the post office

THE POST OFFICE

As the world woke, the dawn light broke the night’s loneliness, sneaking through the horizon. Leaving their nests, the birds went in search of food around the corn fields. The roosters were on their duty, one can hear them from a couple of miles away. People were heading towards their fields. The atmosphere was full of chirping and the locomotive music of the train, yet it sound so peaceful refining my eternal half. The morning of a village is quite different from that of a city, such a peaceful and melodious, a medication for bruised heart, and a meditation for anxious mind. I was enjoying the scenery through the bogie window when a voice made an interrupt, “babu, chai.”
My co-traveller offered me a tea. It was then, when I realized that the train was stationed. “You should put on something warm,” said Ramesh, “Urbans are not very resistent to rural winters.”
“What a beautiful scene, away from the worldly issues, close to the nature. How pure!”
“Indeed.”
“How far are we, how long?”
“In no time, we are almost there,” replied Ramesh while sipping his tea, “here we are, empty your cup.”
With my second sip of the tea the train entered the station, where the stone board read, ‘JAAMPUR’. Grabbing our bags, we exited the coach, forcing me to quit my tea. Feeling a shiver of cold outside, I reached for a jacket, from my bag, to pull on.
“So now we separate,” I asked Ramesh.
“Of course not,” he replied, “let me drop you to your destination then I will definitely leave. Please I insist. Say it’s my gratitude for the seat you offered.”
“Well then, let us look for the old man, Deenanath, the post man, was supposed to receive me.”
“Let’s ask someone outside.”
We step outside the station, reached a tea stall and ordered two cups of tea, “have you seen any old man nearby, he is a postman.”
“Who, Deenu kaka, I am sorry sir, but he died two nights ago,” replied the hawker.
“how do you know his name,” Ramesh asked.
“It’s a small village sir, everyone knows everyone.”
“What caused his death?”
“Pneumonia, poor old chap couldn’t fight the cold of cold.”
We finished our tea silently, while paying the hawker I asked, “where is the post office?”
“Straight down the boulevard, then left from the hanuman statue.”
“So where do you live,” I asked Ramesh, while we struggled through the fog.
“Just the next village, Tilaknagar.”
“Is there any history of Jaampur?”
“Nothing special, only that it is famous for its Jamuns.”
“Isn’t this the Hanuman statue, from here .... left.”
“It’s pretty shivering; it is first time I am being through Jaampur.”
“Why, it is your neighbourhood only?”
“I know, but I have only been through the market outside the town.”
As we were talking we reached a ruin of some building, burnt into ashes.
“Oh my God, what happened here,” Ramesh exclaimed.
“Must be some kind of mishap, what was this,” I asked.
“It’s the post office,” Ramesh replied, pointing on my back.
I turned back to find a half burnt board reading – POST OFFICE