From the day I came into existence, I waited — to be touched, to be written upon, to be a bearer of unspoken love. I’m just a postcard, but once, I was someone’s precious memory.
My journey began in an old stationery shop near College Street, Kolkata. There, amidst dust and forgotten things, I lay next to fountain pens, ink bottles, and greeting cards. I waited — wondering who would choose me, who would write upon me their secret words or tales of longing.
I watched people come and go, some stopping by to buy pens, some searching for envelopes. Children bought sketchbooks, and students flipped through exam pads. But no one noticed me. Days passed, and I began to believe I’d never be picked — until that one afternoon.
One day, an old man walked in. His eyes paused on me. Carefully picking me up, he smiled — a quiet, nostalgic smile, as if he remembered something long buried. He paid for me and carried me home. There, he sat by the window, looked out at the setting sun, and began to write:
“Dear Titli,
Today, I miss you dearly. Your smile, your silly laughter... I can still see your face in my dreams. I don’t know where you are now, or how you’ve been. But I know I still love you the same way — endlessly.
– Yours, Ajit Kaku.”
He placed me in an envelope, added a stamp, and dropped me into the red postbox. That’s how my journey began — through rains, storms, and winding roads, across trains and mail vans, until I finally reached her.
The house was quiet, surrounded by flowering trees and timeworn memories. A lady in her fifties opened the door. Her hands trembled as she took me. First, disbelief, then a spark of old memory lit her eyes. She sat silently for a while, tears welling up. She whispered, “This postcard holds the most precious memory of my life.”
Since then, I’ve stayed with her — inside a wooden box beside her books. Sometimes, she takes me out, brushes the dust gently off my face, and smiles. “This,” she says, “is the language of love no phone or message can carry.”
Today, mobile phones and emails have replaced us. No one writes like that anymore. Even children don’t know what a postcard is. But emotions? They still live on. That’s why I still exist — as a silent token of timeless love.
Years have passed. The ink on my face has faded a little, but the feeling I carry remains vivid. I have seen hands tremble, eyes glisten, and hearts melt — all because of a few honest words written on my back.
I am a postcard. Covered in the dust of time, but etched with emotions. I do not beep or vibrate, but I speak the loudest — in silence, in stillness.
As long as love stories live in people’s hearts, I will live too —
Faded, yet unforgettable.
For love, once written, never truly fades — it lingers, forever etched in paper and soul.
