After the storm.

The office of dead letters.

The night manager had called last night. Be early tomorrow morning she said. The pending work needs to be finished by this weekend, she had said. Yes madam, will be there early. Thank you, thank you… he had demurred consciously. If she senses even a slight hesitation in his voice he would have the whole weekend free and the next and the next.

      There was a storm in the city last night. We slept through it. Knew it was stormy outside, didn’t care. The roof falling on our heads would be the most efficient blessed thing this life could to us. But we survived, unfortunately. The office building was unfazed. Trust the masters to build eternal pyramids on someone else’s land. Selfless men. The trees native to this place were uprooted. The banyan which must have been a hundred years old was almost uprooted. It tilted at an agonised angle. He was sure this sore sight will hang around for months before the manager decides that this needs to cleared even if it doesn’t show in the quarterly profit statement. His station inside was intact, the piles of letters of every hue and colour, mountains and hills, not even scattered under his table. Perhaps he should have opened one of the windows near his desk and let the stormy winds deal with this stagnant situation and pick up all this paper and take it someplace else, far from here. Letters can be obstinate. Their thick headedness often bequeathed by its writer. One more cheesy ‘to the love of my life’ letter and he might kill himself. He was not suited for this work. But the money suited him immensely. Where else could one get paid to eavesdrop and judge people. Wait a minute. There is one other place. Never mind.

By the end of the day he had sorted some fifty odd letters. There must a thousand atleast begging to be opened. His wife would love to do this kind of job. Listening to other lives and lies. One of those letters stood out. From an old man to his daughter. He sounded lost. He was scared and apologetic. Why. He seems to miss time. Almost three decades. He was asking where she was all this time, her daughter, love of his life. She was at home. He was away, life swirling him by his feet as a storm and landing him feather like some place far from home. He will not forgive himself. And by the way he ended his lament, he was sure to have killed himself before the letter even reached his desk. Is there anything he can do. No. He will do nothing. He will not burden the daughter with remorse. What is done is done and the one who decided to let himself be swept away by the storm of his life doesn’t get to get his ‘life certificate’ after the party. He should have made an effort to grab any grass or creeper at his turf than to have some other smelly ass mesmerise ‘make him’ lost time. A trap. No, not a trap. Its selfishness personified. That old mans letter is going nowhere near, that still little, girl.