The brass bell above the letter box rang for the first time today. Arati had installed it a week ago. She ran out to meet the postman, but caught only a glimpse of his khaki-clad back, as he peddled away furiously on his bottle-green bicycle with rusty fenders. Her heart raced as she unlatched the wooden letter box. She broke into a smile seeing the postcard—pale-yellow in colour, fourteen-by-nine centimetres in size (she knew this by heart), one of the four corners curling up slightly. It had been four months since she last received one of these. Bapa’s handwriting had become squigglier, but it was still legible.
Forwarding Address
