Short Story: The Post Office by Sudha Subramanian

1 min read

At exactly 3.30 pm, like a precision clock, Murugan walked in wearing his usual Khaki colored clothes. Murugan is in his mid-40s. His patchy bald head, his paan stained teeth, his bushy eyebrows coupled with his usual non-expressive face draws no conversation from people. Murugan put the few covers, inland letters and postcards on my desk and walked to the earthen pot in the corner to down 3 glasses of water. This is Murugan's routine for as long as I remember. The only thing that has changed in all these many years, apart from Murugan's receding hairline, is the number of letters in the post box outside Kasturi Nagar Post Office.

At exactly 3.30 pm, like a precision clock, Murugan walked in wearing his usual Khaki colored clothes. Murugan is in his mid-40s. His patchy bald head, his paan stained teeth, his bushy eyebrows coupled with his usual non-expressive face draws no conversation from people. Murugan put the few covers, inland letters and postcards on my desk and walked to the earthen pot in the corner to down 3 glasses of water. This is Murugan’s routine for as long as I remember. The only thing that has changed in all these many years, apart from Murugan’s receding hairline, is the number of letters in the post box outside Kasturi Nagar Post Office.

Kasturi Nagar Post Office is in the middle of a quiet street in the interior southern district of Bangalore. Kasturi Nagar, once used to be the hub of the upper middle class families. Over the years, with the increase in population, there are a number of small houses with tinned roofs that line the muddy by-lanes of this area. Yet, with huge bowing trees flanking most roads, this part of the town still smells of fresh air.

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