J. Alchem - Undelivered Letters

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Westland Publications Ltd

J. Alchem is a voracious reader and a critically acclaimed author. He is the winner of Amazon Pen to Publish, Best Author of the Year 2017-18, and Superhero Storyteller Award.

Alchem has written in several magazines and newspapers. His notable works include two unique and well-received titles; A Road Not Traveled and The Highway Man . One Award Winning title; Undelivered Letters. And his latest release, I am a home to butterflies.

His book, Undelivered Letters has recently made to MAMI Film Festival.

UNDELIVERED

LETTERS

J. Alchem

First published by Westland Publications Private Limited in 2018

61, 2nd Floor, Silverline Building, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600095

Westland and the Westland logo are the trademarks of Westland Publications Private Limited, or its affiliates.

Copyright J. Alchem, 2017

ISBN:10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

All rights reserved

Typeset in Sabon Roman by SRYA, New Delhi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Its for you, Sid

Prologue

M orioson, with a population of around forty thousand, is one of the smallest cities in the United States of America. It is situated at an extreme corner of the country and has a gorgeous view of the mountains. Far from the chaos of modernisation, the city grows on you with its natural beauty, its culture, and the humble people. The cool breeze coming in from the seaside keeps it cold most times of the year. People spend the early evening hours either sitting by the seaside or at their dining tables, admiring the beautiful mountains and listening to news from the rest of the world.

Believed to have been discovered in the early nineties, the city witnessed all the three eras: the era when sources of communication were scarce and it took people years to reach their destination or deliver a message, the era when letters made it easy for people to communicate as the citys first post office was opened, and the era when the city had two post offices but their significance was hardly appreciated because the new telephone lines had overtaken the essence of writing and receiving letters.

People no longer liked to send handwritten letters and wait for days, or even weeks and months, to receive a reply. The feeling of carefully opening the envelope so as not to hurt the letter inside, then unfolding it and reading it while resting on a cosy bed, and then going out to drop the reply in a letterbox had gone.

Postmen no longer felt like they used tothey were delivering telephone bills, credit card bills, and tax numbers instead of letters and greeting cards. They missed the smiling faces greeting them and thanking them for their services. They missed the neighbours that inquired whether the postman had any letter for them when they delivered letters to nearby homes. They no longer had the privilege of seeing eager and excited faces expecting a word from their loved ones. The letterboxes now visible in different corners of the city were only for old times sake.

If technological advancements had given the city a telephone exchange, a better signal for entertainment, and modern appliances to be proud of, they also took away a lot. Its citizens could never experience a handwritten letter filled with love.

But there are some fortunate people, or unfortunate if thats what you want to call them, who are yet to experience this feeling one last time. A feeling they are not even aware exists anymore. A letter they never waited for and never expected was going to come to their door, land in their hands, and turn their lives upside down.

The Beginning

March 4, 2013

H oney, take it easy. You are not supposed to lift heavy things, said Aron, moving back and forth in the living area, checking the cartons lying on the floor one last time.

The room, its essence packed into cardboard boxes, looked like an abandoned place. It was going to be so in a few hours, at least for Sara and Aron.

It isnt that heavy, Saras voice echoed from the corner of the room. The stool beneath her legs shook as she stood on her toes to reach the crockery placed on top of the wooden cabinet.

I have no doubt about that, but your stomach is upset, Aron replied, rushing to help Sara. He steadied the stool with one hand and helped her bring the crockery down with another. The girl was careless and Aron had to check on her in case she ended up hurting herself.

Gently, they placed the box on the centre table together, their fingers brushing. The flap moved slightly, releasing a puff of dust that settled on the plywood. Their sweaty hands had left impressions on the top of the carton; perfect impressions that could be framed. Saras eyes moved from those imprints to Aron. Unaware of her affectionate look, Aron was engrossed in planning what to pack.

Aron came from a small town called Suvisim, famous for its hospitality and the finest wine. His father owned a wine shop in the heart of the town while his mom was a florist who grew her own flowers in the backyard. Aron had helped run his moms business during the day while his nights were spent pouring alcohol for customers with his dad. A proud son, Aron had seen two kinds of peoplethose lost in love and those lost in addictionand it made him a humble but practical person.

He had shifted to Morioson twenty-four years ago when he got a job as a postman. It was a day of celebration. His dad served free wine the whole night and his mom hadnt charged a single buck for the bouquets she sold. Though they knew that meetings would be scarce, they were proud of him for choosing a job he loved.

How big is the transport van? Sara asked, putting her hand on her waist and tilting her head like a baby. There were patches of sweat on her T-shirt. A strand of hair was caressing her right cheek. She tried to blow it away from her face but the stubborn hair refused to move. Aron watched her, amused.

The guy will visit to check how big a van we need, said Aron, pushing another carton towards the corner like a child parking his toy car. He brushed his hands to get rid of the dust. Sara looked at his athletic figure; he looked the same even after two decades of marriage, not a single extra pound on either side.

Aron and Sara had met exact twenty-four years ago. It was a mildly cold day. She was returning from her morning walk when she had stumbled into a guy who seemed lost. It was Aron, looking for an address. He was walking to and fro, unable to decide which road to take. There was a bag full of letters to deliver on his shoulder.

March 8, 1989

I t was a cold day with no sign of the sun. The clouds were wandering in the mountains as if spying on the stranger who had recently moved to their city. There was no hustle-bustle on the roads, unlike Arons own town where people could be seen rushing to their businesses or children could be seen playing on the roadside at the first sight of the day. The wind was cold and refreshing, but it did not carry the scent of the finest wine with it. Aron missed his home.

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