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Short
Story - By Aditha Dissanayake Nalaka counted the letters he had to deliver that morning. Only six altogether. He decided to cycle to Shalini's place first. "Tring. Tring. Tring". When he rang the bell, he heard Shalini shout to the servant from inside the house. "Mary. The postman!" Nalaka watched in disappointment when wizened old Mary began to walk towards the gate. As he handed the letter over to the old woman, he hoped it would be a bill. So much for wanting to look good today! His next stop was at number 10. No need to ring the bell here. The old woman, with her three-year-old granddaughter was always there at the gate. Nalaka's bad mood vanished when he saw the toothless grin on the old lady's face when she realised he had a letter for her. "It's from Dinoo," she said hugging the letter to her heart. Nalaka already knew that the old lady's son had won the green card and migrated to America with his family. He also knew that tomorrow the old lady would tell him everything the granddaughter had written in the letter. He remembered how in a previous letter Dinoo had complained about life in New York, how she missed not having polsambol at meal times. Nalaka hoped that by now they would have found a coconut scraper and would be enjoying their meals. He made a face at the little girl clinging to the grandmother's long dress and began to cycle towards Dharmapala Mawatha. There was only one letter for the entire lane. Nalaka knew he would have to ring the bell for a long time before he could rouse the old man who sat on the verandah of House Number 12 to come to the gate to get the letter. Nalaka realized Mr. Fernando would not be pleased when he saw the letter was not for him, but for his wife. He knew exactly what Mr. Fernando would say when he read the address - "I-say, Here's a letter from your beloved niece". Nalaka was amused at the way Mr. Fernando treated his wife. He showed a total lack of respect for her, but Nalaka sensed that deep down there was a strong bond between them which seemed more profound and intimate than love. The other three houses had postboxes fixed to the gates. Nalaka simply had to thrust the letters through the slots. Only one more letter remained. The letter for House Number 21 - a bank statement addressed to Dr. A.C Karunatilake. Nalaka noticed that the clouds hovering in the sky had got darker, as he got off the bike and began to push it along the steep path that led to House Number 21. He knew his colleagues hated delivering letters here because of the steep climb up-hill. But Nalaka liked the house because it was situated on an isolated spot, and because there was no one there during daytime. Even though Nalaka could easily have slipped the letters into the letterbox and cruised down hill, he had always lingered around, from the day he had first started to deliver letters, four months ago. At first, he had simply stared at the house from outside the gate. But, when he had failed to see anybody inside, he had tentatively opened the gate, walked into the garden and stared at the house. From the letters he delivered and from what he saw in the garden and through the laced curtains of the sitting room, he had built a picture of its inhabitants. He guessed Dr. A.C Karunatilake to be a professor in a university. He had never seen their car, but he imagined it to be a white station vagon. He knew the Karunatilakes had a son called Dileepa who had shares in the stock market. He thought Dileepa would be working as a marketing manager in a private firm. But it was homely Mrs. Karunatilake who dominated most of his day-dreams. He called her Missus, in his mind, and thought she would be a motherly person, who worked in a government office. He believed she planted the flowers in the garden. Nalaka thought she would make friends with him if ever he met her. He loved the roses she had planted in flowerpots and he hoped one day he would be able to tell her how much he admired the garden. Today by the time he reached the gate, Nalaka felt drops of rain beginning to fall onto his head and shoulders. He had no other alternative but to open the gate and push his bicycle under the porch of the house. It grew dark as if the day had already ended. The rain increased. Nalaka watched the raindrops falling on the roses. He realised soon the petals would begin to drop, all the flowers would be destroyed. Without waiting to think about the consequences of what he was about to do, he began to lift the flowerpots from their places on the grass and to keep them under the porch, away from the rain. He was half soaked by the time he had rescued the dozen roses. But he was glad he had saved them. "Missus would be happy to see her roses intact when she comes home from office this evening," Nalaka said to himself. As he stood once more under the porch, waiting for the rain to stop, he began to hear somebody walking inside the house. Soon he heard a lock being turned and saw the front door open. On the threshold stood a young man, thin, with hair reaching down to his shoulders. He looked at Nalaka and smiled. Then he spoke, in faltering Sinhala. "I saw you bringing the flower pots to safety, from my bedroom window. Thank you for saving my roses. Would you like to come in?" Nalaka did not know what to say. He ran his tongue over dry lips. Readjusting the cap on his head, he took the handles of his bike and began to push it towards the gate. "No thank you." He said to the young man. "It has almost stopped raining. I must get going." As he cruised down hill, Nalaka thought of the queer young man who had thanked him for saving the roses. His roses! When he reached
the bottom of the hill, he turned his head to look back at the house.
From now on, he realised the climb up hill to House Number 21 would
be hard. |
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