The postman rang the bell this morning. He did not quite look his part: His hair was divided down the middle of his head into two perfect farms of flowing locks. And he seemed rather British than Indian.
I stood at the door and looked at him, then perused the contents of the lobby, and then returned my gaze back to the postman. He had on an army uniform. And his beret was definitely flown in from the year 1920. Quite odd, I remember I said to myself. Quite odd that he is standing here in the 21st century.
He bent down and plunged a hand into his bag and out came a parcel wrapped in white paper. The parcel was around the size of those notebooks I had a habit of using in school and then in college. But it was seven times thicker than those notebooks. And it seemed to include no excitement in its contents.
The postman then looked at me. I noticed his eyes were blue and his hair, a deep royal brown. He noticed I had noticed a lot about him and by way of giving me something in return for all that noticing, he flashed a quick smile and said,"Sign here, please." The accent was definitely British polluted by a dash of America.
I signed. I remember I had on a white shirt and an inconsequential pair of trousers. I was clutching the grills of the door as if I was about to melt into oblivion. And I was hoping the parcel delivering would last a moment more, and then lengthen into a few more minutes, and then stretch into a few hours, then days, weeks, months, years, and then stay frozen in time. My fingers tapped the grill in anticipation of all that to happen.
But he slung his bag onto his left shoulder, let slip another quick smile, and left: All that took a mere 30 seconds.
I realized I had left the door and had let my feet carry me into the lobby to see him go. So I walked back and crossed the threshold to get back into the apartment.
I looked at the parcel: It had black thread holding down the flaps of the wrapping. And it did not, even for a minute, beckon me to undress it. I put it down on the table, walked into the balcony, and looked at the trees down near the drain.
I sighed. I wasn't going to open the parcel. What use will it be to me? Why should I think about it even? What thoughts might it bring to me?
I sat there in the balcony for five minutes. The wind fluttered the hem of my inconsequential trousers. My fingers cupped my elbow. My thoughts paused in mid-air, not wanting to go anywhere...
I looked back at the table. The parcel was gone as if it understood my intention. I heard the door close.
But who left, and who left it open, I wonder...
I stood at the door and looked at him, then perused the contents of the lobby, and then returned my gaze back to the postman. He had on an army uniform. And his beret was definitely flown in from the year 1920. Quite odd, I remember I said to myself. Quite odd that he is standing here in the 21st century.
He bent down and plunged a hand into his bag and out came a parcel wrapped in white paper. The parcel was around the size of those notebooks I had a habit of using in school and then in college. But it was seven times thicker than those notebooks. And it seemed to include no excitement in its contents.
The postman then looked at me. I noticed his eyes were blue and his hair, a deep royal brown. He noticed I had noticed a lot about him and by way of giving me something in return for all that noticing, he flashed a quick smile and said,"Sign here, please." The accent was definitely British polluted by a dash of America.
I signed. I remember I had on a white shirt and an inconsequential pair of trousers. I was clutching the grills of the door as if I was about to melt into oblivion. And I was hoping the parcel delivering would last a moment more, and then lengthen into a few more minutes, and then stretch into a few hours, then days, weeks, months, years, and then stay frozen in time. My fingers tapped the grill in anticipation of all that to happen.
But he slung his bag onto his left shoulder, let slip another quick smile, and left: All that took a mere 30 seconds.
I realized I had left the door and had let my feet carry me into the lobby to see him go. So I walked back and crossed the threshold to get back into the apartment.
I looked at the parcel: It had black thread holding down the flaps of the wrapping. And it did not, even for a minute, beckon me to undress it. I put it down on the table, walked into the balcony, and looked at the trees down near the drain.
I sighed. I wasn't going to open the parcel. What use will it be to me? Why should I think about it even? What thoughts might it bring to me?
I sat there in the balcony for five minutes. The wind fluttered the hem of my inconsequential trousers. My fingers cupped my elbow. My thoughts paused in mid-air, not wanting to go anywhere...
I looked back at the table. The parcel was gone as if it understood my intention. I heard the door close.
But who left, and who left it open, I wonder...
Comments