The Storytellers

This is probably the first 'story' on my blog. :)
Although when my mother read it, she felt she had read a story along similar lines somewhere. So, it might be "inspired" by some existing story, but I can't recall reading it, nor could my mom, so unable to cite the source of "inspiration". But for sure, the setting, the characters and the wordings are completely #original. Here we go...


It was an idyllic January mid-morning and the sleepy town of C had woken up, rubbed off its sleep with generous doses of filter coffee and had set about its daily chores. The local coffee stall had already doled out delicious plates of dosa, laced with dollops of butter and fresh coconut chutney, and second helpings of coffee, to its usual morning customers and was preparing for its lunch hour rush. The postman (lets call him Mr.P, for want of a better name), ambled along in his khaki uniform and trademark bicycle, carrying parcels and occasionally nodding to an acquaintance on his way. He climbed up the stony path to Doddappa's house. Doddappa, as was usual, was in his garden, hunched upon near the rose bushes.

Doddappa had a lovely garden which he tended to lovingly, almost like his own child. His garden had flowering plants - roses, jasmine, and a long line of hibiscus shrubs. The hibiscus trees grew taller than most hibiscus shrubs Mr. P had seen, and they came in all imaginable hues : yellow, crimson, orange, white and shaded varieties. He had patches of the usual coconut and betel-nut trees. Sliding up the tall betel trees were smaller green pepper climbers. But what Doddappa was most proud of, were his bonsais. He had built a special shed for them. It was said that he had the biggest collection of bonsais in the district, may be even the state. And he was considered an expert on tending and growing bonsais. Every time Mr. P passed his garden shed, he wondered how the small miniature plants could mimic their actual taller counterparts and marveled at the the tiny chickoos, mangoes and oranges that they bore. Every time he decided to ask Doddappa all about the art of bonsai...

Presently, he parked his cycle in front of the gate, and walked up to where Doddappa was working. He waited patiently and cleared his throat lightly, till Doddappa sensed his presence and looked up. "Ah, here you are." he exclaimed. Mr. P nodded and looking at the parcel he had brought along said, "Fine morning, ain't it Doddappa. How are the bonsais today? Something came for you by post this week. Looks like your son has sent you a present! " Doddappa got up, smiled and said, "Yes, the boy is getting responsible by the day. Good thing he remembers his old man", and winked at Mr. P. "Come in, have some coffee and help me write a thank you letter, will you?" he asked as he shuffled towards the house. Mr. P followed him.

It was their custom. Mr. P timed his visit to Doddappa's home always at the end of his morning rounds so that he could spend some leisurely time. He then used to read out Doddappa's letters to him. Doddappa was a widower and he had only two people who often wrote to him. Doddappa's son, who had enrolled in the army and used to send frequent letters, and a distant cousin sister settled somewhere in North India, who sent him the customary Diwali and New Year Seasons Greeting cards. Mr. P also helped Doddappa write replies to his son's letters. This was their custom since a few years, and as the years passed by, Mr. P had become the bridge between this long distance father-son relationship. Often Mr. P also helped Doddappa with his bills, pension forms and the like. Doddappa enjoyed Mr. P's company. He would often treat him to dosais and hot fluffy idlis.

Today, with the air of a conjurer doing his favorite trick, Mr. P handed Doddappa the parcel and said, "Open it Doddappa, Santa didn't forget you this year. Your son sends a gift parcel."
"Hmm..I wonder what the boy sends this time", Doddappa said as he unwrapped the brown paper packet. He took out a pair of bright green gardening gloves and his eyes were as shiny as the plastic bag he took them from. "The boy, he never fails to surprise" he said as he tried them on, "after all he takes after his father, you know" he added, winking at Mr. P.

Doddappa poured out two steaming hot cups of filter coffee in steel glasses and opened a pack of biscuits.Mr. P had already gotten his pen and notepad and was sitting at the dining table, ready to write down Doddappa's reply. "Tell him", began Doddappa, "I absolutely loved the gloves" He went into a dialogue mode, as if talking to his son. "Although how come you know what I seem to be craving for, is still a mystery. I take care not to breathe a word about it to you, mind you, because I don't want to trouble you with these small things. But somehow it seems we have a working long distance telepathy! Last year I saw those fancy spectacle frames of the librarian Mr. J, and the next month, you had similar ones sent to me. In July, I hobbled a bit, and the doc Mr. Kurien advised me to use a stick, (although I insisted it was all because of the rains and slippery grounds). I liked the wooden stick with its carved handle you sent so much, that I started using it only show off to my buddies during the evening walk. (I still can walk along by myself, don't need that stick for support, you see ;-) ). " He paused and got up to refill his coffee cup. "Also, " continued Doddappa, talking as if his son was right in front of him, "I am well. Everything here is going just fine, the plants are good too. You should be taking care of yourself. Last time you wrote saying they do not make good coffee up north, so I am sending a few packets of filter coffee with this letter. Hope they deliver it to you. Come home soon, boy, I wait for you." His voice trembled a bit, and Mr. P looked up from his writing, handed Doddappa a biscuit and nodded understandingly. "Hmm..Mr. P here sends his regards. Wishing you good health and success always. Take care and write again to me soon, boy. Lots of love, Appa". He sighed and stopped.

For sometime, they both drank their coffee in silence, each lost in a world of their thoughts. Then Mr. P got up and said, "I should get going now Doddappa, have some work to finish before its lunch time." He folded the letter Doddappa had dictated, collected his cap and set out.

Doddappa bid him adieu, and hobbled into his son's room. He opened his cupboard and placed the gloves, along with the shiny plastic bag and the brown paper wrapping beside the specs frame and the walking stick. He opened the drawer and lovingly looked at the belongings the Army had sent back, two years ago. His eyes moistened as he put a bunch of fresh white roses and jasmines in front of his son's photo and said a silent prayer for his soul. Then he sat at his desk and began writing his daily diary.

Outside his home, Mr. P climbed his bicycle and started back to the post office. A few tears fell and stained his khaki uniform darker, as he remembered the day he had to deliver news of his boy's death to Doddappa. He couldn't bring himself to do it, and then decided that he better delay the news for as long as possible. He knew Doddappa disliked the TV. He also never subscribed to a newspaper, he probably had trouble reading and writing, Mr. P had thought. That was when he had started posting the letters and parcels to Doddappa.

And thus had begun their journey, Mr. P and Doddappa, each playing along with the other. Every time coming up with a different screenplay for the 'letters'. Each living his own story and painting a new picture for the other every single time. It was almost as if they had stopped writing the letters and the letters themselves now wrote their story...

Afterall, our lives make stories and stories make our lives...