LIFE AND LIES #8 | Telling a Story

"It's bedtime," my cousin tells her son. "Go to sleep!"

My nephew, in turn, starts pulling on his father. It's a routine. Every night he needs a story from his father before going to sleep.

"Papa is tired today," my cousin intervenes. "Go with Mama. He'll tell the story today."

"Yeah sure, why not," I was about to head home but apparently not.

Moments later, I'm tucking him in, still unable to come up with a suitable story. All the stories that I have ever read race past my mind but none seem appropriate. He's ten years old. What story would be fit? Panchatantra? But his father must have covered that already. For some reason, The Ugly Duckling comes to mind. What happened there, I try to remember. Oh yeah, the duckling turns out to be a swan.

I finally decide on a story. It's my all-time favourite. But I wonder if it would be well suited for a bedtime story.

"Mama," he calls from under the covers. He is getting restless.

"Give me a second," I respond. In my mind, I go over the story. I don't remember every line of it but surely I can rephrase and tell the story in my own way.

A long time ago, I begin, smiling, thinking, isn't this how all the children stories start.

There was a time when there were no smartphones. There was no internet. And..... I pause for effect. There.. was.. no... PUBG.

My nephew smiles. Finding my audience appeased, I carry on.

In such a world, the only way people could communicate over long distances was through letters.

It was early morning but the Sun wasn't up yet. A few stars still glowed in the sky. There wasn't a soul on the road except for one. An old man was heading somewhere, a tattered blanket wrapped around him. His pace was slow but he didn't pause till he reached a small building with an overhead sign that read 'POST OFFICE'.

He walked in and took a seat in a corner from where he could listen to the postmaster shouting names while the waiting postmen snatched up the letter of their particular areas.

"Consider it like the system prevalent today," I turn to my nephew to check if he's listening. He is.

"You must have met the Flipkart/Amazon delivery guys, haven't you?"

He nods.

"The postmen worked in a similar fashion. They had designated areas the way these delivery people do. The postmen collected letters from a post office the way these delivery guys collect the thing you ordered from a particular place then delivered it at your doorstep. Now, back to our story..."

"ALI..." someone shouted from inside. The old man sprang up to his feet and headed to the window where the postmaster was reciting the names.

"Who are you," The postmaster asked, sounding annoyed.

"I'm Ali. I'm here for my letter."

"I don't have your letter," the postmaster replied and turned around in his chair to shout at someone inside: "Who bothers this old man by calling out his name?"

A disheartened Ali went back to his seat, where he waited for his letter. For the past year, in spite of his old age, he had been coming to the post office, daily for a letter that did not come.

Evening arrived and there still was no letter for Ali. Seeing everybody leave, he sought out one of the postmen.

The postman was a polite person. He paused to hear the old man out. Ali fished out a small pouch from his pocket and emptied its content into his hand.

"These are my life savings," said Ali to an astonished postman. "Keep it, but do me a favour. Bring my letter to me, whenever it arrives."

"But where? I don't know where you live."

"To my grave," and with that Ali left, leaving behind an appalled postman.

Days passed. Ali was nowhere to be seen. Some noticed his absence and wondered what had made the old man stop. Some didn't. All the same, everyone went about their usual business.

Now, it so happened that the postmaster's daughter fell ill in a nearby village and he was eagerly awaiting any news from her. Every morning, he rushed to the office and delved into the pile of letters. But he couldn't find what he was looking for. Then one day, a letter among the pile caught his eye. It was addressed to Ali.

His heart sank. He had heard his staff discussing the old man's misery. He had even shared a casual laugh with them when they mentioned Ali giving his entire fortune to the postman. Now, troubled with the news of her own daughter, he understood Ali's pain: a human's worth of a letter.

Holding the letter in his hand, he called the postman to whom Ali had given his money and enquired about him. The postman had no idea but he promised to find out and let him know.

Days passed and the postmaster still hadn't heard from her daughter. One morning, he was just sitting there with his pile of letters when somebody knocked on the window. He looked up.

It was Ali. This time, he didn't ask for his letter. He just stood there. The postmaster was overcome with emotions. He couldn't express how glad he was to see him. He got up from his chair to bring Ali's letter to him. He could have asked the postman to deliver the letter whenever he found Ali. But he had kept it with himself. He wanted to hand over the letter to Ali, himself.

"Sir, I have bad news." 

The postmaster turned around. It was the postman. He looked worried.

"What happened?"

"Sir, Ali died a few days ago."

"What! But I just..." the postmaster's eyes darted to the window. There was nobody there.

He was bewildered. Handing the letter to the postman he went back to his chair. There he sat, thinking. Had he imagined it all? He had dismissed Ali once when he had come looking for his letter. Was it his remorse that had taken the shape of Ali?

Later that day, the postmaster, along with the postman visited Ali's grave and laid down the letter the way Ali had asked.

Ali was finally reunited with his letter.

THE END

"Did you like it," I ask my nephew. There is no response. I turn to find him sleeping. Immersed in my storytelling, I must have forgotten to check upon him. But then again, isn't putting children to sleep the sole aim of bedtime stories.

Retiring to bed, I mull over the time I had first read this story. Postcards and letters weren't a thing of the past then. Telephones were newly introduced and I was yet to lay my eyes on a mobile phone let alone a smartphone.

Ages seem to have passed since then. Few lines into the story, I had wondered then if someday I would be able to write something as simple and as meaningful as what I was reading. I still remember how that story began:

"In the grey sky of early dawn, stars still glowed as happy memories light up a life that is nearing its close."