Postbox

By Revathi Balaga

Looking from a corner of the street, without any relevance whatsoever, not an ounce of pride for

all the business it carried out. The space that once held emotions in the form of ink on a

parchment. Words that evoked various responses in the eyes that read them.

The ones that offered the much-needed job opportunity to his daughter; the ones that accepted

her son into their prestigious university; the ones that mourned the loss of loved ones; the ones

that started revolutions. The ones that two lovers wrote for each other and almost put in, but

chose later to store them in their trunk boxes instead, to be opened and smiled at when they

grew old in different houses.

I have this huge disappointment of missing out on the anticipation of delivered letters and the

responses. Unlike today, where there's absolutely no constraint on the number of words, but

meaning sparse, nonetheless.

I love postboxes, almost as much as I love letters. Standing there modestly, as people

immersed in digital screens walk by, just like my grandfather who looks on from above his

morning newspaper as we go about our daily chores. There's something in that look, though. As

if nearly mocking, 'Tell me frankly, does my substitute replace me well?'.

By Revathi Balaga