The Early Morning Post.

Mr. Abanindranath Sen was, as one would say, the most perfect gentleman of the little town Aanjala. He did not owe money to anyone, he did not have any troubles with the tenants, he did not misbehave with anyone. Every morning he would take the shopping bag and set off towards the market to buy some vegetables and then he would go to the local post office to check on in the early morning post. Then he would return home, lean on his couch and read the newspaper for two hours. After that, he would take a bath and go to the library. He would return from the library at one and after having a delicious meal, he would take a short nap. At evening, he would spend his time with his wife in the garden. At night, he would go to bed sharp at nine. ‘Early to bed and early to rise’, he had always taught his son. Next morning he would wake up at six, hoping to be greeted by the early morning post.
  It was the first day of December and thick fog pressed on the glasses of the windows. Not even a dog barked at such an early hour of the day. Abanindranath sipped his early morning tea with great relish. He sat beside the stove and warmed his hands over it.
  His wife entered the kitchen, holding a red woollen sweater.
  ‘Wear it, Abani’, she said, lovingly, ‘or you’ll catch cold’.
  He nodded and continued sipping his tea.
  ‘Wear it now’, she said.
  This time he smiled and put down his cup of tea. ‘You’ve not changed in all these years I’ve known you’, he said, pulling on the sweater.
  ‘Have you changed?’ she asked, touching his cheek.
  ‘Um… I have made cup of a tea for you’, he said, getting up on his feet.
  ‘That is so sweet of you’, she said fondly.
  ‘You look beautiful this morning’, he said softly.
  ‘When haven’t I looked beautiful?’
  She gave him a short hug and took up the cup of steaming tea.
  He looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘Oh, just look at the time! I had better be off to the market. And then I shall go to the post office…’
  A shadow fell across her face but she quickly composed it into a lovable smile and said, ‘Sure’. He kissed her on the cheek and walked out of the house into the chilling early morning fog.
  There was not even a single soul out on the road. The fallen dry leaves rustled past his feet. He breathed deeply in the cool morning air. There was a sharp tang of frostiness in it. He pulled on his balaclava, wound the muffler tightly around his neck and set off towards the market.
  The market was a thirty minutes walk from his house. By the time he had reached there, the sun had come out and the fog had disappeared. People were out on the streets, ready for a busy day. After a frantic hour of haggling with the vendors, he swung the shopping bag over his shoulder and walked towards the post office.
  As usual, the post office was empty except for the old postmaster snoring on his desk. Abani softly poked on his shoulder. He gave a violent jerk and sat up straight.
  ‘Good morning, Sen babu’, he muttered, gruffly.
  ‘Good morning, Haladhar’, Abani said, placidly, ‘got any mail for me?’
  ‘I’ll take a look’, he said and went over to the mailbox. Why doesn’t he understand… why has he to disturb in my sleep, he thought, ruefully. 
  ‘No, Sen babu’, he said after checking few letters, ‘none of them has your address on it’.
  ‘Oh, well’, he sighed, ‘unlucky again. He will write soon, though. He had promised…’ he muttered more to himself than to the postmaster. ‘Well, thank you, Haladhar’, he said, gently, ‘see you tomorrow then’.
  Abani Sen did not go to the library that day. He could not even concentrate on the newspaper for long. His wife thought that her husband was not feeling well. But she had no idea what was going on in his mind. He was suffering from a great sense of let down. May be tomorrow I’ll get his letter, he thought. But, then, he thought it every day after returning from the post office. He will write. I have taught him the virtue of keeping promises. He will not cheat on me… Even though he was full of hope, a small part of him was beginning realize that if he was going to send a letter, he would have done it by now.
  The delicious smell of Manchurian wafted in the air. Abani breathed deeply in it and suddenly he was full of an unaccountable happiness. Manchurian was his son’s favourite dish. He went into the kitchen and said to his wife, ‘So, you’re preparing Manchurian? Pity Anu is not here. It is his favourite dish’.
  ‘Yes’, she said softly, not looking at him.
  ‘I wonder what they give him for eating in the hostel’, Abani said.
  She did not reply, but continued cooking.
  ‘I’ll go and have a bath. Then we shall have lunch together’, he said and turned away. Little did he notice that fat drops of tear were rolling down her cheeks.
                                                                  * * *
  The next morning was exceptionally clear. There was not even a hint of fog in the air. The coldness, though, had not disappeared; which Abani, thought, was very good of it. Abani sipped his early morning tea with his wife, on the verandah.
  ‘You will be going to the post office again this morning, won’t you?’ she asked.
  ‘Of course, I shall. I go there everyday’, he said, taking a long swig from his cup.
  ‘And everyday you come back empty handed’.
  ‘He is bound to write soon’, he explained more to himself than to his wife, ‘he had promised me that he will write soon’.
  Her hands shook as she fought back her tears. With a lot of effort she managed to say in a calm voice, ‘He will not write back’.
  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
  For two years she had not said anything to her husband; she had not let her husband come to know about the battle that was raging inside her. She had not let the pain escape her body; she had not let the poison spill. But now she thought different. She had to put a stop to this before it was too late.
  ‘I mean that he is not going to write to you anymore’, she whimpered.
  ‘What makes you think so?’ he asked, patting his wife on her shoulder, apparently surprised at her sudden breakdown.
  ‘HE IS DEAD. You must let him go’.
  A shocked silence followed her words. The cup slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor, deluging his feet in hot tea. He did not pay any attention to this. He was looking at his wife as if he were seeing a ghost. 
  ‘He is not dead’, he whispered.
  ‘Why don’t you understand? He died in a bus accident the day we said goodbye to him. You saw it’, she said, getting back her voice.
  ‘He is not dead’, he repeated, stubbornly.
  ‘Please, Abani, you must let him go. You must accept the truth. You must…’
  ‘ENOUGH’, he screamed. His wife sat dumbstruck.
  ‘I have already said that he is not dead and that should settle the matter. I am his father and I know that he will write to me’, he said in a forced calm voice.
  ‘Please, Abani… I’m his mother…’
  ‘I don’t need to be reminded of that fact, Charulata’, he said, ‘as you are his mother, I expect that you will not speak about him dying’.
  She cried silently.
  ‘Now if you can excuse me, I have to go to the post office’, he said, getting up. He walked down the lawn and banged the gate close, behind him.
  It was as if he was walking in a trance, barely seeing where he was going. He let his feet take him where it willed. He is dead… he is dead… he is dead… When he came back unto himself, he found himself sitting on a swing in the park. When he was a kid, his son would come to the park every morning and play with this swing. He is dead… he is dead…
                                                                      * * *
  Back in the house, Charulata was getting more and more anxious every minute. Occasionally, between house work, she peeped out of the door to see if he was coming. So it was a little surprise that a look of relief spread across her face when she heard the front gate open.
  ‘Abani’, someone called. It was Subhash’s voice. Subhash was one of Abani’s very old friends. In fact, they used to be class mates at school.  
  Charulata came out and said, ‘Oh it’s you. Subhash da you have to help me’.
  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ he asked, knitting his eyebrows.
  ‘Please sit’, she said, pointing at one of the chairs.
                                                                     * * *
  ‘Excuse me, sir’, a little voice spoke into his ear, ‘can I play with the swing?’
  Abani was momentarily shaken out of his reverie. A small boy was standing in front of him, looking expectantly at him. It took him a minute to register what he was saying. Then he jumped off the swing and said, ‘Of course’.
  The little kid sat on the wooden seat and tried to swing, but his legs were too short to reach the ground. He looked up at him and requested, ‘Sir, can you help me?’ 
   
  ‘Come on dad, push the swing’, Anupam said.
  ‘First try it yourself, Anu’, he said, ‘if you are unable to swing then I shall help you’.
  ‘You know that I can not do it by myself’, Anu said, ‘my legs are still too short to reach the ground!’
  Abani pushed the swing slowly.
  ‘Come on dad, you can do better! Please push it faster’.
  ‘I am not so sure about that, Anu. You may get hurt and your mum will not be too pleased with me’.
  ‘Don’t worry dad, nothing will happen. Just push’.
  ‘He pushed the swing faster and his son shouted, ‘Faster, dad, faster’.

  ‘Stop it Abani’, a voice shouted from behind him, ‘you are making him cry!’
  The screen of past was abruptly lifted. The little boy was desperately clinging onto the chains of the swing and was crying at the top of his voice. Every head in the park was turned towards him.
  ‘What has got into you?’ the voice said again, ‘first you storm out of the house and now you make little kids cry. No wonder Charulata is worried sick’.
  He looked blankly at his friend, Subhash, barely understanding a word that he said. The only thing he appeared to register was the name Charulata. He is dead… he is dead… he is dead…
  ‘HE IS NOT DEAD’, he screamed out.
  ‘Who is not dead?’ Subhash asked, shaking him.
  ‘My son. Charulata thinks that he is dead. She is wrong…’ he muttered.
  ‘You are disturbed, Abani. Come on, I’ll drop you home’.
  ‘The post office’, Abani continued muttering, ‘today I’ll get his letter and then Charu will be convinced that he is not dead’.  
  ‘Come on, Abani’, Subhash said, pulling his hand.
  ‘What?’ Abani asked, suddenly realizing that his friend was still there.
  ‘I’ll drop you home’.
  ‘No’, he protested, ‘I have to go to the post office, first’.
  ‘Fine’, Subhash said, ‘I’ll take you to the post office and then I’ll drop you home’.
  ‘I can walk, thanks’.
  ‘Okay, then I’ll walk with you’. Before he could even finish the sentence, Abani was off. In fact, he was walking with such pace that he had to jog to keep up.
  On reaching the post office, Abani rudely shook Haladhar awake and demanded to see his son’s letter.
  ‘There are no letters for you, sir’, Haladhar said, yawning.
  ‘Check again’, Abani said, desperately, ‘you must have missed it. He had promised…’
  ‘I assure you, sir, there are no letters for you’, Haladhar said, forcefully.
  ‘There you are’, Subhash said, ‘now it’s time to go back home’.
  He was not listening. He walked out of the post office ignoring his friend and walked aimlessly towards unknown destination. He did not even hear his friend calling his name and begging him to stop. The only thing that he could hear was his wife’s voice. He is dead… he is dead… he is de… 
  There was a sharp pain at his side and he was sent crashing down onto the road.
                                                                     * * *
  Charulata nearly broke into tears when Subhash told her what had happened. 
  ‘Lucky, it was only a bicycle. But it could have been a car or a bike’, Subhash said, soberly, ‘look Charulata, you have to take extra care of him from now’.
  ‘It’s all my fault’, she whimpered, ‘I should not have told all those things to him, this morning’.
  ‘Listen Charulata’, he said comfortingly, ‘do not blame yourself for what had happened. Everything that happens in this world has a purpose. In my life I have always perceived this purpose as something good and helping. Maybe this incident has some deep reaching purpose which you can not perceive yet, but I assure you, it is going to be good’.
  ‘Thanks Subhash’, she said, ‘I do not know what I would have done had you not been around to help’.
  ‘Is he sleeping?’
  ‘Yes’, she said, looking towards the closed door of the bedroom, ‘he must have fallen asleep by now’.
  She was wrong. While he lay on the bed, Abani thought about his son, his childhood, the first day he had rode a bicycle, the days when he had to drag him to the nursery school, the meals they had had together, the jokes that they had shared. He was more like a friend than a son to him… 

  They were anxiously waiting for the bus. It ought to have arrived fifteen minutes ago but they had not even seen as much as its smoke.
  ‘Now what has happened to the bus?’ Charulata said, anxiously, ‘Anu will miss the train’.
  ‘Don’t worry mum’, Anupam said, ‘I’ll reach on time’.
  Anupam was going to Chennai for the first year in college.
  ‘There is the bus’, Abani said, suddenly.
  ‘And about time, too’, she said.
  ‘Don’t forget to write every week, Anu’, Abani said.
  ‘Take care of your health’, his mother said, wiping her tears.
  ‘Don’t worry, dad’, he said, boarding the bus, ‘I’ll write as soon as I reach there. I promise’.
  The dream changed. His wife and son disappeared and there was nothing left but swirling black smoke and smell of burnt flesh and blood splattered on mud. The bus had gone off the edge of a bridge and was laying at the bottom, reduced to a broken cage of steel—a cage in which his son…
  
  He woke up, sweating and panting. He hastily pulled open the cupboard and brought out a framed photograph. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at the handsome face of his son. He is dead… he is dead… His hands shook. The frame slipped from his hands and shattered on the marbled floor. He tried to pick up the frame but cut his hands in the broken glass.
  Alarmed by the sudden noise, Charulata rushed into the room. Abani was kneeling on the floor, looking at his son’s photograph. She sat beside him and placed her palm on his shoulder. He turned towards her. For the first time in two years she saw tears in his eyes and for the first time in two years she was truly happy.
  He embraced his wife and keeping his head on her shoulder, for the first time in two years, he cried… and cried… and cried…