An old man and a middle aged married woman start writing letters
to each other due to an error, as unlikely to happen as one in a million.
That is the tale; the rest is detail.
And as someone wise once said, God is in the details.
When I was very young, I used to visit my father’s office.
An old govt building filled with wooden tables, netted S shaped chairs and
almirahs brimming with sarkari files. In those days, they didn’t have computers;
everything was noted manually and was arranged properly in files that used to
eat dust for the major part of their lives. Those files were rarely opened, and
little cared for. It was as if they didn’t exist.
But nobody ever tried disposing them of or even dusting
them. They were there, in a secluded corner, containing years of data, stories,
facts, and a little anger towards someone who once cared for them enough to
keep them in a safe place but then moved on to attend other important things.
