I give them good news, they cherish me, greet me with smiles and happy tear, hug me so intently and sometimes shower one or two kisses. But when the news is not-so-good, they curse me, toss me and sometimes even tear me apart. My mother is my only enemy; she’s also my only appreciator. Guess now I have to tell the name of my mother- Human mind is my mother. Yes, it gave me birth and it is human mind that is so malicious!
I remember the days when he was a young adult. I remember the correspondence between him and a soft faced girl, which acquainted me with a new phase of human life. Now, a new word was added ahead my name-LOVE. But as time grew this word disappeared and gradually a strained word ‘FORMAL’ took its place. The last time I saw that girl was maybe ten or twelve years ago. There were tears in her eyes, I certainly brought a bad news of departure from her lover to her, perhaps it was the first time when I gave someone pain or maybe transported it. But she was the only one who didn’t hurt me when I hurt her. She just cried and I’m still carrying a spot of her tear on my body.
After that most of the time I was given maltreatment by my sender as well as receiver. The reason for this possible disgust as far as I know has been the separation from that girl. I remember once one of my friends brought my sender news for his promotion. It was then when I saw him smiling like he used to smile. But thereafter he came back to his harsh behaviour and even more harshness than before.
My attention was yanked by the sudden light which was caused because the postman opened his craggy bag. He took me out and handled me to my receiver. I was relieved to find that it was his brother because he rarely gave me much attention to be harsh towards me. He opened me and his eyes didn’t even show a glimpse of wetness or anxiety I was expecting. The words that came out of his throat in the following time made me thankful for I’m a non living entity and not human.
“Listen, Maa passed away yesterday morning. Bhai wants me there to take my part in the family property. Can you pack my bag? I think I should leave today itself otherwise it will give a bad impression on relatives.”
Time change them, not me. Time reduces their soul, not mine. The change I suffer is the change of words which is also their gift to me. Is time so powerful that it can convert a noble man to a monster? I am relieved this time can only affect my physical appearance but I pity for people because time is potent of destroying their heart!
__END__
