An autobiography of a letter
Friend, please listen to my silent but eloquent tale. Before being delivered into your hands by the postman, my journey began, I can’t call my journey a happy one. I have traveled hundreds of miles to reach you. There is a saying among the usual folk that whenever you can’t locate an address, your letter will. Such is my glory.
Historians date my origin to the time of Sher Shah, the Mughal King, who introduced the first postal system in India. Messengers carried letters in a huge bag and rode on horse-backs to the neighboring towns to deliver them. Even before that, pigeons were trained to carry chits tucked in the web of their claws or held tightly in their beaks. The immortal Kalidasa, in his ‘Meghadoota’ sent clouds as messengers. In the Tamil classic ‘Nalavenba,’ Damayanthi sent a swan as a messenger to Nala.
Postal communication is so advanced over the years. I begin my journey in a distant town. The man who wrote his message on my front and back was a lazy fellow. He used his saliva to seal the cover in which I was imprisoned. My real torture began from now. He thrust the sealed envelope into his trouser pocket and walked to the post office and dropped me into a slit-like cavity in a wall painted in bright red letters — LETTERBOX.
The post office assistant gathered me, imprisoned in an envelope, and the other letters and parcels in an empty bag and took it to the sorting section. He emptied the content on the table and began banging on them one after the other with a postal stamp. He did his work so swiftly and perfectly that no letter could escape his treatment. While his left hand shuffled the letters in order, the right hand holding the stamp moved to the ink pad to smear and land on the letter with precision and accuracy.
Then again I was but in a bag along with my companions and the mouth was tied. There were several bags like that in the post office. We were finally driven to the railway station. When the train came, we were herded into the mail van. Those that had a common destination were off-loaded at the appropriate railway station.
In the post office of the delivery town too the stamping torture followed. My freedom came when the postman delivered me. My torture doesn’t stop there. You may throw me away, tear me to pieces, put me on a pile of stuff, or even destroy me.
I may bring good or bad news. I can unite hearts. I can make people weep or rejoice. Your cousin’s wedding, your brother’s success in the examination, your relative’s death, and so on, I announce.
In weather fair or foul, I journey. The elements are my companions. Can you just think of a better friend?