He gave a long stare at it from a distance as if trying to understand a creature without entering in its territory. You couldn't dismiss his thoughts, neither blame him for being naive in his reaction. He stood there, not knowing how to react; confronting a strange situation which hitherto, had not occurred in thirty-five years of his life.
Every morning, he had set afoot to his shop, set up his paraphernalia and went click, click, click. Some were court orders, some were affidavits, some required a comprehensive knowledge of the law while at times, it was cakewalk. His shop was on the pavement comprising of two stools, one used by him and the other occupied by his beloved old fashioned typewriter. As the city gets up to work, his typewriter gave words to dissatisfaction of society on paper. His fingers moved deftly over the key-top while the customers narrated. Every grievance had a unique cost-no two agonies are alike, his father had said. However, he didn't consider passing on the family wisdom and continued to remain at the mercy of the hostel canteen. The table was among the few things possessed by him in the shared accommodation. The evening had already walked past the street lights and the howls of the night could be heard at this time. The stranger lay on the table, waiting to be greeted but that was not to be.
He went about with the daily method of the room, lacking the will to break the monotonicity. You still can't blame him for not showing eagerness at the stranger. We are, when accustomed to a routine existence, to afraid to venture into any disorder. We may tend to consider frivolous encounters with chaos, but it vaporizes as soon as we step in the morning sun, like the day before. So was the case with him. His day revolved within the clicks of the keys and the noises of complaints lined in queue.
Finally, he came close to it-neatly sealed in white envelope, with his name written on top. The letter waited to be opened. It did occur as to who could have written to him. There were no close acquaintances nor relations which would consider asking his well being. But that thought didn't bother too much to a man who spend days writing letters for others. Although, curiosity regarding the contents did occupy his mind. He was yet to open it, fiddling with it from outside as if trying to figure out what was written from the exterior.
As he went from word to word, giving the right amount of time to every character in it, an overwhelming sense of happiness seized him. It wasn't a letter actually, rather a note-a stranger who was longing for his visit.
"Aaj onek shahosh kore likchi tomaye. Janina ei shahoshta aaro agey newa uchit chilo kina. Shothik shomoyer bichar kora hoyni etodin. Aar etao bichar korini je ei shahosher ki protidan pabo. Kintu ami jani je tomar chilo. Aar ei ashar opor bhor kore bolchi-tumi esho."
He went over his memory, trying to recollect that person who has been longing to see him, to feel his presence so earnestly. It was critical now to seek this person out, who has remembered him, made him feel belonged, create ripples in his heart. Next morning, people had lined up with their usual grievances and he was there as usual; click, click, click.
Every morning, he had set afoot to his shop, set up his paraphernalia and went click, click, click. Some were court orders, some were affidavits, some required a comprehensive knowledge of the law while at times, it was cakewalk. His shop was on the pavement comprising of two stools, one used by him and the other occupied by his beloved old fashioned typewriter. As the city gets up to work, his typewriter gave words to dissatisfaction of society on paper. His fingers moved deftly over the key-top while the customers narrated. Every grievance had a unique cost-no two agonies are alike, his father had said. However, he didn't consider passing on the family wisdom and continued to remain at the mercy of the hostel canteen. The table was among the few things possessed by him in the shared accommodation. The evening had already walked past the street lights and the howls of the night could be heard at this time. The stranger lay on the table, waiting to be greeted but that was not to be.
He went about with the daily method of the room, lacking the will to break the monotonicity. You still can't blame him for not showing eagerness at the stranger. We are, when accustomed to a routine existence, to afraid to venture into any disorder. We may tend to consider frivolous encounters with chaos, but it vaporizes as soon as we step in the morning sun, like the day before. So was the case with him. His day revolved within the clicks of the keys and the noises of complaints lined in queue.
Finally, he came close to it-neatly sealed in white envelope, with his name written on top. The letter waited to be opened. It did occur as to who could have written to him. There were no close acquaintances nor relations which would consider asking his well being. But that thought didn't bother too much to a man who spend days writing letters for others. Although, curiosity regarding the contents did occupy his mind. He was yet to open it, fiddling with it from outside as if trying to figure out what was written from the exterior.
As he went from word to word, giving the right amount of time to every character in it, an overwhelming sense of happiness seized him. It wasn't a letter actually, rather a note-a stranger who was longing for his visit.
"Aaj onek shahosh kore likchi tomaye. Janina ei shahoshta aaro agey newa uchit chilo kina. Shothik shomoyer bichar kora hoyni etodin. Aar etao bichar korini je ei shahosher ki protidan pabo. Kintu ami jani je tomar chilo. Aar ei ashar opor bhor kore bolchi-tumi esho."
He went over his memory, trying to recollect that person who has been longing to see him, to feel his presence so earnestly. It was critical now to seek this person out, who has remembered him, made him feel belonged, create ripples in his heart. Next morning, people had lined up with their usual grievances and he was there as usual; click, click, click.
