Stories In A Satchel: 1, #1

By Shyamala Shanmugasundaram

With his wedding around the corner, Tanna decides to clean out the loft in his house and  stumbles upon a satchel belonging to his dead postman father. Even worse, he discovers a bunch of letters which never got mailed.  Tanna almost tosses the letters out but acting on an instinct of responsibility he decides to post them. What happens to people when these letters arrive after more than a decade is explored through twenty-six stories that contain generous doses of love, betrayal, suspicion, frustration, ambition, and redemption. Strangely, each person would have chosen a different route in life had they received them in time…A misplaced letter, a new path…such is LIFE!
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: e
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393927969

Shyamala Shanmugasundaram

Shyamala Shanmugasundaram is a children's author, freelance writer and Chief Ideator of Kataba, a consultancy for aspiring, newbie and established chidlren authors.

Book preview

STORIES IN A SATCHEL

Table of Contents

1. DELAYED MAIL

2. THE LATE WINNER

3. AMBA HEIGHTS MANI

4. THE CLOSED DOOR

5. NEVER TOO LATE

6. MISSING AT SEA

7. CHAIN MAIL

8. S FOR STATUS

9. GOOGLE BABA

10. CLIPPER

11. SECOND CHANCE

12. A WHIFF OF PERFUME

13. REWIND

14. THE WRONG CHOICE

15. THE TWILIGHT VOCATION

16. DEATH BY ONIONS

17. FIVE MINUTES OF FAME

18. A LIBRARIAN’S LOVE STORY

19. ACQUITTAL

20. A MATTER OF HOPE

21. NO SYNDROME

22. A TIME FOR REUNION

23. ANYTHING FOR AN EDUCATION

24. DASHED DREAMS

25. XYLO XACUTI

26. BULLY NO: 1

EPILOGUE

A SMALL REQUEST

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1. 

DELAYED MAIL

Mai had completely forgotten about the satchel when she asked Tanna to empty the loft in her bedroom.  A lot many things had survived her round of cleaning. Unlike her Tanna was ruthless.  He threw out everything they had not used the previous year. Tanna’s impending marriage was the occasion for the reason for her oversight.  He clung to the ladder with one arm and tried to reach out to as many things he could. 

All her pleas of We will use it someday fell to deaf ears.

Mai sat cross legged on the floor, sorting the stuff Tanna was throwing from the loft. Bunty, her younger son read out some jokes he had received through his WhatsApp messages.

She was still rolling with laughter when Tanna pulled the ladder and reached out for the satchel on the loft.  Why are you still preserving this piece of rubbish? He’s been dead for over ten years. When he tossed the musty khaki satchel on the floor, his ears caught the faint clunk of a bottle. It was enough to revive buried memories.  His eyes flew open and he jumped off the ladder.  Why don’t you see if there is something inside? asked  Tanna.

Keep it back, Dada, said Bunty.

Mai told me to throw everything that was on the loft before the house got painted.

The house had not seen a fresh coat of paint for over a decade. For years the walls of the house had been topped with pictures of cricketers to hide the peeling paint. Bunty grabbed the satchel and flung it into an empty plastic drum he had already kept ready for disposal.

If it has remained unopened for ten years, it must be unimportant sentimental family khazana, answered Bunty.  He had already climbed the loft a dozen times since morning  as Mai couldn’t decide what to keep and what to dispose. Old copper vessels and brass lamps had made their way back into the loft and so had the old transistor and tape recorder.

They are family heirlooms, said Mai.

Giving him a cold stare, Mai reached for the satchel.  Tanna was quicker. He upturned the satchel and let its contents drop on the floor.  A half-filled liquor bottle and dozens of inland letters, envelopes and postcards littered the floor.

Bunty sighed.  A moment ago, all three had been laughing over a silly joke.

It was strange that a satchel could have the power to change the mood of three different individuals bonded by the same blood.

How long have the letters been here? asked Tanna. Mai hesitated looking at him.  There was a time when Tanna was always soft spoken and polite. All that changed when their father died. They have been here since the day he was admitted to the hospital.

You should have given it to Rawatji. He would have taken care of it.

I didn’t want him to think your father was a bad person. Mai rolled the satchel and stuffed it into her prized red suitcase. 

Tanna rolled his eyes and shook his head. Everyone at work knew Baba was a drunkard. It was not a national secret. For years he had been haunted by Mai’s love for Baba. The wounds of the past hadn’t healed.  How could you love a man who gifted you nothing but unhappiness? He was a good for nothing drunkard. 

You won’t understand, said Mai. Your father was a wonderful man.  Even though he drank, he took care of all of us.

What shall we do with the letters? asked Bunty, looking at the mail, all faded but intact.

Tanna said, Our lives would have been so different if my father was sober. Why didn’t he deliver these letters?

Your father must have had a reason, defended Mai.

Yeah, I know ... He must have been too drunk.

A long silence followed.  Mai’s eyes were brimming with tears. She grabbed the bottle and made her way into the kitchen. Tanna clicked his tongue and kicked the ladder. It wobbled and fell on the floor.  It was left to Bunty to bring some peace in the house.  He held a postcard from the pile on the floor and laughed. Listen to this, he said.

––––––––

Dear God,

My Daadi is in the hospital. Daddy says Daadi has become old and may die soon. Please don’t take my Daadi away today or any day of this week or early next month. I have exams.

I like bursting firecrackers on Diwali.  That is the only day of the year I burst as many crackers I want. Please don’t let Daadi die on Diwali.

Daddy has promised to take all of us to meet Bua in America next month. I have always wanted to go to America and see the snow which Bua always talks about. I want to eat all the goodies they show on TV.  Please don’t let Daadi die during my Christmas vacation.

My birthday comes only once a year. It’s the only day of the year Mummy makes everything I want.

Please don’t let Daadi die on my birthday. She tells me stories. She teaches me good manners. She even gives me money to buy chocolates. She plays Ludo and chess with me. She is the only friend I have at home.  I love Daadi very much.  Please keep her alive.

PS: I will pray every day.

Thank you,

Parvathi

––––––––

Bunty reached out to read the next postcard.

It’s impolite to read someone’s letters, said Tanna.

Who cares?  How could people send personal messages as a postcard? There is no privacy with a postcard.

It’s the cheapest way of sending messages. You needn’t laugh. Decades ago, even I used postcards to write to your aunts, said Mai.

Bunty quietly counted the letters thinking of his past. A decade ago, his life was not all that great.  Keep the letters in a separate bag. I will deal with them when I return, said Tanna, rushing for a quick bath before changing into a pale green T-shirt and jeans.  When he lifted the perfume to spray on his T-shirt, Bunty nudged, Please remind Bhabhi about the Saturday match tickets.

Tanna nodded, slammed the door and left, walking all the way to the bus stop where a red double decker bus took him to Marine Drive.  Watching the waves hit the concrete tripods, his eyes clouded with images of Baba returning home drunk every night and beating his mother. He hated the man who had broken his piggy bank and taken away the money to buy his daily quota of alcohol. 

The ritual of crying and going to bed every night continued for his mom till the night his father died. He remembered the night quite well. It was close to eleven. Bunty was fast asleep and so was he. Mai dragged him to the neighbourhood bar which his father frequented.  They found him talking to himself and kicking a street light a few metres away from the bar.

Mai had helped him on his feet. She was about to hail an auto, when his father broke free and ran towards the road.

When the hopeless drunk came under the wheels of a car driven by the spoilt rich son of some businessman, Tanna was relieved. He had not shed a tear when they brought the body home; neither had his brother.

He is worth much more dead than he was alive, Mai often said.

It was true. The businessman had paid them a hefty sum.  Tanna didn’t know how much it was. All he knew was that his mother had sensibly heeded to the advice of his Chaacha and deposited the money into the bank. The interest from fixed deposits is what kept the family going apart from the modest salary his mother earned at the leather factory.

Tanna didn’t notice when Reema, his girlfriend of two years came and sat next to him.

He told her about the letters; letters his postman father had forgotten or deliberately never delivered in his drunken avatar.

Fifty letters, he said. She hugged him. You should mail them, she said. People had taken time and effort to write these letters for someone they cared.  Wouldn’t it be a waste if nobody read them?

But it has been over a decade, said Tanna. I don’t even know if people are still living in those addresses.

You do what you are supposed to do, said Reema.

The next day on the way to his office, Tanna dropped the letters into a postbox one by one.  He sniffled as tears flowed.  People stared as they walked past him.  He didn’t care.  Why did Baba drink so much? He asked himself over and over again. It was a question for which his mother knew the answer, but would carry the secret to the grave. If only he could open and read Mai’s mind.

His helpless, impotent father had allowed Mai to sleep with his Chaacha and breed two kids.

2. 

THE LATE WINNER

Ms. Deb rested on her cane as she reached for the letter lying just outside her main door. Nobody wrote letters to her anymore. With shaky hands she picked up the envelope and smiled.  It was an entry for the short story writing competition she had announced years ago. The magazine had gone kaput shortly after the announcement had been made.  A few entries had arrived, but they