The story of the unknown

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There was  a man. He was unknown. He knew no one. Nobody knew him.

He lived. And lived on. Eternity it seemed. It probably was.

Nobody got him. He understood no one. It was probably why he was unknown.

His actions were in no way illegal or even immoral. But every one else seemed quite the immoral. Morality and popularity had a inverse correlation. The first step to popularity is to be liked. Our man was not easily liked too.

Or maybe there is no fairness. It is all pre-decided. Control is for ones who were on the right side of ‘like’.

One day he died alone. The world remained the same.
Unknown to him and likewise


The Postal Network

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The Post:
Scribbled on paper today. Bought some envelopes. Finished scribbling. Stamps from the local store. Signed, duly or faithfully, even lovingly perhaps. An email would have been easier but this activity kept me occupied longer. There is something pleasurable about writing, wicked even. So I wrote after postponing many a times. I dabbled at named emails, voice over telephones, awkward meals and even approached a professional to seek help for this communication interlude that I had embarked upon as silence took me nowhere. So I spoke. Maybe to that elusive mother-ship that I once embark upon or even the one in billion chance of finding decrypting machine. But given the fact that I could not reach out, I today tried the less intrusive post people method.
10 posts cost me 50 bucks. And my budget for such a hollow experiment was 100, I undercut the budget by half. So much for initial set of constraints.
Final touches and I am done, I said to myself this morning. Stamps on the envelope. The from address and my alias-postal box. Then the big red container having many such letters. Drop them and that is it. After that it becomes all fuzzy and the control is lost. The postman with his blue bag comes and picks the letters. Delivers it the nearest post office. Then it is made it an even bigger heap, then sorted or vice-versa. Now trucks or buses or ships or plane. Then the heap again. Sorting and the postman delivers. Hopefully to the write person whom you intended it to reach to. But I had no such concerns, random as it was, I could not care less, then.
The Leak:
News: Anonymous letter on the move. Letter bomb? Stand up comedy. Prime time. Doctors, police officers etc with their opinion. My postal box. Break and open.  Some letters. Some bomb squad later some sympathetic letter, more  crass bashing of the author.
Blogs: Rip offs of the letter. More blogs. Even more comments. The punctuation happiness. And the abbreviated laugh.
Twitter: #postalmishap, #gmail, #loser
Facebook: Dear Mr postal man, Get a life, loser. 599 likes. Me wants posts today. Sigh, none. Hurt my feelings there postmaster. 818 likes. 40 shares.
SMS: Dude, watch the parody of the letter guy. LOL!!

My experiment with people has failed.7 people who got my letter had a wholesome laugh and earned some points on the idiot box. Maybe it is going to be on the year’s event or not. New postal processes in place as well. All bailed, every single one of them or could not care less. Most had opinions for me to go forward. The do’s and the dont’s. Thanks. Moral stories.

So much for the human touch. Now I walk and people will laugh, not at me but at me. I laugh with them.


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Click. She clicked on Send. That was her last mail from that account. It was hard to leave that drab job of hers. Now it was time for a change.

Vrooom… She raced to her studio apartment. Another goodbye.

Creaaak creaaak.. The teak cot. The resting zone, as she explored the cot side to side, window to door. The lamps outside shone putting the sun to shame.

Tick Tick.. The clock that just refuses to shut, like the manjira played by her late guru.

Swish: The friendly neighbourhood tree talk.

Period. 5 hours.

Hooot. Ku-hu: Early birds or late nighters.

Drrring.. The packers. Time to move. But what to move and what to leave behind?

Tadata tadata….: The phone  rings, as things go into those brown boxes.

“All the best”, said the part of the greyish rectangular form factor.

“Yeah”. Khat!

Longish Silence.

“Madam where does this go”, asked the uniformed packer, as the plastic sheets ruffled in his hands .

“Leave them there”, she paid them the money.

Thuud. The door, she closed.

She stayed back, the studio apartment.

The next day she caught the sunrise. Made conversation to the birds and felt the tarmac as she drove. She talked. Laughed. She moved out in a month. For something new. Exciting.