The Man with the Letter

The Man with the Letter

There’s something oddly poetic about old government buildings the kind that smell like time stood still.

Today, I found myself standing inside one such place: the Indian Post Office.
Dim yellow lights. Rusted fans spinning lazily above. A queue that moved slower than thoughts. And a silence that echoed louder than words — the kind of silence that makes you think, "Why am I here? Why don’t I just leave?" But some things, no matter how slow, still hold value. Maybe that’s why I stayed.

I had gone there to send a parcel—to myself. Since I’m currently living in another city, I thought it would be easier to courier a few things home rather than carry excess luggage on my flight. So, a task that should have taken fifteen minutes turned into an hour-long journey of observation, frustration, and unexpected emotions. Nothing special,Just another errand on a to-do list. But little did I know, this slow-moving line would carry me into someone else's story.

I stood at the back of a long line, watching the rhythm of the office. One clerk, one counter, one bell a rhythm untouched by the rush of the outside world.

And just behind me stood a man. Not particularly noticeable at first glance. In his late thirties or maybe early forties. Wearing a faded shirt, holding a plain white envelope like it meant something. Something big.

He asked me a simple question, “How do we know if our parcel reaches the person it’s meant for?”
I smiled lightly and replied, “You get a consignment number. You can track it.” (And at the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder how would he know that I’ve somehow mastered both sending and receiving parcels like a pro?)

He pulled out his phone not a smartphone. Just an old keypad phone, the kind most people have forgotten.
“Can I track from this?” he asked.
I paused. Something inside me softened. “I don’t think so,” I said gently. “But maybe someone else can help you check it later.”

He nodded slowly, then asked again, “How do you check yours?”
I showed him the number on my receipt and how to use it. He listened carefully. And then, almost whispering, he said, “It’s really important. I just need to know if it reaches her.”

Just then, an elderly man in front of us overheard and offered helpful advice: “Do speed post, beta. It’ll reach quickly and safely. And they’ll give you an update too.”

I glanced down and saw a white envelope in the man’s hand. Something about his grip on it… like it wasn’t just a letter it was a piece of his soul. Curiosity nudged me. What’s in the envelope? Why is he so worried?

The old man casually asked, “What are you sending, beta?”

And then came the answer:
“A letter. For my girlfriend.”

We all froze. Not because it was shocking but because it was real.
In a world full of emojis, typing dots, and seen receipts here was someone infront of me sending a real letter. A confession, an apology, maybe even a goodbye sealed inside a plain white envelope.

For a moment, I smiled. I was surprised. In this digital age, someone still sending handwritten letters out of love? It was beautiful. How cute.... But I was also confused why so anxious over a letter?

“Why are you so worried then?” the uncle chuckled. “She’ll read it when it reaches. You can call her later.”
“I have no other way to talk to...her,” he continued softly.

He lowered his eyes and replied quietly,
“She doesn’t talk to me anymore. I made mistakes. She blocked my number. I can’t go to her city, and I have no other way to reach her. Ummm..." he took a deep breath ad said "She’s blocked my number. She won’t take my calls. This letter… this is all I have. My last hope.”

There was something about the way he said it. No drama. No tears. Just truth raw and unfiltered.
I could feel the silence grow heavier. Even the fan above us seemed to slow down.

He wasn’t just sending a letter.
He was sending a part of himself folded into a few pages, sealed with guilt, hope, and longing.
Out of habit, I suggested, “You could email her, maybe…”
But before I could finish, I saw it in his eyes a soft confusion.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Mail. Like a digital letter…” I replied hesitantly.

He smiled, the kind of smile people give when they know they’re out of step with the world.
“Madam, I don’t know all that. I didn’t study much. I just know how to write with my hand. That’s all.”
And in that moment, I felt so small.
We, who tap our feelings into keyboards and delete them before hitting ‘send,’

He was writing them with ink that might smudge, but wouldn’t disappear.
When my turn came, I submitted my parcel quickly and stepped aside. I watched him walk to the counter.
He looked nervous like a student handing in his last assignment.
And when he handed the envelope to the lady behind the desk, he asked,
“Will this reach her? Will anyone else read it? How long will it take? Will it be safe?”

I don’t think he expected answers. I think he just needed assurance.
And maybe… a little kindness.
He handed it over like it weighed more than paper.
And in many ways, I think it did.
I don’t know his name.
I don’t know the girl he wrote to.
I don’t know if she’ll open it, or tear it apart.
But I do know this in a world running at the speed of Wi-Fi, there are still people who walk at the pace of heartbeats.

And maybe that’s okay.
Because some words need paper.
Some love needs slowness.
And some apologies… deserve to be held, not just seen.
As for me
Yes, I’ve received letters too. The kind that I had to insist for. Letters written not out of habit, but because I needed to feel what a typed message couldn’t give.

I’ve always loved writing letters.
I remember the first one I wrote to my grandfather when I was 6 or 7. I wanted to write in Bengali, though I didn’t know the script. So my mother translated it for me. I decorated the envelope, put on cute stickers, and went with my father to the post office to send it.

Maybe I’m just old-school.
Or maybe… I believe that ink holds things pixels never can.
After today, I feel like sending one again.
So if you’re someone waiting on an apology, a confession, or maybe even a “hi”
Make some space near your door.
A letter might be on its way.

(So hey, if you're reading this,
Make some space in your drawer.
You might just receive a physical letter soon. 💜🤟💛
And I know you'll keep it safe… just like you did with that white paper. Do you still have it?)

And maybe, someday…
She’ll read that letter not with her eyes, but with her heart.
Not to forgive, maybe, but to remember.
That once, someone chose ink over silence.

Poem...
वो सफ़ेद काग़ज़ आज भी ज़िंदा है कहीं,
तेरे हाथों की गर्मी अब भी महसूस करता है।
अगर कभी खो जाऊं लफ़्ज़ों के भीड़ में,

उसी ख़त में ढूंढ लेना मुझे।