The Window

The winter sun streamed through the window in dust laden floating rays. The lone window belonged to the post office, right at the corner of the main street. Not to say that it was a decrepit place, it was shiny, spick and span with new counters and posters of all kinds announcing schemes plastered on the walls and boards. But the window was alone, alone it is misery, announcing itself to the world with those dust laden rays of a feeble sun. Where the dust came from, this our friend from across the street couldn’t seem to fathom, having come for getting a parcel out somewhere. Nevertheless, he continued to stare at the window waiting in line, as if it was his only way to escape from this room. Maybe his life was riddled with problems, or he was plain lazy. A day dreamer perhaps, who knows?

Now it is time, I introduced myself. This is me, the ubiquitous pen on the counter. The one with the shiny nib and worn out exterior, used by countless hands to write, scribble, cross out mistakes and also for the flourish of signatures. I belong to no one, where have I come from no one knows. My predecessor was office issued, but the poor chappie disappeared one day into the folds of someone’s pocket and hasn’t been heard from ever again. How do I know this? The counter told me, syllables mumbled from the slightly scratched surface he so proudly wears as a badge of time served in this office. I am an outsider, having been left by some forgetful person who probably missed me for a few minutes and then proceeded to get a new pen. Alas, we as a commodity are so dispensable. So, there is no point in being emotionally attached to any one, I guess.

So, introduction done, I was talking about our friend, the day dreamer. I watched him from my perch on the counter, the look in his eyes sad and dull. Posture slouched and diffident. I see many people during the day, but he was different. I sensed a quiet desperation about him, the way he held on to the parcel, looking at it many times as if checking, rechecking and then looking out of the window. But wait, who is that, near the window, the ugly man with the scar, staring at our friend with such hatred? Does he know our diffident friend?

His eyes seem to burn into the poor fellow, who I see is slowly turning into a jittery mess of nerves, as his turn comes. A quick look at the window as he nearly stumbles, job done, he makes for the door as fast as he can. The ugly fellow makes a beeline for the door too, probably going after our friend. Or am I wildly guessing?

I ruminate and hope that our friend is well and not in any kind of trouble. Meanwhile people come and go, but our friend with the desperate eyes continues to haunt me. The dust laden rays continue to pour into the room, searching for some answers.