There is a small room in my heart that belongs to the lonely postbox, my childhood. It keeps sending letters to me so that the little child in me never grows too old to become a perfect fit in this world of wisdom and logic and opinions and justification and all those big, big things.

This is why it sends me the letters from the lonely postbox to keep alive the child inside my heart.

Sometimes that letter brings me a nostalgic tune with the strumming of a guitar, sometimes, it brings me the smell of the sweets made my Maa – mihidanar laddoo, rosogolla, chanar jilapi, khirer sandesh, nolen gurer payesh, and many more delicious sweet recipe and desserts that smelled divine.

Sometimes, it brings me a story of the umbrella that I possessed once. It was my best friend in the rainy season on my way to school but I always loved to fold it and keep it inside my school bag on the way back home because I wanted to dance in rain and get drenched.

Sometimes, it brings me dreams that I sailed through my paper boats but they never reached their destinations. Sometimes, it brings me joyful chatter and fun-filled memories of that kite competition with my childhood friends.

Sometimes, it brings me memories of those chocolates, stolen from the fridge from Maa’s glance and finishing it sitting in the dark corner of the house so that nobody could see me. Sometimes, it brings me the rebukes of Thamma when I stole her pickles from the courtyard. Sometimes, it brings me the memories of my Dida when I fought with her over childish things and after every fight with her, I realized we shared a strange bond between us.

Sometimes, it brings me memories of the small pond we had in our house in Chittaranjan. My Dadu used to fish and give those fishes to Maa to cook for all. It was never enough for feeding seven members of our family, but we had a lot of fun when eating the fish curry prepared with our pond’s fish as it tasted different than the fish we bought from the market.

Sometimes, it brings me the memories of my Dadu preparing for the nyarapora or buripora on the evening before the day of Dolyatra. After the ritual was over, the burnt potatoes were turned into delicious alukabli by Maa, and we used to distribute them to all my neighborhood friends.

Sometimes, it brings me the memories of playing marbles with my neighborhood kids and bursting into laughter when they indulged in fights to own them.

Sometimes, it brings me those bubbles that I loved to blow when I was a child. With those tiny bubbles, I get back all the colors that I had once, in my childhood, and they turn this grey, mundane life into a vibrant landscape with the strokes of my childhood memories.

Every night before I sleep, I eagerly wait for my letters from the lonely postbox.

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(This post is part of the series ‘Solace in the Mundaneness’ where I try to tell stories of the everyday things that capture a special place in my heart and they make me feel privileged to live a simple and ordinary life with contentment and peace. This post is also part of Blogchatter A to Z.)