I received the longest handwritten letter ever addressed to me.
The day was Friday, 20th May 2022. The day was sunny. It was around 2 p.m. or so. I received a phone call. He said he was calling from the post office. He followed up immediately, ‘Am I speaking to To-Ton-Tong-ja-al-Tong-ja-al. . . ?’
You needed to see my face. I had anticipated this letter since the 18th of May. Every day I was anticipating but my hope waned. I was slightly as hopeful as the previous days, and the phone call swept me away.
‘I have a letter for you,’ he continued. ‘Kindly come to the post office to pick it up’.
I was at a bookstore when the call came. You can imagine the mutation of thought: I was purchasing books, and shortly after I’d be receiving a letter written to me. Books are letters to a reader from the author, miles away, separated by geography and time. Personalised letters fit the same description but accomplish more, intimately.
The post office, thankfully, was just about a five minutes distance from the book store, so I walked down there quickly. The sun, though scorching, only added to the whole adventure. It wore out my energy but didn’t wear out the enthusiasm and excitement. This is the very first letter to be inspired by the post office series I had begun writing last year. So, you can imagine what that feels like; when a project which sometimes feels unworthy of your time and effort suddenly makes for wonder.
I got to the post office with a smiley face, cleaning off the sweat. The folks by the counter were tired already; I got too little to lighten my mood from their faces. Greetings as usual followed and I stated my purpose for coming. I was directed to the outer space on the premises. There I met some of the post office workers standing in a cluster. I could not tell who I was to meet, so I fumbled until I finally interrupted them with a greeting.
The man responded before any of them did. He was wearing a side bag which had a section filled with papers and envelopes; from there he drew out an envelope. The envelope bore my name, address, and mobile contact. He asked again if I am the one who bears the name on the envelope. He confirmed my identity and offered me a book to sign for the collection. On leaving, I wondered if he was running his own postal services because he came from the Mangu post office you read about in the last episode of this series on his motorcycle. In the previous entry, it was revealed that there was a post office car which took care of such deliveries. Well, however it is he does the job, I hope the fee charged isn’t to fuel his personal vehicle, especially if it happens that such fee isn’t what is the standard charge. I am yet to confirm what the standard is yet.
I couldn’t wait to rip the envelope and read it immediately after I got home. The letter stretches across seven-filled pages of a B5 paper or so written by ink, the ink of a roller-tip pen. In the letter, there are two exhaustive book reviews: a review of The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and Crowdsourcing Paris by Joe H. Bunting. It was beautiful reading a review written by hand and with ink. I have not written such a review. (Perhaps I get to do that in a letter soon.) It was a pleasant read. I wanted to read more and more, but only one letter was for me out of the bundle in the postmaster’s bag. Do you mind writing to me?
Well, you can write to someone you haven’t seen for a while now. Using the post office may just make it more fun; I still feel the post office has a charm that e-mail (or SMS) cannot afford. Well, what we communicate is what matters. Write the letter!
Read the previous episodes of the series.
At the Post Office 1: READ
At the Post Office 2: READ
At the Post Office 3: READ
At the Post Office 4: READ
At the Post Office 5: READ
At the Post Office 6: READ
At the Post Office 7: READ
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