Something creaked. She hoped it was the door, her bones knew better. The wind rushed in as she squinted at her unexpected visitor.
“Mrs. Ghosh?” the silhouette said unintelligibly with a blood red “paan” filled mouth.
Receiving a gentle nod of affirmation the ‘postman’ thrust a letter in her hand, jabbing her with a pen to sign for it.
No hello. No goodbye. No acknowledgement.
The door closed without a creak, making her cringe at the realization. The letter felt stiff, worn and battered after its journey, something the old woman couldn’t allow herself to relate with. She flipped it over, bringing it closer to her face, reading the post-mark – “KOLKATA”.
Expectation and hope kicked in – ‘bloody mutinous allies’, she thought. She placed the letter on the table and eased into her chair, momentarily feeling relaxed before being drawn into hope again. She cursed herself and her instinct to nurse such ideas of optimism.
“Hope once released is an impossible force to ensnare,’ she promulgated to no-one, ‘like youth’, she added ‘only far more deceptive’.
She wanted tea.
She needed tea.
It would help her think.
Bobbing the tea bag in the hot water she looked at the letter from across the hall, imagining the usual transcribed invectives in brightly colored flattery that were awaiting her.
Greed. Loss. Contempt.
She didn’t need that.
She didn’t need them.
She sipped her tea and walked determinately to the table and tore the letter in four, feeling a slight sting, pausing, thinking of guilt and finally dropping the pieces in the trash.
As she smugly stirred her tea, a drop of color fell from her fingers into her light brown serenity. She suddenly stumbled to pick up the pieces, putting together her only photograph of her first great grand daughter.
“Mrs. Ghosh?” the silhouette said unintelligibly with a blood red “paan” filled mouth.
Receiving a gentle nod of affirmation the ‘postman’ thrust a letter in her hand, jabbing her with a pen to sign for it.
No hello. No goodbye. No acknowledgement.
The door closed without a creak, making her cringe at the realization. The letter felt stiff, worn and battered after its journey, something the old woman couldn’t allow herself to relate with. She flipped it over, bringing it closer to her face, reading the post-mark – “KOLKATA”.
Expectation and hope kicked in – ‘bloody mutinous allies’, she thought. She placed the letter on the table and eased into her chair, momentarily feeling relaxed before being drawn into hope again. She cursed herself and her instinct to nurse such ideas of optimism.
“Hope once released is an impossible force to ensnare,’ she promulgated to no-one, ‘like youth’, she added ‘only far more deceptive’.
She wanted tea.
She needed tea.
It would help her think.
Bobbing the tea bag in the hot water she looked at the letter from across the hall, imagining the usual transcribed invectives in brightly colored flattery that were awaiting her.
Greed. Loss. Contempt.
She didn’t need that.
She didn’t need them.
She sipped her tea and walked determinately to the table and tore the letter in four, feeling a slight sting, pausing, thinking of guilt and finally dropping the pieces in the trash.
As she smugly stirred her tea, a drop of color fell from her fingers into her light brown serenity. She suddenly stumbled to pick up the pieces, putting together her only photograph of her first great grand daughter.
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