A LETTER TELLS IT'S OWN STORY

One fine morning i saw myself born on a piece of white glossy paper from a beautiful fountain pain in a decent young officers hand. I was folded and put into an oblong shaped envelop. His bearer rushed to the post office with me as it was a little late. The man looked at his watch and cursed it for going so rapidly.

He sopped before a window. The last clearance was not yet out. I was dropped through a hole into a box. I fell almost on the back of another who, however, kindly made a room for me. He bore a message of love from a sister in a hospital to her dear ones at home.

From some of my own kind i found they disliked chumming with their one-page companions, the postcards.

Soon a young man in khaki opened the lock of our cell, took us out and separated us from the postcards. But alas! the man did not leave us there at rest. He had a seal about and started stamping it mercilessly on our backs. But i survived the blow somehow.

I was then put into a bag which was sealed so carefully that i felt almost breatheless. There were many such bags which were soon carried to the mail room of a railway station. As it seemed off the platform, the bags were opened and their content storted again into different pigeon-holes. We passed the night in the train where we were again put into seperate bags. The train stopped at day-break and we were all taken in a motor van before an imposing building, the G.P.O of calcutta.
There we were again sorted and given to different postmen for delivery to our proper destination.

I was delivered to a bright youngman, whose face beamed in joy as he ran his eyes over my body. For i gave the happy news of a big win in a lottery draw.

There must be something of a miracle with the postman. Everybody, young and old, rich and poor, has a sort of romantic affection for him. He stopped almost at every door, giving news good, bad and indifferent. But i noticed whenever he passed by a house without stopping at it, people felt to have missed something good.