The House That Still Got Letters

The door of Number Twenty-Eight never opened, but its letters disappeared.

At first, Anvi thought she was mistaken. On Monday she had slipped a blue envelope beneath an old electricity bill. By Tuesday both were gone. The dust on the door was undisturbed. A cobweb still crossed the brass latch.

She had been delivering mail here for three weeks, covering for a postman who was ill. Before leaving, he had told her, “At Twenty-Eight, go by the number. Don't worry about the names.”

There were so many names. Sunita Pal. Yusuf Ansari. Leela Devi. Another, written in English, that she had to read twice. The tea seller opposite said the house had been empty for seven years. Its owner lived in Bengaluru.

“Then who collects the letters?”

“Someone must.” He took the milk pan off the stove.

On Wednesday, a thick envelope arrived from a training institute. In one corner, someone had written: Admission deadline, 17 June.

It was the fourteenth. Anvi put it back in her bag.

Next morning, a scrap of red thread lay on the doorstep. The wood along the bottom of the door had a slight shine, as though something kept rubbing against it. She crouched to look through the gap. Beyond it was darkness.

“Dropped something?”

An elderly woman stood behind her, holding a cloth bag and a long umbrella. The sun was fierce.

Anvi straightened. “Do you live here?”

“No.”

“Do you know these people?”

The woman's eyes went to the thick envelope protruding from Anvi's bag. She asked whether there was anything for Sunita.

Anvi pushed it out of sight. The woman waited, then left without buying tea.

That afternoon, Anvi wrote in her register: Recipient not found.

The words bothered her. The recipient was somewhere. Anvi hadn't found her; that was all.

On Friday, she asked the tea seller about the woman. This time he pointed to a staircase across the road.

“Saira Apa lives upstairs. She used to write applications for people outside the courthouse. Stopped when her knee got bad.”

A wooden sorting box stood on Saira's table. It had fourteen compartments, each holding a few papers and labelled with a name. Anvi spotted Sunita Pal immediately.

The umbrella leaned against the table. A loop of bent wire was fastened to its tip.

“Through the gap under the door?” Anvi asked.

Saira nodded. “The floor's a little higher inside. I get behind the envelope and bring it back toward me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You asked if I lived there. I don't.”

Anvi remained standing. She said collecting other people's letters like this could cause trouble.

Saira didn't argue. From behind the box she brought out an old notebook. Its first page held fourteen signatures and several thumbprints.

These people had once rented rooms at the back of Twenty-Eight. When the building was emptied, some had moved beyond the bridge, others behind the station. As their jobs changed, so did their rooms.

Their postal address had stayed put.

“Couldn't they change it?”

“Some did. Some changed it in one place and missed another.” Saira touched Sunita's compartment. “She's in her third room in three months. She cleans at the hospital. She wants to do some evening training.”

Anvi took out the envelope but didn't hand it over.

“Can you ask her to come?”

Saira dialled a number on the phone hanging from the wall. No answer. She tried again, then silently passed the receiver to Anvi.

Sunita arrived at four. A strap on her sandal was held together with wire. She showed her identification, took the envelope and opened it where she stood.

It was an offer of admission. The fee had to be paid by the next day.

“I thought I hadn't got in,” she said.

Saira went to fetch water. Coming back, her foot caught the umbrella. She moved it behind the table.

Anvi was still annoyed, though she was no longer sure with whom. For three weeks she had been pushing letters under a door. She hadn't known which face belonged to which name.

The next day she accompanied Saira to the tea shop.

The owner refused at first. His counter was small; he had enough things crowding it already. Saira said she wasn't asking for an entire house to hold fourteen people's mail.

Eventually, they found wall space for a closed box. They put the shopkeeper's agreement in writing. Anvi checked the arrangement with her office and noted what was needed to update the addresses. Each person would have to notify the people and organisations sending them mail. Sorting out what still came to the old house would take time.

On Monday, Sunita returned. She wrote out the new address for the training institute herself. Reaching the name of the tea shop, she paused.

“Where does the dot go in Shankar?”

The tea seller wiped his wet hand on his trousers and pointed to the name painted in Hindi on his sign.

Anvi separated the last two envelopes addressed to Twenty-Eight. One would be stamped for return. The man named on the other would come on Thursday; Saira had got word to him.

As she left, Anvi noticed the umbrella standing in a corner of the shop.

The wire loop had been removed.