Death of a Postman

Grey clouds loomed over the sky like a tattered shroud waiting to cover the earth. I could hear the distant rumbling of the thunder as I sat in our porch, mindlessly scrolling through my text messages in quiet indignation over a fight with my significant other.

My grandparents were immersed blissfully in the melodic tunes coming out from the old radio, sharing subtle glances from their respective corners when a certain song plays up. I wonder how it worked; old wooden musical boxes and long-term relationships.

My thoughts were interrupted by the shrill cry of the telephone in the other room.

My grandmother was much closer and answered it, I could see her wrinkles deepening over some news, she turned to my grandfather and said Damodaran is no more and my grandfather who is typically unfazed mirrored my grandmother’s expression.

I asked if it’s a relative, dreading the prospect of the sombre meet and greet from the general “well wishing” family.

“No, just the postman.” My grandfather informed his eyes looking ahead in the distance.

And with one deep rumble of a thunder, the rain started pouring and a solemn gloom settled upon the three of us.

“We should go” my grandmother mumbled in her toothless tone.

“Yes of course” said my grandfather as he hobbled inside to get dressed

My grandparents rarely left home, so I assumed this person must be important but I didn’t have the gall to ask them why, but I was curious for answers and it provided a nice distraction from my frustration with the lover.

It was two houses down the road and I figured I could accompany them. See what the fuss is about.

My grandparents walked hand in hand, more for physical support than love at this age, yet I could feel the subtle tenderness between them as they stood silent and solemn at the funeral home.

I impatiently checked my phone. Still no messages, still no luck.

More people started coming in twos and threes and in families. They all wore the same expression as my grandparents. I have been to a funeral or two and I was pretty certain that this was the grimmest of all. This man must have been something in his day I suppose.

Our family waited in the corner, my grandparents held each other’s hands gingerly.

There was a general air of melancholia mingled with longing for something they did not know of.

My phone vibrated and I couldn’t take it out from my pocket quick enough. I was equally happy and frustrated at having waited for so long to get a reply back. A quick stern glance from my grandfather made me put my phone away.

My grandfather sighed, “You have been restless all evening and for what? To hear back from someone you love? You don’t know, child. If it weren’t been for Damodaran, we wouldn’t be here together, perhaps even you won’t exist.”

“He is young, let him be” my grandmother said kindly

My grandfather’s face softened “Little one, do you know the joy and excitement of waiting for words? Well, I do or rather me and your grandmother do. We used to savour each word and each line and the smell of dried ink on paper was the best feeling of all. It was our Damodaran that helped us keep our relationship alive back in the day.”

“Were you two in love before you got married?” I was slightly astounded by this piece of information; it was sort of taboo then after all.

“Your grandfather used to wait for me by the pond everyday just to see and smile at me. I couldn’t look him in the eye but he could always see me smiling at the ground as I walked by. My father found out and I was forbidden from seeing him in public.” My grandmother smiled sadly

“Damodaran helped us both especially when your grandfather left town, and endless letters blossomed into love.”

I was processing all this, what I perceived to be aged companionship was in fact an old school love.

As I pondered over this, I realised all these people here must not be mere relatives or friends, they could be people like my grandparents, grateful for a letter. I tried imagining myself in a time where I have to wait and be hopeful in a period of uncertainty. I wonder if they were mourning him or if they mourning their own faded past.

I overheard a man saying how he got his first job offer letter from Damodaran and another spoke of letters from a son far away, he was the harbinger of good news and also bad. He was silent and kind, a being inserted into all their lives at one point when they waited at the doorstep keenly listening for gentle whir of Damodaran’s cycle, eagerly waiting for their letter.

The letters died and so did the postman.