"He had carried other people's words for thirty-one years.

For thirty-one years, Raghunath had delivered the letters in Shantinagar. He knew every gate, every dog and every family. He knew which house would give him water in May and which grandmother would ask him to read her letters aloud, because her eyes were weak.

On his last day before retirement, his bag was lighter than it had ever been. Hardly anyone wrote letters now. There were a few bank statements, two parcels from online shops, a wedding card and a government envelope. He finished his round before eleven.

When he reached the post office, the door was closed, which was strange. He pushed it open and stopped. The small room was full of people: shopkeepers, children he had seen grow up, the grandmother with the weak eyes, now leaning on her grandson's arm.

On the counter lay a thick bundle of envelopes, tied with string. "For you," said the postmaster. "We asked the whole colony to write."

Raghunath sat down and opened them one by one. Some were long, some were only a line. A boy who was now an engineer in Pune remembered the day Raghunath had brought his admission letter running. A widow thanked him for reading her husband's last letter to her, slowly, twice.

He had carried other people's words for thirty-one years. That afternoon, for the first time, a whole bag of letters was his.