Shyam left his house early that morning to go to work at the village post office. His work as the post master not only included delivery of letters and other documents, but also, being one of the very few literate men in the village, included having to write letters for other people who sought his help. He was a very kind man, and never turned down a single plea for help in this matter. In fact, he felt that it was a very noble thing to do. Helping people send messages to their loved ones. Very few things in life could be better or more satisfying for Shyam.
It was an early winter morning, the kind where the dew was still not out of the air, and the sun had only gently started coming up. All around him, people had started waking up and getting to their daily chores of work. Farmers going to the fields to work, children going to the local teacher, Dubeyji, for schooling, women standing in line for the water from the pump, shopkeepers opening and cleaning their shops in hope for a better day in business.
He was called upon by Raghu, the local milkman as soon as he entered his one-room post office. He had worked earlier in the city, and had been in post offices there. They were big enough to house the entire population of his village. However, he had no qualms in working here, as he was more of a village-minded person, and preferred the slow life of the bucolic countryside, than the maddening pace of the city.
“Raghuchacha, just give me a minute to pick up my pen and paper”, he called out, “and I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No hurry, Shyam beta”, answered Raghu who looked more concerned about his milk cans tied to his bicycle outside than about getting his letter written by Shyam.
Shyam cleaned up his desk and placed his notebook and pen on it. He shouted out to Ramu, the peon-cum-office boy, to get him some tea, and then called the milkman inside.
“Yes Raghuchacha. Tell me what you want to write and I’ll start writing,’ and saying so he uncapped his pen and placed his hands on the paper. Raghu had a lot to say to his relatives in the city and the letter was done, with some corrections and adjustments in less than half an hour.
Having done with Raghu’s letter, Shyam started the rest of his chores in the post office. He sorted out the letters based on their postage values, and then started arranging them in the post satchel for Ravinder, the postman, to deliver.
And so the day went on. Shyam went about his work piously, never tiring, ever pleasant, and always with a smile on his face.
The end of the day came with the sun setting over the hills at the west end of the town. The sunset always pleased Shyam. He could look at the sight forever, and never get bored of it. The colours that the sky painted near the hilltops, the clouds having a golden glow at the bottom and silver lines at the top, the last flare with which the sun disappears into the horizon giving hope to all, almost saying “I’ll be back tomorrow. Do not lose hope. Every night is followed by a new day.”
Shyam was about to finish up and lock the office door behind him, when a man came out of the darkness behind him and said, “Sir, could you do me a favour and write a letter for me? I do not know how to write, and I cannot wait till morning.”
Shyam turned around, and saw that the man was in tatters. His shirt was torn from the left sleeve and his dhoti was more rags than cloth. The man was also not wearing any footwear in this cold weather. But what surprised him most was the man’s face. It looked as if it was straight out of a battle. Scars were running all over the man’s face, although no blood was visible. Shyam reckoned that the scars were remnants of a violent past. After all, many men in the village were actually bandits in the past, who had converted into peaceful men after repentance (although most of them were peaceful now only because they were too old to be living vicious lives).
“But the post goes only in the morning. Wouldn’t it be better to write it in the morning itself and then get it posted as well?” asked Shyam.
“I won’t be here in the morning,” said the man, who looked up to Shyam pleadingly, “I need to go back to where I come from tonight.”
Since Shyam wasn’t the kind of person who would refuse helping anyone, he nodded and showed the man a seat inside the office. He knew Sunaina would be waiting for him for dinner, but he thought that a few more minutes of waiting wouldn’t matter.
He sat down on his chair and took out some parchment and a pen from the table drawer and put them on the table.
“Who are you? You don’t seem to be from this village.” asked Shyam, to which the man replied, “I am Mircha, and I come from the Rampur town. I used to live here earlier, but I left for Rampur some time back.”
“Tell me what you want to write, and I'll start writing.” Shyam said, as was his usual.
“This letter is to my wife, who is in this village itself, but I cannot tell her these words directly. I need to have this penned down and delivered to her.” said the man, whose features were now more clearly visible in the light of the bulb hanging over Shyam’s head.
“That’s no problem, I’ll deliver it to her myself.” said Shyam, who nodded encouragingly towards the man and put the pen to paper waiting to be dictated.
“Here goes.” said the man, and started speaking looking at the wall behind Shyam.
“Dear Lajjo,
I am in hope that it finds you at peace in the place you are right now. I wanted to meet you and see you, but it is not possible right now. I have much to do and earn before I can come and see you. I long to see you very much, but right now, I do not possess this luxury.
I am getting this letter written by the postmaster, so I cannot tell you all that I feel”, (to which Shyam faked a cough to hide his embarrassment),” but I hope you still continue to read between the lines as always, and know my real feelings.
I am doing well in my work and am treated with a lot of respect from my superiors, and I hope I can one day do enough to earn what I must, and come back to you and spend the rest of my time with you. I really long for your tender embrace and I hope you feel the same about me as well. Time is something, we both know, that can sputter out the best of emotions, but I dearly hope that this is not true in our case.
I long to see you swinging on the rope I tied for you on the branch of the mango tree behind our house, and I pine to see you laugh when I push the swing harder. I wish I could spend every moment of the rest of my time watching your lovely face, and I remember every time your eyes came up to meet mine. Oh! The joy of our young age and the romance! I remember every moment that we spent on the terrace of your father’s home, when I used to climb up from the tamarind tree and find you waiting there eagerly for me to arrive in the middle of the night. You would come barefooted even in the coldest of the winter nights, just so that your father wouldn’t catch you coming to the terrace to meet me. I really long for those days.
I know we spent a lovely time at the end together in each other’s arms, and I am hoping for more of that when we meet.
I must now take leave now, as I am already exceeding the limits of rudeness in keeping this young postmaster back in the post office working, when he should be back home to the warmth of his hearth and the love of his family.
I shall meet you, as usual, on the night of Kali Chaudas, near the Kali Maa temple.
Till then,
I am,
Your loving husband,
Mircha.
P.S. Please wear your favourite red sari when you come to meet me. It really brings out your beauty. I love you.”
And saying this, the letter ended. Mircha then told Shyam the address in the village where the letter was to be delivered and thanked Shyam profusely, and asked how much it would cost for postage. Shyam denied taking any money, as the letter would be delivered in the village itself. Shyam felt it would be unfair to take money.
Mircha thanked him again and walked out of the post office with Shyam, who locked up the door behind him. He took Shyam’s hands in his, and said “Please deliver this to my Lajjo tomorrow itself. She must be waiting to hear from me. It’s been a long time.” to which Shyam replied with a smile, “Don’t worry Mirchaji, I will personally go and deliver this letter first thing in the morning. See, I have kept the letter with me only, as this address in on the way from my home to the post office.”
Having thanked Shyam again for his help, Mircha left into the darkness and Shyam too started walking back to his Sunaina and his home.
The next morning, Shyam knocked on the door on the address of the house that Mircha had told him. An old man opened the door and stepped out. Shyam touched his feet and said, “Greetings Chacha. I have a letter for Lajjo behen.”
The old man suddenly looked startled, the kind of surprise that comes with sadness. “Son, how can this be? Lajjo has died more than ten years ago.”
“What?! How can it be? I just wrote this letter last night for Lajjo behen. Her husband, Mirchaji, himself dictated this for me to write.” said Shyam who was shocked by what the old man said.
“Mircha? He too has been dead for over ten years now,” said the old man, “they both died in each other’s arms after being forced to eat poison by the girl’s father outside the village. They were not allowed to enter the village as they eloped with each other.”
“This is not possible!” exclaimed Shyam, who was not almost having a heart attack. “Mircha was with me last night!”
The old man patted Shyam on his shoulder and said with a very regretful and grieved look in his eyes, “Son, I do not know how that is possible; I myself am the girl’s father.”
And saying this, the old man stepped inside the doors of his house and shut it, leaving a shocked Shyam on the doorstep outside.
