Enveloped...

I received my last red uniform a long time back. If my memories aren’t dampened with the moisture in my belly, it had been a long 6 years since. Centenary celebrations sparked a row thus giving us the new luster. How boring was the leisure granted while my coat was to dry! And the next day I was the cynosure of all eyes. All appreciated my dress to a great applause. Memories too take time to dry isn’t? I was fed with a lot of intellectual nourishment; in simple words some were real food for thought. Today I am lean, permanently idle and old and it’s all silt and rust I carry. Alone in this big city, none to notice, none to care, I wither in the sun, shiver in the cold and wrinkle in the rain. I am paralyzed, unable to move, in a condition to move any compassionate heart. Some dry leaves give me company today. Time snails.
Age as well caught up with me, but without any assurance. I suffered. On the brink of geezerhood, not a single soul bothered. Umpteen I gave news of a job, many to whom I whispered a baby born, some I gifted those fragrant love letters. None ever enquired my sorry state. Lives made. Celebrations done. People forget. It’s not a mistake. It’s human.
Heard that young people have taken over, one who moves faster, is more reliable and cheaper. But wasn’t my service reliable and cheap, or has things turned turtle? Free sells anywhere and has it become so? Maybe so… how will a forgotten chap like me know? Overheard an individual mentioning email or was it female; auditory sense prevails but cloudy with dirt in my ears. Still it’s beyond my scope of understanding; at times I sit wondering whether it’s a fairy tale I heard. How can a letter go electronically via a computer, and reach anywhere in the world within seconds? And the stranger wasn’t mentioning postbox, mailman, post office, mail van, stamps, envelopes nothing at all…My head crumples like paper. Loud echoes reverberate even in sleep. It hurts. Occasional silence spells doom. And who is this courier? I hate to accept a lesser rival rising above me, but alas telephone too, in its smaller versions has looted a lot from my niche.
My head aches imagining so wild. Those rosy days. Those quiet moments. Musings mirror the lost tenderness. Memories envelope me. The first sky-blue inland I gobbled. Folded carefully in all the ---FOLD HERE--- marks and sealed, it took time for the petite him to adjust to my belly darkness. Only a small stream of light seeped in and it felt like a stolen twinkle from a firefly. The stamp was so shy. Opening her eyes and staring at my darkness was initially impossible. Later we were strangers in unison. Her giggle was so fresh like the anklets of a little kid. None knew where and what next, except that the inland was from a loving mother to one Mr. Adwaith in Bombay. But heard that Bombay changed to Mumbai, Madras to Chennai and Calcutta to Kolkata. Unsure because it’s long since I read such an address. At sharp 3:00 pm that day, Keluettan, our khaki clad postman opened me and stole my 3 hours of friends in a gunny bag. Keluettan retired long ago and a young Suresh took over. He still comes, clothed in a new blue uniform, steps to revive a dying department with a fresh look, I learned.
Though I have no qualms, I ponder over some. Never did I get a chance to love, I did like some cute stamps, but they left at the next clearance. The longest I had lived and joyously enjoyed was on continuous Govt. holidays. An idealist Gandhi stamp lay idle chatting. The orange envelope though wasn’t too friendly, was kind of matured. Postcards were more friendly, as they were open hearted, didn’t have to hide anything. I got a lot of information reading those little postcards, costing just over 15 paise then. Competition postcards though were costly, thankfully improved my general knowledge. Lovely days of yore have elapsed. Rustic innocence lost, faster lifestyles rule. Hurry is the watchword seen through the windows in front.
As years passed on letters at the same address went to Mrs. Thushara Adwaith, Greeting cards to Malu and Chinnu. And it all stopped abruptly. Once I eavesdropped on a dialogue between Keluettan and a colleague. The loving mother cum grandma shifted base to Bombay after her husband’s death. Who knows if she is alive or not? Once Adwaith too had posted a letter, I forgot to where.
As time progressed, my belly grew tighter; at times the no of letters reached the level of my red cap too. It was too difficult to get pregnant often. I don’t complain, as it was fun and joy with so many companions; infinite good news had a stamp of my service in it. The feeling was bliss and even at this age goosebumps rise in me. What is lost is more treasured. The worth of something or someone that never comes back, but still haunts our sleep is understood too late. Isn’t?
In front of me sits a banana seller, a vegetable vendor gives company, my vision is through my black lips, rather than my eyes. Is my name cut off the rolls by the India post too? I am saddened at the ignominy of being forgotten, but which door to knock and how? Questions knock me down in disappointment. Negativity creeps in. My concrete base seems as solid as it had been, nowadays a resting place for the hawker.
My dress gave away a couple of years back, initial shyness to show my skin turned to shamelessness when the whole dress ripped away at the ruthlessness of nature. Now I stand stark naked, a little insane, a lot tired, inviting death to accept my final letter. Not a stain of red remains, except for the few unfriendly drops that had crept in while getting painted. Letters are forgotten and so is letter writing.
A teenager is running towards the hawker. And she has a paper in hand. Surprise! She kissed it and dropped it in my pockets. The inland looks blank at me. No banter exchanged. No jokes shared. Quiet clarity of the hawker’s husky tone lingers. Hopefully Suresh will come. Pray this reaches on time and saves my face from further disgrace. Is it my revival? Questions still bother me. Time alone will reply.
Is something scribbled behind? My eyes are deceiving me. Faintly I decipher the words. A few little hearts in red and…

Truly yours,
malu@gmail.com,
Bengalooru.

What name is that? Bengalooru…Has my city changed too? More of those questions knock me off the cemented platforms. Am I falling? No remorse, no regrets. I have performed my duties to the best of my abilities.

The story afterwards: The inland reached on time, Malu didn’t have to send another inland. It was all E-mail and SMS from the Gen-next.