Musings of a letterbox

I am a modest letterbox who one fine morning found the pride of place on the shimmering walls of a staircase in a housing society 30 years ago. Now, with the ravages of time, I languish in neglect, as I have fallen into disuse. I am forgotten, unwanted. I have been reduced to being a rusty, colourless piece on the wall, no longer the attention-grabbing wooden contraption I used to be in my halcyon days.

There used to be a couple of more letterboxes next to me, and we were happy to share common wall space together. How elated we felt to get a green coat of paint, ready to assume our new role as the repository of human secrets and emotions. I still look back on those days with fondness and nostalgia.

As a rule, whosoever would shift to the housing complex, the first thing he would do was to put up a letterbox to ensure proper receipt of postcards and inland letters, not to mention envelopes containing important documents and electricity and telephone bills. In those days, since there were no smartphones or social media, we had become an indispensable part of our owner’s life in the housing society. No one paid us for our services. But our presence, nevertheless, was always reassuring to people.

I still remember the frisson of excitement that ran through the family of my owner when his son got the appointment letter for his selection to the army. The postman had slipped the appointment letter through the small opening, and I kept it under my supervision until my owner’s son collected it. How happy I felt of my unchallenged importance.

My other colleagues also have similar tales to recount. There used to be days when they would receive four to five letters which would be kept in their safe custody. The very sight of a postman entering the housing society premises would always make us jubilant. After all, what were we without letters? On Sundays, we would get some reprieve from the torrent of mail deliveries. We could relax and have the whole day to ourselves.

We were thoroughly taken care of by our respective owners. The dust would be regularly cleaned from our wooden bodies. The best thing was that our placement on the wall made sure that we were spared the oppressive heat of the sun, the lashing fury of the rains and the awkwardness of bird droppings.

Now, in this age of mobiles, one can talk and share one’s concerns at the flick of the button. Things like inland and postcards have gone out of vogue. Even today, we have bills of mobiles and electricity being shoved inside the box, but, alas, there is no one to pick them up. Obviously, people pay their bills online. We stick out like sore thumbs. But I still wonder why we are not discarded once for all despite our diminished importance? Who knows, time will come full circle again and we will regain our lost glory?