Type-II: Memories Of My First House - Plot & Excerpts
The postman came every afternoon without fail, unless it was a Sunday or a public holiday. By the time he reached our block it was noon, sometimes he came just minutes before papa walked up the stairs at lunchtime. The postman rode up to the first ramp of the stairs at ground level and rang his cycle bell. And unless it was something special, a telegram or a money order, he left the letters on the highest stair his hand could reach from the bicycle saddle. Everybody knew his bell. Doors unlatched together and slippered feet pattered downstairs to grab the day’s mail. Nobody got letters every day, but some people seemed to get a lot of junk mail. There were roughly printed pamphlets in Hindi and Urdu, seemingly about medicine and politics and poetry, completely impersonal but for the handwritten name and address. Our neighbours must have had diverse interests, I guess. We got few letters, although whenever my sister and I were home, we raced each other to grab them. Kamla Bua, papa’s cousin in Bangalore whom I never met but of whom we were very fond because papa said a lot of nice things about her, wrote regularly.
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